Alas, For I am Whitey

Cashiering is one of the lesser jobs at Barnes and Noble, one that many people complain about being assigned. Recently it has been assigned to a wider range of people, many of whom are not used to standing in one place for four hours at a time making change and asking over and over whether or not someone has a Barnes and Noble member card. When they say no you get to ask, "Are you familiar with it?"
And then before they answer,
"It saves you and your family 10% on anything you buy here, not just books but also coffee, CDs, newspapers, anything. It lasts for a year, so if you think you'll spend at least $250 dollars here in the next twelve months it would save you money."
When a customer is buying something you are interested in it saves you from this. You are free to imagine that the person is interesting, someone who, perhaps under different circumstances, you might hang out with. You stop being a whore and remember that you have interests.
"I like Malcolm X."
I said this to a black man who came through my line the other day. I said this, at least in part, because he was buying the autobiography of Malcolm X.
"Oh. Okay." he said.
That response should have tipped me off that he didn't care if I liked Malcolm X or not, but it didn't. I was blinded by a need to atone for my race. "Look at me," I was telling him, "I may be white, but I watch Spike Lee movies. I'm in favor of affirmative action. Would you like my job? You probably don't need or want it, but I owe it to you because my great grandfather might have lynched your great grandfather. My grandmother complains about Negroes crowding the salad bar at the local Sizzler. Please, help me feel better; tell me it's okay because I am better than they."
But even I, full of self-hatred though I may be, knew better than to say that. Instead I said, "I wanted to get a recording of Malcolm X speeches, but they're all out of print."
Fucking whitey won't let me hear Malcolm's words cause I might get too riled up.
"You could probably get a recording at the library," he suggested.
"That's a good idea. Thanks! Have a good day," and I smiled sincerely. As he walked away I realized too late that I'd been bothering him.
At the register next to me I saw Karen Tiller, a crazy thirty-year-old child in garish make-up and a floor-length pink dress, wish someone "a happy day," and took a little comfort in it. I wasn't really creepy, just ridiculous and white.