So, there I am, standing in line at Trader Joe’s, when I turn around to make sure I didn’t forget anything. As my eyes are scanning the aisles, they catch the face of the guy standing behind me. He looks familiar. But I can’t place him. He has the same inquisitive look on his face, only he isn’t as shy.
“Don’t you work here?” he asks.
“Uh, no,” I reply.
“I know you from somewhere.”
I should’ve turned around at that point and not given him anymore clues.
“I know!” he says excitedly. “Whole Foods! You used to work at Whole Foods!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He was right. I did used to work at Whole Foods. Many, many years ago. When freelance work was scarce, I made my living as a cashier. It’s a part of my past I’d like to erase.
“Uh, yeah.” I begrudgingly answer. But I still can’t believe this guy remembers me from six or seven years ago. “Beverly Hills?” I ask.
“Yeah!” He replies.
Fuck. Ten years from now, when I’m a world famous author, I’ll be at a book signing and someone will come up to me, book in hand, and ask, “Didn’t you used to work at Whole Foods?”
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