A Half a Head of Lettuce

I spent four and a half years as an instructor at the Navy Nuclear Power School in Goose Creek, South Carolina, and I told the following story to just about every group of students I had the privilege of teaching during that time. This story was usually told when I could sense that my students’ attention spans were on their last breath, when the pace, pressure, schedule, rigidity, monotony, and repetitive nature of the school was crushing them with each passing day. Okay, so here goes…

Me: (sensing a roomful of students about to die from boredom) Do you want to hear a story about the smartest thing I did during my entire high school career?

Class: Yes! Definitely!

Me: Okay. Now, this happened the summer before my freshmen year of high school, so once you hear this story, think about the fact that this was my peak and it was all pretty much downhill from there.

Class: (gentle laughter)

Me: What kind of grocery stores do they have in small towns?

Class: Piggly Wiggly! Buccees! Publix! IGA!

Me: Yes! Nailed it! IGA! You know you’re in a small town when there’s an IGA grocery store. And a Dairy Queen, but that’s besides the point. When I was in high school, I worked at Ebeling’s IGA, right on Main Street in downtown Norway, Michigan. The store was owned by my buddy Grant’s family, the Ebelings. It was started by his grandfather decades ago and was passed down through the generations. Real small town stuff, you know? Uncle Craig was the store manager who worked a million hours a week on everything. Uncle Mark cut meat, Aunt Rose worked the bakery, and Grant’s dad Dave ran the produce section and did the employee schedule. I’m sure they all did a bunch of other stuff that I’m not aware of, but this structure was how I interpreted things in my teenage years.

Ebeling’s IGA in Norway, MI

Ebeling's employed hundreds of high school students over the years, and I was so excited when I got hired to work as a stock/bag boy. It almost felt like a rite of passage in a way, and there was always plenty of fun to be had. There were a bunch of other high school kids working there, including my buddy Hammer, and some cute girls working as cashiers. I started working there making minimum wage, $5.15/hour. After about a year, Dave called me to his little backroom area and said, “You’ve been doing a great job. I’m going to bump you up to $5.40/hour.” Well, I was just elated at being rewarded for my hard work. Clearly, I was God’s gift to stocking shelves and bagging groceries. Several weeks later, I found out $5.40 was the new mandatory minimum wage in the state of Michigan. So…yeah.

The place was one of those small town establishments that was a hub of news and gossip. Working the 8-1 shift on a Saturday or Sunday morning after a big football or basketball win was great. Everyone wanted to talk about the game and offer congratulations. It was fantastic for my ego. Conversely, after a loss, everyone felt the need to tell you how you had screwed up or what you should have done differently the night before. Small towns like Norway always have lots of local legends. The statement, “The older I get, the better I was,” comes to mind.

Anyways, I was working the 8-1 shift one fine Saturday morning. On the morning shift, you always wanted to make sure all of the basics like milk, bread, eggs, and beer were stocked up. Beer is included on that list because, well, we are in Michigan here after all.

Two cases of Coors Light are definitely essential.

In the eggs aisle, we always kept an old milk crate on top of the coolers so that when we were stocking eggs, we could grab the crate, turn it upside down, and sit on it. The eggs were on the bottom shelf and you had to rotate the inventory by first pulling all of the older eggs out and putting the newer ones in the back. Sometimes this would take a while, so sitting on the milk crate was better than kneeling on the floor. On this particular morning, I was sitting on the milk crate doing eggs, all folded over with my head stuffed into this cooler as I dug around in the back, which is why I didn’t know the old man was standing over me until he kicked my milk crate.

“Sittin’ down on the job. Goddamn kids don’t know what they’re made of these days.”

I could immediately tell this was going to be a very pleasant conversation. Dutifully, I stood up and asked the man if I could help him with anything.

“Yeah. You can help me with something,” he said while putting his right index finger into my chest. “There’s a crate over there in the produce that says it’s a buck fifty for a head of lettuce, but I don’t need a whole head of lettuce. I only need half a head of lettuce, and I ain’t paying for a whole head, so figure it out.”

Somehow suppressing my urge to do the biggest eye roll of my life, I say, “Let me go check with my boss.”

Now, “my boss,” meant Craig. I HATED having to go to Craig to ask questions because I always felt like a total dumbass. It wasn’t anything Craig did or said to make me feel that way. He was an awesome guy who was always very good to me. It’s just that Craig knew every single detail about everything in the store and I knew, well, basically nothing.

So I walk down the eggs aisle towards these saloon-style doors that separated the actual store from the back area. I’m shuffling along, annoyed at the situation and not realizing that this old man is following behind me. I swing the saloon doors open and Craig is standing right in front of me.

“Hey Craig,” I begin, using my thumb to point over my shoulder towards the eggs aisle. “Some jackass out there is griping at me because he wants to buy a half a head of lettuce.”

I thought Craig was staring at me, but as his eyes begin to grow to the size of dinner plates, I realize he was actually staring over my shoulder at the old man who is standing there and growing irate over hearing my description of his request. I sense something is amiss, so I slowly turn around and finally notice the old man. Quick thinking, I respectfully gesture towards the old man and say, “And this gentleman here would like to buy the other half.”

(At this point in telling the story to the class, I would pause for effect and tap the side of my head like I was a genius.)

Class: (laughing) Then what happened?!

Me: Oh, the old man stormed out. Yeah, we never saw him again. Craig just walked away too. That was the thing with Craig. He never had to tell you that you messed up. He just gave you a look and you knew you messed up. Good times.

Truth Be Told

To be honest, this story is not my own. It was first told to me by Mr. Angeli, my seventh grade civics teacher and the high school basketball coach at my school during my middle school years. Mr. Angeli was a memorable and animated showman. He told us this story during a basketball camp one time and I never forgot it. Of course, I took the liberty of adapting it to my own experiences so I could tell it in the first person, adding in my own little details and twists that made it more fun to share. Parts of the story are absolutely true, like me working at a grocery store and an old man intentionally kicking my makeshift milk crate stool and growling at me one fine Saturday morning. My boss, Craig, was also very real and very intimidating to my 15 year old self.

I have many other stories from my time at the IGA. I’ll be sure to share some of them as we go along here.