Hell has queues. And they start at the supermarket.
It was Saturday noon. The grocery store smelled of sweat, bread, and despair. The checkout line looked like a parade of the condemned, carts piled high, eyes glued to the floor. In front of me, a lady with fourteen coupons; behind me, a guy breathing like he’s counting down the seconds until he can devour me.
No one spoke. We were all bound by the same unwritten rule: wait, stay silent, suffer. There’s an invisible thread connecting us when we stand in a checkout line. It’s not solidarity, patience, or even the desperate need for milk and chocolate. It’s something far more uncomfortable: a social contract no one signed, yet everyone is “obliged” to follow.
The checkout line is a miniature of society:
The aspiring murderers: the ones breathing down your neck with carts full of soda, ready to trample you for a 45-second gain.
The strategic chameleons: scanning adjacent lines with laser focus, measuring which moves faster. If they switch lanes, the universe will always punish their choice (guaranteed).
The social terrorists: chatting cheerfully with the cashier about whether the “good yogurt” has arrived, while everyone behind them has already lost faith in humanity.
The checkout rebels: showing up in the express lane with 27 items and the confidence of “come on, it won’t ruin the world.” The world does get ruined. Right there. Along with our faith in the justice system.
The baby sirens: screaming, crying, tossing snacks on the floor, obliterating any sense of calm.
The couple-nuclear bombs: arguing about whether a second bottle of wine was necessary or if they should’ve grabbed the cheap toilet paper. The fight always peaks at the POS.
The phone zombies: endlessly talking to Mom, the boss, or the tax office, slowing down the line and making you want to shove their phone into the cart.
The heralds of the Apocalypse: shouting “open another checkout!” as if cashiers will rise from the basement with magic spells.
And you? You’re trapped in this unwritten contract: no talking, no reacting, holding your rage in, until “next customer” means you. The queue teaches you the most cynical truth: we all tolerate small injustices so the system keeps running. Not because we want to. But because the only alternative is turning it into The Hunger Games with shopping carts.
In the end, the receipt is printed, the bag gets heavier and the Earth keeps spinning. The social contract remains intact. Until next time, when you find yourself behind that couple arguing about whether fridge items and non-fridge items should share the same bag.
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