Nick from Produce had just dropped the second huge pallet of product when the store PA summoned: “Floral to customer care for bagging, please.” The courtesy softens the edge, but now the floral department will go a-begging while I sack up 24 jumbo boxes of Cheerios for a sullen mom and her exhausted toddler who coughs in my face.
To process an order puts a dozen different stresses on the knees, hips, elbows, with feet planted on a concrete floor. Wrists get a workout lifting six gallons of milk a customer wants bagged even though I want to point out that the plastic jugs come shaped with . . . handles. Even reaching to the button for the conveyor belt requires full-body torque.
Bagging is where most Krogerfolk start, often in high school, and state law sets a certain number of breaks for them on each shift. Still, the Mason store gets busier every week, and it has been fighting to maintain a high Que Vision metric on checkout speed. So no matter the department where you work, when the call goes out, you’re a bagger.
Congratulations, America, for embracing the loathsome reusable bag, packed with germs, nearly impossible to fill and emitting that piquant whiff of self-righteousness as customers fling their nasty set at a bagger. Also despicable is the double-shelved cart, whose designer clearly never endured the nightmare of loading one with 30 plastic bags of groceries.
I slipped a customer’s order into eight plastic bags with all the non-food goods in one, my special touch. The customer paid, then he frowned. “I want paper bags.” I admit, my mind was on 18 boxes of roses yet to unpack, so I frowned, too. Just then, a bagger returned from break and mercifully took over. Next day, the customer called to complain to the boss.
Causes Anne Saker Supports
Freedom of thought.