GREEN BAY, WI—As a mild-mannered and conscientious patron of the local grocer, it is uncommon for you to run into delays or snags at checkout. Having learned to keep your totes ready for loading, your payment in hand, and coupons clearly visible, your aims to keep the necessity of human contact to a minimum while purchasing your chosen foods has thus far served you well.
However, all of your efforts were brought into question on Thursday by a well-meaning grocery store cashier. After a brief salutation of "Hi, how are you," that is commonplace among such forced interactions, the clerk barraged you with other comments on trivialities, apparently trying to fill the void of a meaningless existence with conversation. Among such gems as "Nice day today," and "Watching the game tonight?" the grocery clerk known to you only as "Carl" abruptly broached new levels of familiarity when noticing that you chose the Banquet brand pot pies.
"Whoa," Carl said, as if your choice of pie was a desperate cry for help. Then, holding it up, displaying it before you, and clearly holding it away from the scanner that would make the commitment to purchase all but unbreakable, Carl asked in a clearly condescending tone, "Are these any good?"
Suddenly in a high-stakes interrogation, you kept your cool and replied that you had not yet tried them, just as any innocent food purchaser who wishes to leave the store unaccosted might.
As if frozen by the disbelief in your response, Carl stood, his mouth ajar for a moment, before attempting to talk you out of what could be the biggest mistake of your purchase. "Oh, well...I mean, have you tried the Marie Callender's [brand] pot pies? I mean, if you're looking for homemade flavor, and quality, that's where it's at."
Appreciative of the helpful note, but unwilling to delay your shopping experience any longer to test out Carl's sales pitch, you thanked him for the tip, and awaited his completion of your purchase, which was actually his only task at that moment.
Instead believing that he was your personal flavor savior, Carl again attempted to convert you to the rich, meaty world of the luxury pot pies in the green box. "Erm, yeah. So, I mean, I know they're like a few cents more, but, holy cow, man. There's just nothing like them."
With the line of patrons lengthening behind you, the clock ticking, and an oven at home that still needed preheating for the preferred method of pot pie preparation, the pressure was on.
Several moments of silence went by. Carl, without saying it, was sending the clear message that he could not allow the purchase of your chosen frozen pie to commence. You, the never-too-picky shopper, were left with a dilemma.
Carl, without risking being turned down, then announced more than asked that he would go replace your choice of pot pie with his recommendation. Before you knew what happened, the deed was done, and the foreign pie was placed among your other items.
The feeling of being violated washed over you in the parking lot and on the drive home, as you uttered words that you would never allow another human to hear. With a disgusted look on your face, you preheated the oven and prepared the pie as directed.
46 to 48 minutes later, however, overcome with creamy chicken flavor and crispy crust, you found yourself converted to Carl's philosophy. Your experience with the pie was spiritual, to say the least.
After the meal was over, through tears of joy and clarity, you drove all the way back to the grocery store, and found Carl. You said nothing. You didn't need to say anything. He knew as soon as he saw you come in. You embraced like long lost brothers. He then escorted you to the Marie Callender's section of the frozen meals, and gave you a few moments alone.
Then, on your way back to the checkout, you looked around and saw no Carl. You asked the manager, who looked at you, puzzled, and said, "No one by that name works here."
That was the moment you started to believe in miracles again.