I stop cold when I see it on the dessert island. A mexican chocolate trifle. I regulate my breathing. In, out, in, out. What an opportunity. All I have to do now is pick it up and take it to the checkout. Stay calm.
I struggle to keep my face straight as I amble to the island. Keeping myself from rushing feels like I’m moving through chest-deep trifle myself. A cylinder as big as me stacked high with pastries and desserts of all kinds. I have eyes only for the trifle. I glance at the checkout counter as I reach for the dish. No one is there.
A cold sweat breaks out on my still extended arm and I try to still my shaking. “No. No, no, no.” The empty machine. I think of scanning my employee ID card and item into that automaton. Soulless, faceless, humorless. It’s no good! It would be wasted! Calm down. Calm down. Breathe. Excruciatingly, I let my hand fall down limp next to me.
There will be another trifle.
I see a line forming at the checkout. People scanning their items, surrounded by each other. Maybe this will do, I begin to think. Maybe this will do, but wait! The checkout staffer has returned! The young woman, Trisha. She begins scanning items at record speed! I will have only a momentary window of opportunity. In a split-second of loss of control, I fire my arm out like a harpoon at the trifle. A hit! I reel in my winnings and turn to take them to the counter.
Standing in line behind a man so large I can see nothing past him, I shiver with anticipation. What if she doesn’t ask? She must ask. She must ask. Wiping the sweat from my brow with a trembling hand, I hold my trifle just at the edge of eyeshot. This will work. I am a genius. A modern Da Vinci! This trifle. This trifle!
I shift my weight from foot to foot and struggle to see around the man ahead of me, until, suddenly, I am there. Ah- hah. I can do this. Trisha looks at me, and I can feel the energy of the line behind me. It’s now or never! Trisha continues to wait. She’s not asking the question! I need the question! Good lord, woman, ask! Ask!
Then, when it seems as if all hope is lost, Trisha’s chest compresses, bringing air up through her throat. Her mouth opens and begins to shape the outgoing vibrations into words. The words form most beautiful, melodious, mellifluous song that ever has reached my ears.
“May I scan your item?”
In a flash, all self-consciousness is gone. This is me. This is where I belong. This is going to work. My lips move on their own. No thought is necessary. “Oh, this?” I ask, lifting my dessert, “It’s just a trifle.”
Trisha’s mouth curves into the barest hint of what could be a smile. In what can only be described as a divine miracle, time slows for me to enjoy every instant of her joyous expression as my brilliant play on words registers in her mind.
Trisha reaches out and accepts my trifle, scanning it into the machine. She wishes me a nice day.
Now walk away. Don’t look back, just walk away. Suppressing the radiance burning in my chest, I turn and leave. I walk all the way to the tables and turn to leave the building. I force my effortless cool until I make it out and around and all the way back into my office. I close the door and let the feeling inside me escape into a broad grin, then a laugh, then a shout. YEEEESSS! I pump my fist. What a success.
After a few minutes of well-earned celebration, I sit down and place my purchase delicately in front of me. Now just what is a “trifle” anyway?