I’ve been shopping at the same supermarket for more than 20 years.
I like the prices and the friendly staff who are willing to go out of their way to render good service. However, I’ve noticed that things seem to be changing for the worse.
There’s nothing uglier than getting in a check-out line behind someone who does-n’t have their act together. I understand when a customer is confused about what’s on sale or who has a credit card problem. I sympathize with a senior citizen who pays with dimes and pennies carefully extracted from a purse one coin at a time.
Last Tuesday morning’s supermarket check-out became another unpleasant experience in a growing series of time-consuming exercises in frustration. I was behind a stout woman in her forties with only eight or 10 items. First, she wanted verification of the expiration dates. Then, she asked the price of each item after her tab was run.
She wanted a preferred customer card, which took time to process. Then, she paid with plastic — but couldn’t figure out how to use the key pad. After Ms. Stout finally made up her mind about how much cash she wanted back, the cashier finished processing her purchases.
Time is ticking away. Seeing the other check-out line moving right along, my ice cream melting on the conveyor and four annoyed people behind me, I was losing my patience. But, we weren’t through yet.
Now, Stout wanted change for $40. Firmly anchored at the end of the counter, she mumbled, “Two 10s.” The cashier didn’t have two 10s. “A 10 and two fives.” Change was made. Stout shoves the money back. “No, I want a 10, a five and five ones... No, four fives...”
I finally had it. I told the woman, “Enough.” She responded, “I’ve lived here all my life.” “Me, too,” I replied. “Can you finish up, please?” “Why don’t you go to Callahan’s?” she said. Meanwhile, my cashier is finally checking my half-dozen items. In between, rambling sentences that had no relationship with each other and “I want a five and 15 ones. No, a 10 and...,” I realized that Stout was mentally ill. “Are you homeless,” I asked? “I don’t have to tell you,” she hissed.
Paying for six items shouldn’t take 10 minutes. I grabbed my groceries as Stout pushed five one-dollar bills across the counter. “I want quarters and dimes, she barked.” “It’ll never end,” I told the checker as I beat it out the door.
Dealing with mentally challenged people seems to be happening more often these days. In fact, I’ve never seen so many in one community in my whole life.
I’m reminded of “Lipstick Mary” (the shopping cart lady now in an assisted living home) who used to relieve herself in the markets and drug store near 14th Street and Wilshire Boulevard. Everyone I know who works in retail here has similar horror stories to tell about crazy customers.
It’s not the climate. Or the water. It’s our large transient population, two-thirds of which are mentally ill. There are about 700 mentally challenged homeless on our streets — and in our stores — at any given time.
Maybe Ms. Stout wasn’t homeless, but the woman was marginally able to take care of herself.
It goes to show that increasing confrontations or unpleasant incidents are more likely to happen here than where they don’t have a sizable, mentally challenged population in their midst. I guess I’m lucky that I haven’t had a violent or life-threatening experience, yet.
One friend told me his supermarket wouldn’t have tolerated the situation. Another said they never had the problem where they shop in another community. So, maybe it’s time to change supermarkets. Or, do all my shopping out of town.
Being forced to shop somewhere else to avoid hassles and confrontation in your own home town is not acceptable. One thing is for sure: With a lot of mentally ill people on our streets whose needs are not being met, we’re all paying the price in terms of quality of life.
Someone needs to step to the plate and do something besides talk about the problems. Somehow, I’d bet our city, county, state or even the federal government aren’t going to do crap. (Bill Bauer is a longtime Santa Monica resident and freelance writer.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 29, 2005. Read the original PDF.