John

I love the baggers at my Publix.

Most of them are crusty old guys with Army or Navy tattoos on their forearms that are so faded they look like they were applied with water colors (we have tons of old vets in the area because of the VA hospital and the nearby bases where they like to go shopping and get their liquor and cigarettes tax-free). Anyway, a lot of them are obviously WWII vets and you know that they have seen some shit, sister. And by the way, they saved the world. I love these guys--they are my heroes. My favorite elderly bagger is John, who always winks at me and calls me "Cookie" as he lovingly double-wraps my chicken breasts. He is the only man on the planet capable of getting away with that. I usually choose whichever line John is bagging, no matter the length of the line. He has the sweetest smile and pale blue eyes and I imagine he was quite the hottie when he was a young man.

I like to look at old geezers and try to picture them when they were at the height of their youthfulness and vigor. I remind myself that these old men were once strapping young studs who liked to party and raise hell and bang as many chicks as they could. Sure, now they are someone’s Grampy and they have enlarged prostates, no hair and bad knees. But once they rocked someone’s world, no doubt. I totally see that when I look at John. John has been places, he has seen some shit. And he can call me “Cookie” any day of the week.