The Man at 12 Turned on His Light
by Colleen McManus Hein

You pray they open a register. There is no light at 12 but a man is cleaning the belt: spray, wipe, spray, wipe. You hesitate, too shy to ask if he’s opening but also too afraid of the woman guarding self-checkout. She wears owlish glasses but acts like she can’t see you when the register claims you screwed up. You and she have a history — you screw up, she ignores. You think she is not unlike the big bird and you are not unlike the scared mouse. A man with a box of K-cups, a half-gallon of orange juice, and a plastic shell of cookie bars clutched to his breast is not shy and asks. The man with the paper towels consults his walkie-talkie, then flips on his light. He punches his screen with a finger like a magician’s wand and electronics bloom. When it’s your turn, you watch your items spin from his hands like ducks in a river race…an avocado rolling past the yogurt is a winner at Pimlico. The man wishes you a good day and you wish him back and you’re on your way to the good day, which turns out to not be so good but at least the man at 12 turned on his light.