Steve Hamburg

I was on the express checkout line at the White Plains Food Emporium one night last December with my one item, a quart of milk. The man in front of me had about 30 items. He was an older gentleman, very distinguished looking, with silver white hair, a navy blue suit and a silk tie that probably cost more than my car. I didn't say anything to him about his 30 items on the express line. Instead I just waited patiently as the cashier in one motion swept each item over the scanner which registered the price with a high pitched beep and then dropped the purchase into a plastic bag.

Everything proceeded with rhythmic efficiency until--of course--the last item: a balky can of tuna fish that just wouldn't scan. The cashier passed it over the scanner repeatedly, twisting and turning it at various angles, the bright red scanning lines flashing across the bar code. Still no price came up. The cashier held the can up to read the number beneath the code. She was about to enter the number into her register when the white-haired gentleman reached over, grabbed her wrist, and lifted her hand from the keys.