At the self-scan checkout in the supermarket, an obscure algorithm pointed me to a sample again. Why do they always have to have me? I haven’t stolen anything for at least 40 years. Yes, a teaspoon, by accident, at La Place in Bergen op Zoom.
Then came the cashier. She was wrapped so carefully, with a headscarf and a high-necked robe, that I felt naked in my sundress. ‘Naïma, do you know if we sell canned ravioli?’ cried her colleague, a young, dark boy. “I don’t know,” Naima replied. And to me, in Amsterdam with a chuckle: ‘Sorry, I’m too immigrant for that. Ravioli?’
Ah! My childhood favorite food! ‘Dough pads, stuffed with meat and cooked until tender’ I explained. ‘So in a can. With sweet tomato sauce, and…” She twisted her face. “That doesn’t sound good at all,” she said, and continued routinely, “Can I do a sample with you?”
I nodded. I wanted to tell her more about those ravioli. There had to be powdered cheese on it, from such a spreader can. A thick layer. It was delightful. Naima held up a net of onions. “These have not been scanned,” she said. ‘Oh dear’, I replied sheepishly, to which she stated that such a thing ‘can happen’, but she had to check all my messages now.
“Go ahead,” I said, sure of myself. “This one hasn’t been scanned either,” she said, holding up a carton of yogurt. “Nor this one.” A bottle of fabric softener. “Neither did he…” two slices of salmon. So it went on. Tea, spinach, pistolets… my cheeks burned with shame. ‘I really scanned everything’ I beep. But yes, of course they all say that.
“I think that scanner is broken,” I stammered. They all say that too. Naima frowned. “Unfortunately I have to call someone in now,” she said. And she yelled in the direction of the service desk, “Gerda? Can you come for a second?’
“I don’t steal groceries!” I exclaimed desperately. “I’m not poor or anything!” People were already starting to watch and giggle. I felt more and more naked in my sundress, which was old and faded. Typically a dress, really, for someone poor enough to steal salmon, and fabric softener.
Gerda was already there, tall, calm and sixty. She sent Naïma to the service desk, glanced at my heated face, and spoke; ‘It’s all right, ma’am. Error in the system. Come on, let me help you…’
Moments later, floating with relief, I walked out with my honestly paid groceries. I passed the service counter, where Naïma smiled at me hesitantly.
As delicious as that canned ravioli was: she’ll never know.