(LITERARY FICTION)
THE CASHIER
S.F. WRIGHT
THE CASHIER
S.F. WRIGHT
Vanessa Stone was in her mid-thirties, but unless you looked really closely, she could’ve passed, Drew thought, for twenty-eight; her milky-white skin was smooth and unblemished, her figure petite and fit. Also, she always smelled of nice perfume and smiled at Drew in a way that made his heart flutter.
Thank you, my dear, she’d say after he rang her up and handed her her bag. She was never without her daughter, for whom she was usually picking up a book. The girl was polite and quiet; Drew figured she got her nice temperament from her mother. Often, Drew would wonder if Vanessa Stone had a husband, if she were married or divorced; and as Drew never saw her with anyone but her daughter, he decided that she was alone.
At home, Drew would daydream that he was Vanessa Stone’s husband; often, he’d fantasize about making love to her. He not only wished there were a way he could tell this woman his feelings but a chance his desire could be realized. But he knew that wasn’t just delusional but improbable.
And the months passed, and then a whole year; Vanessa Stone continued coming into the store, never any less pretty or youthful, always with her daughter, who gradually got bigger, while Drew remained at his $11.50-an-hour job, taking a couple of classes at Montclair State University each semester, still living with his parents. And every time Drew helped Vanessa Stone, he’d be overcome with a pain of longing and the sad, hopeless fact that he had as much chance with her as with one of the girls gracing the cover of Playboy or Maxim.
One afternoon Vanessa Stone appeared at Drew’s register and as always smiled at him in recognition (she never did call Drew by his name as much as he wanted her to [“Drew” was conspicuously visible on his name badge] and which he decided was due to shyness and reserve); she said she had a book to pick up. Her daughter wasn’t with her, and when she’d smiled at Drew, it seemed forced; also, her eyes looked puffy. Drew found her book—a Beverly Cleary paperback—and rang her up.
Vanessa Stone was unable to find her credit card. Sorry, she said, and put her wallet on the counter so as to look through it more thoroughly.
Take your time, Drew said, after a moment.
She glanced at him—gratefully, he thought—and resumed her search; still, though, she was unable to find her card. Sensing her frustration rising, Drew said, We take checks, too. Then he added, And cash.
She smiled abstractedly and continued rummaging through her purse. Maybe I will write you a check. . . But I could’ve sworn. . . Six or eight customers waited in line; but there were three other cashiers, and Drew felt no urgency; in fact, his attitude, as he caught wafts of Vanessa Stone’s heady perfume, was let them wait.
Sorry, she said, as she looked in another compartment.
It’s no problem, he said, softly.
Then, with overwrought triumph, Vanessa Stone produced her black American Express card. I knew I had it, she said, breathlessly. Drew swiped the card through and gave it back to her; he waited until she put her card back in her wallet and then handed her the bag.
Thanks for being so patient. She squeezed his wrist. I appreciate it. Then, carrying her bag and purse, she left.
For hours afterwards, Drew could feel the fading pressure of Vanessa Stone’s hand, and desperately, he tried to reevoke and recharge the current of ecstasy that had coursed through him—like love itself—upon her touching him. His efforts were in vain, but the feel of Vanessa Stone’s hand was all he could think of for the rest of his shift, which he passed through in a somnolent, sensuous, languishing daze.
At home, Drew thought he could still feel the impression of Vanessa Stone’s hand, and that night he thought of her as he lay in bed, trying to induce himself to dream about her. When he awoke the next morning, he was groggy, but then he remembered Vanessa Stone’s touching his wrist, and he nearly trembled with desperate longing.
Days passed, and then weeks, during which Drew didn’t see Vanessa Stone, though this wasn’t unprecedented (sometimes a month would go by without his seeing her); but he was worried nonetheless: what if she’d been in the store—maybe even wanting to thank him for being so patient—only he’d been working a different shift or had had off that day? He felt aggrieved and cheated and considered visiting the store during the afternoon on days he didn’t work or had the closing shift. But he knew this was crazy; he just had to be patient.
As more weeks and then months passed, though, and Drew still didn’t see Vanessa Stone, the desperate—yet, he knew, irrational—hope he had, enfolded in which was the forlornness of love, started to dim. It would still faintly glow when Drew occasionally remembered the time she squeezed his wrist, but these recollections came less and less, until they all but fell into darkness.
He finally graduated the following spring; he was twenty-eight. He still worked at the Barnes and Noble, although he was less miserable, as he sensed that his time there wouldn’t be much longer: he’d been accepted into a graduate school program in which he was offered to teach two classes, and he was confident that these assignments would lead to more opportunities, teaching or otherwise, that would get him out of retail once and for all.
He hadn’t seen Vanessa Stone since the day she squeezed his wrist, which was over a year ago, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of that day when one afternoon in August, two weeks before he was to start teaching his first class and right after he’d cut his workload down to three days a week, officially becoming part-time, she appeared at his register, looking as alluring and youthful as ever. Her daughter stood nearby, glancing through a magazine she’d picked up from a rack. The girl had grown. Vanessa Stone, Drew could tell, remembered him, albeit—to his fleeting devastation—only after a moment; but the manner in which she then said Hi was the equivalent, he decided, of saying How have you been? and was enough to appease him.
Smiling self-consciously, Vanessa Stone said, I have a book to pick up, as though she knew that Drew knew this.
As he retrieved her order—a Judy Blume paperback—he wondered where she’d been, why she was so upset that day, and if that was part of the reason he hadn’t seen her for so long; he couldn’t, though, think of a way to ask about these things.
He scanned her book, and as he put it in a bag she said, Been a while since you rang me up.
The words surprised and soothed him like unexpected music; he felt himself grinning. It has, he said, taking her black American Express card from her.
As he slid her credit card through, Vanessa Stone still faintly smiled; and feeling quixotic and bold, Drew said, I’m actually going to be leaving soon.
She regarded him for a moment and then blinked, as though she hadn’t been listening (and for a split-second Drew felt mortified and unworthy); but then she said, Really? How come? and Drew recovered.
He wanted to tell her everything; but how could he? So, he simply said, Going to grad school.
Vanessa Stone nodded and briefly seemed—Drew thought—as if she were going to ask more, but instead she said, Good for you.
As Drew handed her back her credit card, he remembered, with vividness and poignancy, the time she squeezed his wrist and how it had made him feel, and he suddenly longed to tell her, in some subtle yet transparent way, how much he’d enjoyed helping her these past couple of years, how much her presence had always brightened his day—without its sounding untoward. He felt he had to, as he would probably be leaving the store soon and, if she didn’t again come into the store for some time, this was possibly the last time he’d help her. Also, if he did let her know all of this, then just maybe. . .
Drew’s mind raced as he handed Vanessa Stone her bag; but by this time he’d mentally composed what he felt was the perfect sentence to preface his sentiments--I just wanted to let you know that you were always one of my favorite customers—and was on the verge of uttering these very words, a large hand that was part of a muscular arm took the bag from him, an arm which Drew saw was attached to a well-dressed, ruggedly handsome man with dark brown hair.
I got it, babe.
Thanks, hon. Vanessa Stone put her purse over her shoulder while, behind her, the man gave the bag to the girl, who took it wordlessly.
Well, good luck in grad school.
Thanks, Drew said, in an affable way, which he hoped belied his desolation.
Vanessa Stone smiled and turned and followed the man and her daughter to the door.
Drew called the next customer. He knew if he thought this out, things would make sense, even though he might not like the clear, apparent order of things; but for the moment, as he rang up a man buying gun magazines, he just wanted to wallow in his befuddled melancholy.
Thank you, my dear, she’d say after he rang her up and handed her her bag. She was never without her daughter, for whom she was usually picking up a book. The girl was polite and quiet; Drew figured she got her nice temperament from her mother. Often, Drew would wonder if Vanessa Stone had a husband, if she were married or divorced; and as Drew never saw her with anyone but her daughter, he decided that she was alone.
At home, Drew would daydream that he was Vanessa Stone’s husband; often, he’d fantasize about making love to her. He not only wished there were a way he could tell this woman his feelings but a chance his desire could be realized. But he knew that wasn’t just delusional but improbable.
And the months passed, and then a whole year; Vanessa Stone continued coming into the store, never any less pretty or youthful, always with her daughter, who gradually got bigger, while Drew remained at his $11.50-an-hour job, taking a couple of classes at Montclair State University each semester, still living with his parents. And every time Drew helped Vanessa Stone, he’d be overcome with a pain of longing and the sad, hopeless fact that he had as much chance with her as with one of the girls gracing the cover of Playboy or Maxim.
One afternoon Vanessa Stone appeared at Drew’s register and as always smiled at him in recognition (she never did call Drew by his name as much as he wanted her to [“Drew” was conspicuously visible on his name badge] and which he decided was due to shyness and reserve); she said she had a book to pick up. Her daughter wasn’t with her, and when she’d smiled at Drew, it seemed forced; also, her eyes looked puffy. Drew found her book—a Beverly Cleary paperback—and rang her up.
Vanessa Stone was unable to find her credit card. Sorry, she said, and put her wallet on the counter so as to look through it more thoroughly.
Take your time, Drew said, after a moment.
She glanced at him—gratefully, he thought—and resumed her search; still, though, she was unable to find her card. Sensing her frustration rising, Drew said, We take checks, too. Then he added, And cash.
She smiled abstractedly and continued rummaging through her purse. Maybe I will write you a check. . . But I could’ve sworn. . . Six or eight customers waited in line; but there were three other cashiers, and Drew felt no urgency; in fact, his attitude, as he caught wafts of Vanessa Stone’s heady perfume, was let them wait.
Sorry, she said, as she looked in another compartment.
It’s no problem, he said, softly.
Then, with overwrought triumph, Vanessa Stone produced her black American Express card. I knew I had it, she said, breathlessly. Drew swiped the card through and gave it back to her; he waited until she put her card back in her wallet and then handed her the bag.
Thanks for being so patient. She squeezed his wrist. I appreciate it. Then, carrying her bag and purse, she left.
For hours afterwards, Drew could feel the fading pressure of Vanessa Stone’s hand, and desperately, he tried to reevoke and recharge the current of ecstasy that had coursed through him—like love itself—upon her touching him. His efforts were in vain, but the feel of Vanessa Stone’s hand was all he could think of for the rest of his shift, which he passed through in a somnolent, sensuous, languishing daze.
At home, Drew thought he could still feel the impression of Vanessa Stone’s hand, and that night he thought of her as he lay in bed, trying to induce himself to dream about her. When he awoke the next morning, he was groggy, but then he remembered Vanessa Stone’s touching his wrist, and he nearly trembled with desperate longing.
Days passed, and then weeks, during which Drew didn’t see Vanessa Stone, though this wasn’t unprecedented (sometimes a month would go by without his seeing her); but he was worried nonetheless: what if she’d been in the store—maybe even wanting to thank him for being so patient—only he’d been working a different shift or had had off that day? He felt aggrieved and cheated and considered visiting the store during the afternoon on days he didn’t work or had the closing shift. But he knew this was crazy; he just had to be patient.
As more weeks and then months passed, though, and Drew still didn’t see Vanessa Stone, the desperate—yet, he knew, irrational—hope he had, enfolded in which was the forlornness of love, started to dim. It would still faintly glow when Drew occasionally remembered the time she squeezed his wrist, but these recollections came less and less, until they all but fell into darkness.
He finally graduated the following spring; he was twenty-eight. He still worked at the Barnes and Noble, although he was less miserable, as he sensed that his time there wouldn’t be much longer: he’d been accepted into a graduate school program in which he was offered to teach two classes, and he was confident that these assignments would lead to more opportunities, teaching or otherwise, that would get him out of retail once and for all.
He hadn’t seen Vanessa Stone since the day she squeezed his wrist, which was over a year ago, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of that day when one afternoon in August, two weeks before he was to start teaching his first class and right after he’d cut his workload down to three days a week, officially becoming part-time, she appeared at his register, looking as alluring and youthful as ever. Her daughter stood nearby, glancing through a magazine she’d picked up from a rack. The girl had grown. Vanessa Stone, Drew could tell, remembered him, albeit—to his fleeting devastation—only after a moment; but the manner in which she then said Hi was the equivalent, he decided, of saying How have you been? and was enough to appease him.
Smiling self-consciously, Vanessa Stone said, I have a book to pick up, as though she knew that Drew knew this.
As he retrieved her order—a Judy Blume paperback—he wondered where she’d been, why she was so upset that day, and if that was part of the reason he hadn’t seen her for so long; he couldn’t, though, think of a way to ask about these things.
He scanned her book, and as he put it in a bag she said, Been a while since you rang me up.
The words surprised and soothed him like unexpected music; he felt himself grinning. It has, he said, taking her black American Express card from her.
As he slid her credit card through, Vanessa Stone still faintly smiled; and feeling quixotic and bold, Drew said, I’m actually going to be leaving soon.
She regarded him for a moment and then blinked, as though she hadn’t been listening (and for a split-second Drew felt mortified and unworthy); but then she said, Really? How come? and Drew recovered.
He wanted to tell her everything; but how could he? So, he simply said, Going to grad school.
Vanessa Stone nodded and briefly seemed—Drew thought—as if she were going to ask more, but instead she said, Good for you.
As Drew handed her back her credit card, he remembered, with vividness and poignancy, the time she squeezed his wrist and how it had made him feel, and he suddenly longed to tell her, in some subtle yet transparent way, how much he’d enjoyed helping her these past couple of years, how much her presence had always brightened his day—without its sounding untoward. He felt he had to, as he would probably be leaving the store soon and, if she didn’t again come into the store for some time, this was possibly the last time he’d help her. Also, if he did let her know all of this, then just maybe. . .
Drew’s mind raced as he handed Vanessa Stone her bag; but by this time he’d mentally composed what he felt was the perfect sentence to preface his sentiments--I just wanted to let you know that you were always one of my favorite customers—and was on the verge of uttering these very words, a large hand that was part of a muscular arm took the bag from him, an arm which Drew saw was attached to a well-dressed, ruggedly handsome man with dark brown hair.
I got it, babe.
Thanks, hon. Vanessa Stone put her purse over her shoulder while, behind her, the man gave the bag to the girl, who took it wordlessly.
Well, good luck in grad school.
Thanks, Drew said, in an affable way, which he hoped belied his desolation.
Vanessa Stone smiled and turned and followed the man and her daughter to the door.
Drew called the next customer. He knew if he thought this out, things would make sense, even though he might not like the clear, apparent order of things; but for the moment, as he rang up a man buying gun magazines, he just wanted to wallow in his befuddled melancholy.
S.F. Wright lives and teaches in New Jersey. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Linden Avenue Literary Journal, The Examined Life Journal, Elm Leaves Journal, and The Tishman Review, among other places. His website is sfwrightwriter.com.
