Would You Like That With Rice Sir?

'Would you like that with rice sir?'

I don't know why I'm bothering to be polite. He hasn't made the effort
to even look at me. He's picking his nose with one hand while the other
is covering his ear and, I hope, a mobile phone; either that or he's
talking loudly to himself. Fantastic. Another fucking nutcase. I scoop
out three spoons of rice and cover it with two spoons of runny chicken
korma. It's supposed to have naan bread with it but we've run out as
usual and it's only three o'clock. Just wait until the regulars get
here for tea and find there are no naan breads. I'll hide out the back
with Danny if things get nasty again.

'Where's my naan bread? Says here it comes with a naan.'

He leans over the counter, near enough for me to see his flaky scalp
and count the hairs that are covering his bald spot.

'I'm sorry sir, but unfortunately we've run out of them. It does say
subject to availability on the menu.' To which I point with a huge
sugary smile while pushing my breasts forward into his eye line. He
grunts and snatches the plate from the counter, placing it with a thud
on to his wooden tray and pushes it towards the coffee machine.

'Till!' comes the shout from the kitchen. Cheeky bastards. They're all
sitting in the cupboard eating Kit Kats and reading the Sun. Janet
looks at me and shakes her head.

'Don't you do it.' she warns slicing the vegetable lasagne into
quarters. Someone has put too much cheese on it and the runny yellow
goo gives it an ambiguous appearance beneath the hot plate lighting.
'We all get paid the same, why should we do their jobs as well as our
own while they sit thieving in the kitchen?'

Fair point. I stay put and crack a few eggs into the fryer for my next
customer. It's hard yolk man. He wants three eggs turned over and if
they're not completely solid, he'll bring them straight back. He's
wearing a new tweed jacket. Perhaps he got it for Christmas. I wonder
if his wife bought it for him and if she has to rubberise his eggs
every day.

'Till!'

The queue has stopped; it's like the M25 at six in the evening. Janet
throws the black meat tongs into the bacon dish with a ceramic clatter
and stomps off into the kitchen. The noise of the radio abruptly stops
and then the shouting starts. I peel hard yolk man's eggs from the
fryer and put them on a plate with three slices of toast and some
beans. He accepts them with an approving nod. I feed some bread into
the toaster for something to do. The queue is now stretching so far
back that customers at the checkouts have to push through it in order
to retrieve their shopping from the end of the conveyor belts. Red nail
girl is on the nearest checkout to the caf?. She glares condescendingly
through the throng from her grey height adjustable checkout chair.
Janet appears at the kitchen door, her hands on the shoulders of Keiran
and Charmaine. Keiran breaks free and goes to settle himself in front
of the till, eyeing every customer with an evil, morose expression and
sucking his cheeks. Apparently people travel for miles to come to this
supermarket because of our famous friendly customer service. Charmaine
strolls over to the serving area and spits her gum into the open
bin.

'Canna 'elp ya?' she slurs through the swelling of her recent tongue
piercing. Janet beckons me to the kitchen and I leave the customers to
their fate.

In the kitchen I start loading the dishwasher. Janet puts some black
rubber gloves on and bends down under the sink looking for a brillo
pad. The collection of used dishes and baking trays have been stacked
into a precarious tower and she mutters to herself about laziness of
youth and not getting paid enough to baby-sit the skivers as she begins
scrubbing each one clean. The door from the seating area opens with a
crash, Sally the table moose leaves a full trolley of dirty crockery
beside me and grumps back outside to start a new one, returning seconds
later for a fresh bin bag and to fill up the cutlery receptacle with
washing up liquid and hot water. She is wearing her boyfriend's boxer
shorts which stick out above her trousers like a black and white
chequered belt. Hairy-toothed Greg returns from his lunch, ties his
blue apron back around his flabby body and waddles out to help Sally. I
separate the sticky plates, encrusted with other people's left over
food and saliva then place them in neat rows in the pale blue plastic
dishwasher crates. I empty the used cutlery into the sink and rinse it.
Some of the spray hits my face and I wipe it away with the back of my
hand. Suddenly there are raised voices coming from the seating area and
Janet's eyes grow big, she loves a good domestic, we get them all the
time. Her face is pressed against the window in the door and I go and
peer out next to her, but it isn't customers who are fighting with each
other, it's Sally and Greg.

'You're so fucking rude!' Sally growls and her fists clench into lethal
weapons at the sides of her ample hips.

'I was merely pointing out the best way to arrange the teacups on the
trolley to prevent breakages.' Greg is so anal. And patronising. I root
for Sally to win this.

'Fuck off!' she roars and the fists are raised to her chest height. I
haven't seen a good fight for ages. The customers are looking edgy, the
nearest ones to Greg and Sally have moved tables, they peer desperately
around in the hope that someone will intervene before we see Greg's
furry teeth on the floor.

'Oh, why don't you grow horns and hang the teacups from them!' Greg is
bold. I exchange surprised looks with Janet.

'Shall we do something?' But as I speak manager Gary is striding across
the store. As Sally the table moose is throwing her pent up punch, as
furry-toothed Greg is cowardly ducking to the floor, manager Gary
appears between them and is knocked out cold. Security Stuart has seen
it all on camera and appears at the door to his office, gabbling
unintelligibly into his walkie-talkie. Janet and I go back to washing
up.

'She's stronger than she looks.' Janet starts to unblock the plughole
in her sink and the pipes gurgle ominously, threatening to vomit lodged
beans and pasta shapes on to the greasy stainless steel.

I nod in agreement and sigh heavily. Knocking out the checkout manager
carries a penalty of immediate suspension, so Sally has just condemned
me to more overtime. There's frantic coughing from the cupboard and
weasly Carol appears looking guilty.

'Still coughing up blood Carol?' I ask as if she is breaking a rule,
which she is really. Working with fresh food while you're coughing up
blood can't be hygienic. She rubs at her skinny neck and tries to
swallow the next cough without success.

'Still seeing David then?' I raise my eyebrows and smile as she pulls
her shirt collar up around the pattern of purple bite marks. David
peers round the cupboard door and grins.

'What have I missed?'

'Sally knocked out manager Gary' says Janet as she flicks a handful of
food remnants from the plughole into the bin. David laughs.

'Seriously, furry toothed Greg started a fight with her over the
teacups. Told her to grow antlers or something. Gary came over to help
and she knocked him out.' Janet peels her gloves off and leaves them
inside out on the draining board.

'She's a fucking moose.' David opens the freezer and stands there
looking at the bags of frozen vegetables and hash browns. The clock
above the work surface claims it's almost time for mine and Janet's
break. We always go together for our breaks on a Saturday.

'There aren't any plain omelettes in here.' David is pushing bags
around the freezer shelves and an open bag of rice starts to spill on
to the floor. He doesn't notice. Carol shuffles back to the cupboard
and settles herself on a box of cardboard coke cups, still coughing
like a pensioner with TB.

'We're going for our break.' Janet is taking her apron off. 'Don't just
sit and snog each other.' I follow her out of the kitchen and we weave
our way across the store and out through the staff only doors by the
shelves of pink slippers.