Here’s to you, grocery store bag boy. He who stands at the end of the conveyor belt, vacant look upon youthful acne-prone face. Your indifference to your surroundings so poignant, so profound. Casually you fill my bags with vegetables and chicken, taking care to separate the two.

I pretend not to notice that you gave the celery it’s own bag. I understand, Bag Boy. I’ve heard that celery is the most angry vegetable in the bunch. Like a Siamese fighting fish, it’s best not paired with anything else. I guess. Or perhaps that’s your one joy, making one bag always hold a singular item. A sunny spot in an otherwise fluorescent light existence.

I know you wear many hats, Bag Boy — facing the shelves so all the Newman’s Own pasta sauce is in an even row, stacking salsa at the end of the aisles and occasionally, rounded up shopping carts left in the parking lot. I try to do my part and always return mine to the specified shopping cart daycare so that you, Bag Boy, don’t have to gather mine from a dark parking space. I know you appreciate it and just forgot to say thank you. I understand.

You’re more complex than you come across. Your iPod plays the rhythm of some obscure indie band, I’m sure, touching you so deeply you forget to wear your belt to work, causing you to hike up your sagging pants while simultaneously handling my yogurt. Don’t be fresh, now. And it makes you unique, you know, to wear your hat sideways instead of to the front.

So here’s to you, grocery store Bag Boy. He of reusable shopping bags and double coupons. I look forward to seeing you  next week.

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