Singing Irishman

Anything can happen to you at the register. Anything...although I'm still waiting for an alien abduction. I've gotta admit, I think that's getting closer.

I've been persecuted, proselytized and praised. I've had psuedo-conversations with tourists and other assorted guests. But I've never been serenaded...until this weekend. Couple in their 60s. Wife is unloading groceries from a full cart onto the belt. Husband is at the register, maybe to see if I overcharge them, maybe to wait until I fill a few bags to put them into the cart. So I think. Actually, he's just conversation-starved, I come to realize.

He starts quizzing me. Staring at my nametag -- "That's good Irish name." Actually, I didn't think so, but I am partly Irish. So I smile and nod, and he goes into a full Irish brogue. And asking me if I really know what "Erin Go Braugh" means. Doesn't it mean something about drink a lot of green beer on March 17? Not hardly. Then he starts into an Irish folk song -- while the six-bag carousel is full, and his wife is still unloading the cart. Had I been filling the belt, I would have added a roll of duct tape. We have those at registers, in the impulse merchandise. (Digressing, a guest just told me that duct tape is "The Force" because it's light on one side, dark on the other, and holds the universe together.)

No, I can't join in. Nor do I want to. I just check groceries as fast as I can scan. I think the best thoughts I can -- he's lonely, he could have been a mean jerk, he might actually get the idea and load bags if I start pulling them off. He does, but the banter continues. The lady finishes and pays. I smile and thank them, and realize I may get 10-15 minutes of him, but his partner has to hear that all the time. Lucky her.