An Open Letter to the Check Writer at the Supermarket

Dear Check Writer,

You’ve been a supermarket fixture for as long as I can remember. But unlike New Coke and… Chicken Dinner Candy…

You’ve withstood the test of time.

Yes, even as the rest of modern society began leaving their checkbooks at home in favor of the quicker and easier check card, you remained a staunch supporter of check writing. Your trusty checkbook cover is worn from years of use- its pages are tattered and covered with the handwritten notations of all your purchases.

I don’t have a problem with your method of payment, Check Writer. To each her (totally outdated) own.

But I do have a problem with the fact that you don’t start writing the check until all of your groceries have been bagged and the cashier gives you your total.

Why is this, Check Writer? And why do you only seem to do it at the supermarket?

You never notice me in line behind you with my two small kids and cart overflowing with cereal, juice boxes and frozen meatballs. But I sure do notice you.

“Your total is $63.90,” the cashier says.

“Oh,” you say. “$63.90, huh? Okay.” Casually, you reach into your enormous shoulder bag and hunt around for that trusty checkbook. After a very long minute, you find it, then begin searching for a pen. Once that’s located, you finally begin writing the check.

Kroger, you write (in what must be calligraphy, given how long it’s taking you).

1/12/11.

Sixty-three and 90/100.

63.90

Groceries

Louise Greenfield

Meanwhile, my daughter is crying because she dropped her Kids Klub cookie and my son is methodically emptying the candy rack and throwing everything on the floor. I’d give you a pleading look, but you’re too engrossed in this check writing business to turn around. Clearly, you’ve been waiting for your moment in the check-writing spotlight.

Several flourishes later, you hand the cashier your check.

“I’m going to need your drivers’ license,” she says.

This results in more rooting around in your enormous bag. You extract from it a bulging billfold and after sorting through two or three dozen plastic cards, turn up your drivers license.

The cashier writes down your drivers’ license number. Then she scans the check.

Behind you, we wait. My daughter cries, my son musses up the magazines, and in a low voice, I mutter various dark promises to make tell-all phone calls to Santa and the Easter Bunny, finally resorting to swearing that I’ll call the doctor’s office in order to schedule “a happy child shot.” Thanks to you, Check Writer, I’ve hit rock bottom in the threat department.

Eons pass and civilizations rise and fall before the cash register spits out your receipt. I breathe a sigh of relief.

But you’re not finished yet.

“That ten for ten dollars deal,” you say, looking over the receipt in your hands. “Did it or did it not apply to the Jell-O?”

“If it did, the computer should have taken it off at the bottom,” the cashier says.

“Let me get out my reading glasses,” you say, putting your bag back down on the counter. “I can’t see a thing without them.”

A long, silent scream escapes from my lips. By this time, both my children are crying and begging for fruit snacks, while steam shoots out of my ears. I try to distract myself by thinking of other women who’ve spent their lifetimes waiting… I think of Penelope waiting for Ulysses. Jennifer Lopez Waiting for Tonight. Kelly Rowland waiting for breast implants. They all know my pain.

Even if you don’t, Check Writer.

After a few more minutes of discussion about various items on your receipt and where and how your discounts were applied, you put your reading glasses away and zip up your coat. Eagerly, I begin inching my cart forward.

But then you stop again. “It sure is cold outside, isn’t it?” you ask the cashier.

I can’t help myself. I keep moving, and very carefully bump your down-covered rear end with my cart.

“Oh goodness!” I say as you turn around and look at me for the first time. “I’m so sorry!” You raise an eyebrow.

“These kids,” I say by way of explanation. “They get so tired of waiting.”

You nod with a knowing look and are finally on your way. “Thank GOD,” I breathe before turning my attention to my own groceries coming down the conveyor belt. “Why do people still write checks anyway?” I ask the cashier. “Check cards are soooo much faster.” She nods impassively and continues scanning my food.

“Your total is $102.37,” she says after a moment.

“Not so fast!” I chuckle. “I’ve got these.” I hand over 47 coupons to the cashier, and hear a loud sigh from the woman behind me in line, but I ignore her.

She’ll just have to wait.

Right, Check Writer?

Your fellow shopper,

Lindsay Ferrier