My Trader Joes

My Trader Joe's

Trader Joe’s

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I hate Trader Joe’s because that is
in no way the case. I’m quite dependent on them actually. And it isn’t
that I hate friendliness, because it has it’s place. But I’m just not
sure what sort of Walt-Disney-themed corporate training that the
cashiers are put through to become so obnoxiously involved with their
customers at check-out. I’m all for a smile or two, but these people
just take it way too far. It always drove me bananas that I had to
allow extra time for friendliness when I’d try to stop by there on my
way to work. I want to run into the store, hear all the beeping noises,
run my card, and then run to whatever else I’m about to do next. At no
point do I want to discuss grass-fed beef, or free-range chicken in the
checkout line. If they had comment cards, I’d ask them to work on being
more impersonal. I’d submit a request that went something like, “please
ignore me a little when I come to your store. I like that. I’m from the
East Coast and it’s faster.” I liked going to 7-11, not for anything I
ever bought there, but simply for the fact that I could get out of
there so quickly. Typically, the cashier at 7-11 barely spoke English,
didn’t care if I lived or died, and kept things moving with quick and
unpleasant service. Perfection!
The Trader Joe’s across the street from me though, has hired a new guy
with whom I am in love. When I was a teenager, I waited tables at a
restaurant named Bob Evans. They were participating in some sort of
inclusion workforce program in which they bussed prisoners, (I’m
assuming the good ones), in to work shifts with us. I think there were
some tax breaks involved, but I’m not sure. I believe the new cashier
at Trader’s, whom I’ve named Anti-Joe in my head, is from that bus. His
pink skin is full of ink, he’s built like a prisoner, and he hates
customers. I love this guy! I look for this guy, and I seek to be in
his line. He’s fast. He never asks if I’d found my purchases to be
tasty in the past, I’ve never seen him smile, he’s never asked a soul
if they’d found everything they were looking for, and he couldn’t care
less whether or not I recycle. I’m waiting for the day that he has the
meltdown that costs every one of us our lives, but until then it is