The Handshake
I don't remember the exact date I met Marty for the first time. Like a lot of people who want to get through a checkout line, I found my thoughts on speed, nothing more. The line I was standing in wasn't moving as quickly as I wanted, and I glanced toward the cashier, who was receiving money from customers.
He was an old man in his sixties. I thought, well, it probably took him a little longer to get the jobs done. For the next few minutes I watched him. He greeted every customer before he began scanning the goods they were purchasing. Sure, his words were the usual, “How's it going?” But he did something different—he actually listened to people. Then he would respond to what they had said and talk with them briefly.
I thought it was strange, but I guessed I had grown accustomed to people asking me how I was doing simply out of a conversation without thinking. Usually, after a while, you don't give any thought to the question and just say something back quietly.
This old cashier seemed sincere about wanting to know how people were feeling. Meanwhile, the high-tech cash register rang up their purchases and he announced what they owed. When customers handed money to him, he pushed the appropriate keys, the cash drawer popped open, and he counted out their change.
Then magic happened.
He placed the change in his left hand, walked around the counter to the customers, and extended his right hand in an act of friendship. As their hands met, the old cashier looked the customers in the eyes. “I want to thank you for shopping here today,” he told them. “You have a great day. Bye-bye.” The looks on the faces of the customers were priceless.
Now it was my turn. I glanced down at the name tag on his red waistcoat, the kind experienced Wal-Mart cashier wore. It read, “Marty.”
Marty told me how much I owed and I handed him some money. The next thing I knew he was standing beside me, offering his right hand and holding my change in his left hand. His kind eyes locked onto mine. Smiling, and with a firm handshake…
