Overlapping realities in the grocery store customer service line

Today I ate my last four eggs for breakfast, which triggers an automatic foray to the store. (Yes, I eat four eggs for breakfast every day, and no, I don't worry about cholesterol.) Before beginning my foraging foray, I stood in line for 20 minutes to return a plumbing repair item that I didn't need. (Yes, I fixed the leak under my bathroom sink all by myself.) It was a long queue, maybe a dozen people, and the line got longer as I stood there. A woman came to stand behind me, accompanied by a wizened older woman with gray hair and black glasses. I recognized her as the store employee who usually greets and good-byes at the entrance. Have a nice day. The employee stood with the customer. I listened to their conversation, and formed an image in my mind of the woman behind me, based on her voice and use of language.

She was Latina, that quickly became clear. The store employee asked her if she had some ID, and the woman replied, no, only a passaport. It was a friendly exchange, repeated several times, with no animosity on either side. No ID? No driver's license? No, only a passaport. Finally, the existence of the passport appeared to be established to their satisfaction. A comfortable pause followed. Other people arrived. I didn't look directly at anyone. Oddly, the store employee didn't leave, as I would have predicted. She stood off to the side and continued to talk to the woman.

“When are you due?”

“Next month, May 11,” the woman replied. Ah. Pregnant.

“Do you know what you are having?” asked the store employee. Uh, a baby? Steak and eggs? What? Is that any of her business?

“Issa girl,” came the reply. “I'm going to name her Genesis.”

“Genesis?”

“Yeah, you know, like from the Bible?”

The line moved at a glacial pace toward the counter. I admired the pattern of rafters overhead, holding up the ceiling.

“Where are you from?” the store employee asked chummily.

“Mexico.” I could have guessed that one. “Since 1990.” Her English was heavily accented, but her grammar was good.

“Have you been in Portland long?” asked the store employee. Why is she was still hanging around? Was this pregnant Latina woman on a store terrorist watch list or something?

“No, I came from San Diego. My family is here,” the woman said. “I came here to escape a violent domestic situation.”

“A what?”

“A violent domestic situation.”

“You can't change them,” the employee remarked knowingly. Hmmm. A lot of backstory, unsaid. I stifled my curiosity and remained facing forward. The line inched closer. The dialogue continued to spool out behind me. I pulled out my receipt and got ready for my turn at the counter.

“Where are you from?” The Latina woman asked the employee. Why was she keeping the conversation going? I imagined everyone in line was listening, although no one else participated. A baby wept.

“Originally I'm from Utah,” replied the employee. “Then I went to California, then Seattle, and then I ended up here. I hope you like rain.”

“Yeah. Do you have children?”

I got distracted by a father who was managing three little girls over in the furniture section. Two were in a complicated stroller contraption. One child sat in a shopping cart, kicking her heels. All but the baby were arguing loudly, including Dad, and it looked like the baby was about to join in at any second. My mind began the self-checkout process. I wondered, am I a member of the childless minority? (As a member of a minority, do I get any special rights? Like a special right to peace and quiet, maybe?)

“Next in line!” My turn. The slice of life was over. I never did turn around to see what the pregnant woman from Mexico looked like. Even in a grocery store, people deserve their privacy, even if they choose to violate it themselves.