"Check This Out"

By Jerry Zezima

If you want something done, goes an old saying, do it yourself. Unless you’re me, in which case you not only have a lot to worry about but couldn’t finish a do-it-yourself project or write a self-help book without asking someone else (not me) for help.

This is especially true when it comes to self-checkouts.

“Are you ready to check out?” a nice store employee named Flora asked me recently.

“Not for many more years,” I answered nervously. “Maybe I should ask my doctor.”

“I mean,” she said, “do you want to ring up your purchases?”

“Yes,” I answered as I pushed my shopping cart to the register.

“It’s closed,” I was told. “But you could go to the self-checkout.”

“I can’t check myself out without a mirror,” I joked.

Flora smiled and said, “Have you ever used the self-checkout?”

“Yes,” I said, “but I couldn’t get the hang of it. I needed help.”

“That’s why I’m here,” said Flora.

“If you need to help people at the self-checkout, why doesn’t the store just let them check out at the regular checkout?” I wondered.

“I don’t know,” said Flora, adding very politely that older people such as yours truly are the ones who often need help checking out because they can’t check out themselves.

“You should check that out,” I said after Flora helped me scan my purchases and pay for them with a debit card. “It’s a good thing I didn’t pay by check,” I said.

Then I went to another store and met Nick, whose job is to stand at the self-checkout and help people who can’t help themselves.

“It’s usually the older ones who have trouble,” he said.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“I’m 19,” Nick replied. “I’ve been working here for two months.”

“Did you have trouble learning the self-checkout?” I wanted to know.

“Yes,” he said. “I wasn’t familiar with it. When I was a kid, I started with an iPod. This is the way it’s going to be when I get older. I’ll be asking my kids, ‘How does this work?’ They’ll think I don’t know anything.”

Just then, a middle-age customer named Jay had trouble with his purchase, a clamp connector.

“Can you scan it for me?” he pleaded.

“There’s no scan code,” Nick said.

“Does that mean it’s free?” I wondered.

“I wish,” said Jay.

Nick found the price, $34.62, and helped Jay put it on a store credit card.

Next up was John, a guy in his 30s who couldn’t scan the molding he wanted to buy.

“A customer needs assistance in self-checkout,” a disembodied woman’s voice said.

Nick came to the rescue. The price: $12.97.

“Thanks,” said John. “These machines stink.”

A customer named Joe couldn’t ring up a cordless vacuum cleaner that cost $169.

“This side takes cash, the other side doesn’t,” Nick told him.

“Whatever gets me out of here quickly,” said Joe, who paid with a card and left.

An older married couple named Robin and Brian pulled up to the self-checkout.

“I’ve been here a hundred times and there’s never been a problem,” Brian said as he tried to ring up his purchase of household items. “Now it’s not working!”

Nick helped Brian with his four-digit PIN.

“Some people would give it one digit,” I suggested.

That’s what Paul, a 71-year-old grandfather, wanted to do after it took him about 15 minutes and visits to three different self-checkouts to pay, with Nick’s patient help, $458.06 for home improvement supplies.

The only people who didn’t have trouble at the self-checkout were a young couple with a toddler who was sitting in the shopping cart while sucking on a lollipop.

“There’s the future,” said Nick. “When he grows up, maybe he’ll learn how to check himself out.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Something to Sneeze At"

By Jerry Zezima

As the very model of the modern medical marvel, I have survived an aortic aneurysm, a terrible bout of COVID-19 and. worst of all, a nasty paper cut.

Not to be outdone, my wife, Sue, lived through a heart attack, came down with COVID, too, and underwent painful hand surgery.

But we recently had to deal with the most daunting of medical challenges: We both had a cold. At the same time. So we blamed each other.

Still, I’m not ashamed to admit that, like the vast majority of men would be in similar circumstances, I was the bigger baby.

This wasn’t a surprise to my favorite pharmacist, Ralph Zammillo, who regularly sees guys who are desperately seeking relief and sympathy because they have the sniffles.

“Without a doubt, men are crybabies,” Ralph said. “Women don’t complain. That’s because they’re tougher. They have to be. They give birth. If men had to give birth, there’d be nobody here.”

That extends to getting vaccines.

“I see these big burly guys, covered in tattoos, which are applied with needles, and they cower in fear when I give them a flu shot,” Ralph said.

“You’ve given me more shots than any bartender,” I told him, noting that he’s administered vaccines for flu, coronavirus, pneumonia, RSV and shingles.

“And they haven’t hurt, right?” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“That’s because I don’t jam the needle in,” Ralph said. “Have you ever had any side effects?”

“Just lightheadedness,” I said. “But I was born that way.”

“Flu and COVID can be bad if you’re not inoculated,” Ralph said. “But shingles is the most painful.”

“Do you know what’s worse than shingles?” I said.

“What?” Ralph replied.

“Aluminum siding,” I said. “It hurts like hell.”

“We don’t have a vaccine for that yet,” said Ralph.

“Do people get confused when you ask which arm they want to get a shot in?” I wondered.

“All the time,” Ralph said. “Especially when they’re getting more than one shot. They can’t decide if they should get two shots in one arm or one shot in each.”

“I’m the same way,” I said. “It’s a good thing I’m not an octopus. Then you’d have to give me a shot underwater.”

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” Ralph asked.

“I’m ambidextrous,” I responded. “I’m incompetent with both.”

“You haven’t gotten the flu, have you?” he inquired.

“No,” I said. “The vaccine worked. But I have a cold. I’m in here to get medicine, but I don’t know what works.”

“Hot tea with honey and lemon is best,” Ralph said.

“I usually take the stuff for both daytime and nighttime relief,” I said, “but I still feel lousy. I told my wife I was going to take a nap.”

“Did she call you a baby?” Ralph asked.

“Yes,” I said. “A big one.”

“Does she have a cold?” he wondered.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did she say you gave it to her?”

“How did you know?”

“We always get blamed,” said Ralph, adding that his wife, Linda, is a hospital nurse. “She sees plenty of sick people, but she can’t afford to be sick herself. Neither can I. If I have a cold, I can’t call in sick. I come in to work. When I get home, I go to bed early. Sleep is the best way to get better.”

“How long have you been married?” I asked Ralph, who is 70.

“Two years,” he said. “Linda and I dated for 32 years, but she works for the federal government and I needed the health insurance, so we got married.”

“My wife and I have been married for 46 years,” I said. “We share everything. Even colds.”

“You’ll both get better,” Ralph promised. “In the meantime, get some rest. And remember, it could be worse. At least you’re not pregnant.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Where the Magic Happens"

By Jerry Zezima

Being a grandfather can be magical — as long as you don’t end up in jail.

That’s the lesson I learned recently when my wife, Sue, and I got together with our five grandchildren and their parents for a week in which I assisted in science experiments performed with a magic wand, was nearly bitten by a king cobra and trampled by a hippopotamus, ran around a playground to the point of collapse, was served a delicious dinner of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, engaged in battles with a kung fu master and was arrested multiple times by the world’s youngest cop.

It’s a wonder I wasn’t rushed to the hospital.

But the real wonder came when my 7-year-old grandson wowed me with his science magic kit. His most impressive feat involved bending a paperclip out of proportion, dropping it in a bowl of hot water, waving his magic wand and making the clip bend back — by itself! — to its original shape.

“That’s amazing!” I gushed. “How did you do it?”

“It’s magic,” my grandson replied.

“I can do magic,” I told him.

“How?” he wanted to know.

“Whenever your grandmother wants me to do something around the house,” I said, “I disappear.”

“You’re silly,” my grandson said.

“It’s magic,” I replied.

His younger brother, who’s 5, also wowed me with his knowledge of the animal kingdom.

“Did you know,” he asked me, “that a hippopotamus can kill a crocodile with its big mouth?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe I could do that, too. I have a big mouth.”

“I know you do,” the little boy replied. “But you don’t have tusks. And by the way, ‘hippopotamus’ is a really long word.”

“That’s why his friends call him ‘Hippo.’ It’s his nickname,” I said.

“And did you know,” my little grandson went on, “that a cheetah can run 70 miles an hour?”

“That’s over the speed limit,” I said. “He could get a ticket.”

“I’m gonna give you a ticket!” my grandson said. “You’re going to jail!”

Then he assumed a karate pose, yelled “Hi-ya!” and gave me a chop to my left arm, followed by one to my right arm and ended with a kick that would have landed on my left knee if I hadn’t jumped out of the way and bumped into a chair.

After that, he went on his device and showed me various creatures, including the fox, his new favorite animal (for a while, he was enthralled with African wild dogs and wanted to be one).

“I like the black fox,” he said. “What fox do you like?”

“Megan Fox,” I responded.

“And I like the king cobra,” he added. “Watch out! If you get bit, you could die. But what’s that thing on his head?”

“A hood,” I said.

“Why does he have a hood?” my grandson inquired.

“In case it rains,” I said.

“Hi-ya!” the boy yelled in another flurry of karate chops. “You’re going to jail!”

Meanwhile, my three granddaughters, ages 11, 8 and 5, introduced me to their stuffed toys, which they brought to the playground, where I was in charge of coordinating activities that included catching them as they flew down the slide with llamas and unicorns.

I also helped all five kids on the jungle gym, ran around until my lungs almost exploded and, of course, engaged in further karate fights with the young kung fu master.

That evening, the children set up a restaurant downstairs at the kids’ table, with small chairs that Sue and I sat on, a little uncomfortably, while we perused menus written in crayon.

I chose an entree of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, which was served in a plastic bowl.

“This is scrumptious!” I said as I munched away.

Sue, who had a bowl of chips, agreed.

For dessert, we had marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms.

All in all, it was a magical week. And the best part is that somehow I didn’t end up in jail.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima