And now, a story. An entirely fictional, bearing-no-resemblance-to-reality-whatsoever story.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who sat in a closet that was approximately 5'x8' and smelled of musty socks because it was where the deli, bakery, and meat department people kept their aprons and there was a sink that hadn't been cleaned since Noah was being weaned. The boy sat at a computer and learned how to be the happiest damned cashier you ever did see. He learned about "world class service," and "shrinkage," and that words like "honey" and "babe" are naughty, dirty things upon which the Great Iron Fist of the Zero Tolerance Sexual Harassment Policy would come down should they even be whispered to oneself behind the boxes of frozen peas in the produce freezer.
When the boy emerged into the blindingly nuclear fluorescent brilliance that was the shopping floor, he was changed. He had become, as promised by the cashier training software in many more words but with essentially the same meaning, the happiest damned cashier ever.
The end.
Special thanks to poliscijournalistleslie.
