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doesn’t work out? Then I’ve let go of the other guy for nothing.”
    “I have one last question for you before I give my advice. How would you feel if you were in the position of these men?”
    “I’d feel like I was being played. And that’s not how I want them to feel. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
    “Thank you for your honesty. Now, here is my advice…” I hit a few notes on the xylophone.
    “What was that? ”
    “A xylophone.”
    “That’s weird! Okay, Oracle of Dating, so what’s your advice?”
    “My advice is that you spend the next two weeks dating these guys as if you’re interviewing them for a job—the job is being your boyfriend. Take everything intoaccount—reliability, fun factor, physical attraction. Make a list if you have to. At the end of two weeks, make your decision. Be as nice as possible to the other guy—explain to him that this isn’t a good time for you to embark on a relationship, but you want to remain friends. If it’s a relatively good breakup, he might consider letting you back into his life in the future.”
    “You’re so right, Oracle. Thank you. I’m going to take your advice.” She pauses. “One last question—how old are you, anyway?”
    “The Oracle is timeless.”
    “You’re funny. I like that. Have a good night.”
    “You, too. And good luck.”
     
    “P RICE CHECK , CASH TWO !”
    There are four cash registers in the whole store and mine is the only one that’s open. Ryan left a while ago, and the other cashier, Jay, is probably smoking a spliff in the back room.
    “Price check!” I repeat, feeling the customer glaring at me.
    The stock boys loading up the shelves in aisle one pretend they don’t understand English.
    “Juan!” He finally looks up. “Check this, okay?” I hold up the bag of chips. “Find out if they’re on sale.”
    “Sì.” He runs toward the chip aisle.
    He’s back a couple of minutes later with another bag. “This. Not that.”
    The customer chose Baked Lays instead of regular Lays. A common mistake.
    “Do you still want them?” I ask.
    She makes a face. “For three forty-nine? Are you crazy?”
    “Sometimes I think I’m heading there,” I mumble.
    “Did you talk back to me?”
    “Huh? Me? No.”
    “Good!”
    I scan the rest of her groceries, pack them and total it up. After I count back her change, she counts it again carefully, like she’s sure I shortchanged her. Then she picks up her bags and leaves.
    Little does she know that I arranged for her canned goods to squash her bread. Ha! It’s a hollow revenge, really. But it’s all I’ve got.
    Work is high up on my list of the worst places in the world to be, next to a holiday in Iraq or a hiking trip in the mountains of Afghanistan. Since my Web site is getting more hits these days, I hope my days of working here are numbered.
    Mom thinks this job is teaching me a work ethic. It definitely is, but not the one she had in mind.
    Everybody at Eddie’s Grocery is corrupt, from the price-gouging store manager to the cashiers and stock boys who give themselves five-finger discounts. My coworkers actually think I’m weird because I don’t steal. Itell them it’s nothing against them, I just have an unfortunate Christian morality complex.
    Every single person at this store hates their job except Petie, a twenty-year-old with Down syndrome who helps out in the bakery. I think the manager actually gets money from some Community Living program to let Petie work here. It’s unbelievable, really. We should be paying Petie for being the only person to walk in with a smile on his face.
    One time I dropped a comment in the Customers’ Views box. Instead of playing horrid elevator music, I suggested that we play motivational CDs, or lectures by Deepak Chopra or the Dalai Lama. My suggestion was not only ignored, but the music was switched to elevator versions of Clay Aiken’s songs the next week. Coincidence?
    The only people I pity more than the staff are the