A Rank and File Cashes in on Cabbage

The day before Jeff Bezos’s much anticipated $40 million wedding¹ to a woman who agreed to marry him,² I went shopping for a few groceries — a word added to President Donald Trump’s vocabulary not too long ago. My short list included tomatoes, two ears of corn, two apples, a red beet, Kefir, a bunch of celery and, most important, a head of cabbage, a staple of my diet. Although I checked out at one of those speedy self-checkout machines, it took me quite a long time to get the vegetables and apples through; tapping the “Vegetable” or “Fruit” button caused the machine to catapult a step too far and display some random vegetable or fruit, eggplant, maybe, or fresh figs, neither of which I had. I soon figured out that if I waited long enough without setting anything on the scale it would ask me if I wanted to “Repeat?” to which I could then tap “No.” The original screen would then appear, allowing me to try again.

It was no triumph to relate to friends, but I was successful. On leaving the machine shouldering my lumpy satchel full of ungainly edibles, I apologized to the fellow waiting in line behind me. He was very gracious about it, and I left happy at least about that friendly exchange. 

Inflation is such that I expect my grocery bills to be double what they were a few years ago, or even higher. So finding that the produce and sour-milk product I had purchased totaled $38.59 was no huge shock. Once at home, I put the groceries away, grabbed the receipt, and was about to skewer it on my spindle for recent receipts when I stopped to take at look at what had cost so much. What to my surprise and annoyance to find it was the head of cabbage. I had been charged — and paid — $15.22 for it. No weight had been recorded. Just: Cabbage: $15.22. 

I couldn’t possibly let this go, which meant, to my chagrin, that I now had something extra to do the next day for which I had no time, which was slightly anxiety-provoking and not optional. The incident bothered me enough to mildly disturb my night’s sleep — it was hot anyway, so that didn’t help — as I struggled to decide when I would fit that annoying, non-optional trip to the store into my schedule. Only a few slots were possible and none convenient, but my mind made itself up without consulting me: I would go first thing in the morning.

My inner mind communicated to the parts of me that implement its plans that my trip to the grocery store would take place – now.

On the day of Jeff Bezos’s wedding, I woke early. Light filters into my apartment soon after the sun rises, and on that morning the celestial orb rose blazing at 5:15 a.m. over my sliver of the planet. The summer morning was already warm, but I was resolved. My inner mind had by then communicated to the parts of me that implement its plans that my trip to the grocery store would take place — now, or, practically speaking, as soon as the store opened. It was no problem. Awake and on my feet, I realized I could handle this. I packed the cabbage into my satchel, tucked the marked-up receipt into my wallet, and started on my sojourn soon after 8 a.m. It was a nine-minute walk. No big deal. I would enjoy life during those nine minutes. 

As I headed to the grocery store, despite enjoying life, I worried about what I would say. How much explaining would be required to convince them that I really shouldn’t have paid $15.22 for a head of cabbage? Would I have to talk my way through echelons of grocery store staff before I got to the head manager who maybe was the only person authorized to handle paybacks of this size? I wasn’t sure. Would they believe me? Did they give money back for cabbage? Maybe store policy forbade it. 

My worries were dispelled as soon as I entered the store and spied not three steps away two mildly rotund, middle-aged, very approachable people engaged in a hefty discussion about what to do with several large cardboard boxes. The lady was clearly staff, garbed in a delicate, light-gray grocery store uniform that could be washed forever without showing wear, which meant she would be wearing it until she died. The man was dressed in normal street clothes, but a black synthetic fabric bandage encased his right hand from knuckles to wrist, something I not infrequently saw grocery store employees wearing nowadays, a health benefit, no doubt, as they got worked to death. The man’s less-than-abundant dark hair had been fashioned into an interesting topknot that perfectly complimented his broad, handsome Mughal warrior’s face made all the more expressive by what seemed to be two slightly lazy eyes. That last detail must have been my own embellishment due to my slight anxiety about whether they would accept my story about a cabbage. 

As I approached and addressed them, they turned toward me gravely as if expecting to adjudicate on whatever matters of store business I might submit to their profound discretion. Which I did not hesitate to do. 

“I bought a head of cabbage here yesterday,” I began, then hesitated, but could see that, miraculously, I had their full attention. Encouraged, I explained: “I checked out at one of those self-checkout machines.” I waved anemically toward the side of the store where management had planted a handful of the machines in a futile attempt to alleviate the immensely long lines that queued at the normal registers because the management did not allow a second register to open until well-mannered customers started squeaking with frustration. 

I handed to the woman the receipt on which I had marked what I hoped would be recognized as an outrageous sum for a head of cabbage.

“And I think I got overcharged for the cabbage.” I handed to the woman the receipt on which I had marked what I hoped would be recognized as an outrageous sum for a head of cabbage unless, without knowing, I had purchased a costly strain of organic cabbage. My uneasiness continued to unsettle me.

The woman handed the receipt to the man, who took it and seemed to absorb the implication instantly, which the woman evidently hadn’t.

I clarified: “I got charged $15.22 for it. Here’s the cabbage.” I pulled the cabbage from my satchel and held it out to them. Each looked at what for all intents and purposes seemed to be a normal head of cabbage. The man cast another look at the receipt, fingering its edges delicately, and showed it once again to the woman for her reexamination, at which point they looked at each other, pulled long faces and rolled their eyes, letting me know they believed me. They were on my side. No inquisition about if the cabbage had really come from their store. No insinuation that maybe it had come from the organic cabbage section.³ No grilling as to why I hadn’t brought the cabbage back immediately on discovering the error. No requirement to present proof of identity, address, race, or creed. No passport or photo ID needed. The man, who was evidently in charge of that team of two, told me to come along with him to get this settled. Off he paced off, the receipt in his hands. I followed, the cabbage in mine.

Just four meters away stood the single cash register in operation — for once justified as there were only three people with light purchases waiting in line at that early hour. The man with the top-knot interrupted the woman’s work with a mere word — evidently they knew each other. With a toss of her hand, she held him off for a moment, swiftly handed him a plastic-wrapped package of salami slices whose bar code would not scan, and asked him to read out the number, which he did patiently and correctly, an incredibly long number, it seemed, to identify such an item, which she typed in correctly, because the young gentleman wanting those slices of salami got them and was soon on his way, heading into a day he would no doubt wrestle into a breezy and exciting conquest due to the fortification of that salami. Usually edgy in grocery stores, I wasn’t bothered by this delay a bit, confident that I would be taken care of. 

With the salami gentleman gone, the Mughal warrior showed the woman my marked-up receipt and explained in low tones what had occurred. To my gratification, she, too, rolled her eyes. I had her sympathy as well. I was altogether in good hands. No spot of guilt rested on me; all members of this jury believed I was the wronged one. Turning away from the counter, the Mughal assured me the matter would be taken care of, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart, and he returned to his tiny team to rethink those cardboard boxes. 

It had taken no time at all for that worthy soul at the cash register to determine the correct price for my cabbage.

Thanks to the competence of that generous, good-hearted grocery store staff, for whom a $15 cabbage would also pinch, I was on my way back home within 10 minutes of entering the store, problem solved, conscience lightened, my beloved cabbage in my satchel, an extra $13 cash in my wallet. It had taken no time at all for that worthy soul at the cash register to determine that the correct price for my cabbage was $2.34 and promptly refund the difference.

Besides being met with immediate sympathy and trust, I was greatly relieved to find that the store’s rank and file had apparently been given the authority to resolve such weighty issues as refund money for outlandish purchases without consulting the higher-ups. Fortified by this demonstration of such good sense and efficiency, I felt I could tackle the rest of my own challenging day with confidence. Still, no matter how promising the day might appear to me in the fresh light of my morning victory, one thing I would not be tasked to do was take a cruise in a water taxi along a canal in Venice among a crowd of 200 revelers, none of whom would in the slightest be inclined to attend to a head of cabbage, unless it was the bride’s.

---

1. That’s just the rough estimate released to the public. It may have cost more. ↩︎
2. The woman who would wed centibillionaire Jeff Bezos turned out to be one Lauren Sánchez, a woman of shapely torso and attractive, vestigially pithecoid facial features.  ↩︎
3. It was obvious I was still nervous. The store had no organic cabbage section.  ↩︎