On the Monday before Thanksgiving, they have one regular checkstand open. There’s an express line for the crackheads buying a 40-ounce and a pack of gummy worms; and several self-checkout stations, which invariably require the assistance of an employee anyway. The checker at the one open stand slams a bag filled with bottles into this poor guy’s cart as we hear over the PA system, “Emergency cleanup in the women’s room.” Another employee walks by, reaches out, and flips the braids of the woman standing behind me on line. She’s peering at her smartphone and doesn’t notice and I elect not to tell her. An old lady keeps punching in the wrong Club Card number, and the checker, instead of scanning his own card, which they keep near the register for just such occasions, lets her continue for 10 minutes, then tells her she has to stand on the interminable customer service line to get a new card number. He spends a full 30 seconds trying to read my name off the receipt, not listening at all as I politely try to help. As he’s gagging on the admittedly difficult letter combinations I see that at least, thank God, they lock up the dandruff shampoo.