Dear Rosetta,

You don’t know me. I was one of the people trapped in your check-out line the other day. You will remember well that the register went haywire while you were ringing up a $212 order for the Latina family in front of me. Somewhere between the masa harina and the 12-pack of Gatorade, the computer froze for several minutes. The manager got it going again, only to have it stop again during payment. I had cleared my cart of its contents, which means I was locked in for the duration, my entire order laid out just so on the stalled conveyor belt: refrigerated items, then produce, then canned goods.

I chose your lane because you are an energetic worker, fast and efficient. For those moments, however, your energy was put to different use—namely, cussing out the computer, poking it with contempt.

“Piece of shit!”
“This computer is crap! I’m outta here!”
“What—the—hell?!?”

By contrast, your customers stewed silently, staring off into space with that soulless expression people employ when they are trapped, suspended in time by the most mundane thing. Occasionally one of us would breathe deeply, which is supposed to be calming but in this case allowed us to communicate irritation without having to complain outright. A well-timed sigh is the foundation of any passive-aggressive strategy.

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I found your tirade delicious. I took a vicarious pleasure in it. How exhilarating was that F-bomb, dropped in the stillness of lane 10, while scanners beeped and groceries nestled into bags all around us? And how many times have I wanted to cuss out some recalcitrant cog in the gearworks of my life? How often have I wished I could ban all decorum and just let fly? And how often have I succumbed to the temptation?

Then, Rosetta, I started to feel a little uncomfortable. You might have thought I was studying the Reader’s Digest with Robin Williams grinning on the cover—The Healing Power of Laughter—but in reality I was wrestling with myself. One side of me chirped, “Hey, at least you don’t have the baby with you! What a relief not to have to worry about her while you wait!” The other side said, “Eh, shaddup. This bites.”

The chirpy voice doesn’t stand a chance, does it?

I snuck another glance at you, a bundle of fury encased in a blue polyester vest, emblazoned with a tag: “Friendly Customer Service.” And the truth is, you looked foolish. And sad.

And I loved you.

You are my sister.

I wanted to stop you mid-rant and tell you about a couple weeks ago, at dinner. But I couldn’t, because strangers don’t do that with one another, even strangers who see one another as clearly as I think I saw you that day.

So, a couple weeks ago, at dinner. I was reading part of a news article to my husband, an activity my three-year-old sees as an invitation to interrupt as frequently as possible. Do you have a child at home, Rosetta? Does this kind of thing ever happen to you?

Parent: [Reading to other parent, about five words into it]
Child: Mommy, mommy, mommy!
Parent: What sweetie?
Child: I love you.
Parent: I love you too, now please don’t interrupt me again.
[three more words]
Child: Mommy, mommy, mommy!
Parent: Child, I’ll be done in a minute!
[two more words]
Child: Mommy, mommy, mommy!
Parent: Child, please just let me finish!
[one and a half more words]
Child: Mommy, mommy, mommy!
Parent: [throwing article aside] Child, DON’T INTERRUPT ME!!!!!!!!

The thing is, in my mind, I wasn’t yelling. Given how loud I could have been, I was positively restrained. (You know what I mean, don’t you, Rosetta? You were so mad you could have yanked off your blue vest and stalked out of the store, but no! You held back!)

Except, my husband muttered, “Whoa.”
And my daughter’s face was blank, which was worse than “whoa.”

And I realized, They really see me. And I left the table, and calmed down, and came back and asked for forgiveness.

That night I remembered this book I’d heard about a long time ago, a series of photographs of various families in front of their homes, standing, smiling with all their material goods laid out all around them. The point of the book is that some families have a lot and others have just a little. But something about seeing all that stuff out in the open—racks upon racks of clothes lined up on the sidewalk, a washing machine with dangling electrical plug, a mattress… everything, so exposed. Everything right there for the whole world to see. That’s the way I felt seen, all my interior stuff on display. What did they see?, I wonder. An over-abundance of cheap, stupid trinkets? Or the paltry contents of a poverty-stricken soul?

I don’t know. But that day in the grocery store, something happened. I can't claim to know you, but I felt I was seeing into you just the same.

And so my sister, my Rosetta Stone, you’ve unlocked all this stuff and I don’t know what to do with it. You and your F-bomb and your plastic nametag and your long crimson nails jabbing away at the dead register on lane 10.


the book