Go fish

Editor's note: Hey y'all! I'm just back from a sojourn down South, visiting family in North Carolina. Ooh, shug, have I got me some stories to tell! But first, I need to unpack my suitcases and extract from my intestinal tract the eight tons of barbecue I digested while on vacation. (And let's not forget the hush puppies and chicken pastry either.) While I do so, let me entertain you with this little exchange I witnessed on my recent trip to a big box store in Kinston, North Carolina.

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Location: The check-out line at a Wal-Mart somewhere in the Southern United States.

Time: The present day.

The Cast:

• Cashier--a young, blonde, slightly worn-looking woman, a bit bedraggled, as if she'd stayed too long at the honky tonk the night before.
• Customer #1--a not-unattractive but nervous-looking man, bald, in his 40s, resigned to his fate in life.
• Customer #2--an older woman, about 60, over-dressed with a halo of blue-rinsed hair crowning her pinched face.

The Scene: Customer #1 has a small basket full of necessities he wants to purchase for his grandmother (off stage). He approaches Register 23 and begins placing his purchases on the conveyor belt, while the Cashier assists Customer #2.

Cashier [to Customer #2]: Well, what have we got here? A bag a' goldfish.

Customer #2: They're betas.

Cashier: How many you got here?

Customer #2: One dozen.

Cashier: Hmmm, well, looks like you got a lot more 'n a dozen.

Customer #2 [slightly indignant]: That's what I asked for in the Pet Department, twelve betas.

Cashier: Hmmm, well, I'm gonna hafta count 'em.

[The Cashier begins poking the bag with her index finger, trying to count the fish.]

One . . . two . . . three . . . why didn't they just write the number on the bag? Four . . . five . . . six . . . stay still! How 'm I s'pos'd to count 'em if they keep
wigglin' 'roun'!

[A pause while the Cashier continues to count silently.]

. . . Fifteen . . . sixteen . . . seventeen . . . don't look to me like a dozen, more like sixteen, maybe eighteen, by my count.

Customer #2 [angrily]: Eighteen! I only asked for twelve. I'm not paying
for eighteen fish! Take the rest of 'em back!

Cashier [slightly amused, slightly sarcastic]: Well, ma'am, whatja want me to do about it? It's not like I can put 'em in my pocket and carry 'em back to the fish tank. [She snorts out a slight laugh.] Tell ya what, ma'am, you're gonna hafta go--

Customer #2 [practically in a rage]: I am not going to go back to the Pet Department with these fish! You need to get on that phone and call someone to come up here and get the rest of 'em!

[A pause while the Cashier and Customer #2 stare at each other, Customer #2 with menace, the Cashier, languidly, slightly bored and very tired.]

Cashier: [Heavy sigh, then in an amplified voice, as she speaks into the public address system] I need somebody from the Pet Department to come up to Register 23 to help sort out a fish problem.

Customer #1: [Heavy sigh; he begins quietly removing his purchases from the conveyor belt and returning them to his shopping basket. He steps out of line and begins searching for another less problematic, check-out line.]

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Editor's note: This has been a Filmways Presentation.