I’m standing next to a huge bin of deep red apples. Next to me is a ginormous roll of stickers. Ferris-wheel size.
And not just any kind of stickers, but produce stickers. If you’ve ever wondered who puts stickers on fruit. That’s me…
The Sticker Guy.
I am slow and meticulous. Why? Because I want to do my job right. Do you really want a produce sticker on your piece of fruit that is crumpled? Or a produce sticker on your eggplant that has an air bubble in it?
No, of course you don’t.
Because produce stickers are important.
Imagine a world where you take your fruit to the cashier who slides it across the scanner and asks you to pay the price of a pomegranate when instead, it’s a plum.
“That’s not a pomegranate,” you protest, “it’s a plum.”
If the cashier doesn’t agree with you, then I get the call. And yes, it’s a big deal. The call comes in over the loudspeaker:
“Will Sticker Guy please come to register eleven? Sticker Guy to eleven.”
I drop everything I’m doing, believe you me.
By the time I get to register eleven, tensions are high as the line of shoppers grows longer.
“Excuse me, pardon me,” I say, passing by shoppers who clearly have more than ten items in their cart. I look up to make sure I’m at register eleven. Yes, I am… ten items or less. It’s a travesty, but I continue on.
One very large woman who is perusing a copy of the National Enquirer is blocking my way.
“Excuse me, ma’am. May I get through?”
“I’m not moving for anyone, Bub,” she says as I wait patiently.
Someone in line whispers, “Did she really just say that to The Sticker Guy?”
The woman looks up from the paper, horrified.
“I’m so sorry,” she stutters, “I didn’t know it was you, Sticker Guy.”
“No problem, ma’am.” I’m annoyed, but I don’t have time to give in to my feelings. I have a job to do.
I get to the front of the line where the cashier is pointing to the plum.
“Sticker said it’s a pomegranate,” he says.
A quick glance at the register screen and then back to the plum confirms my suspicions. Tommy on night crew has been slacking. He says he too would like to become a certified Sticker Guy, but this is sloppy work. I question his integrity.
“Type in 11097654–1,” I command. You have to use a commanding voice otherwise, the people won’t respect you.
The cashier hesitates.
“I said, type in 11097654–1 man, now.” I can feel the perspiration building up over my eyebrows.
The cashier types in the number and the price for a plum pops up on the screen.
“Thank you, Sticker Guy,” the customer says, standing there looking at me with admiration.
“Just doing my job.” I give a quick salute with two fingers off my forehead, but not before giving the cashier one more look. This time, to restore confidence in his abilities.
“You did good here, kid.” With a wink, I am off. Back to my station.
As I smooth out a sticker on some particularly difficult kumquats, my mind wanders to solving other, less complicated issues. Issues such as world peace, nuclear arms proliferation, and of course, terrorism.
But these rather trite issues will have to take a back seat for a moment. I’ve come across a sticker with a slight tear at the edge.
Can it be saved? By placing it on an unsuspecting kumquat, what is at risk? But I already know the answer. I am a trained professional.
It’s with a heavy heart that I quickly crumple up the produce sticker and toss it into the waste basket on the floor.
Crisis averted. It’s why I make the big bucks. It’s why I’m…
The Sticker Guy.