My Trader Joe’s mission is not only buying fresh produce inexplicably sealed inside plastic. It’s breaking the fakest store on Earth.
I’m creeped out by greetings from strangers who are too friendly.
If we’ve bonded before—and you’re genuinely excited to see me again—by all means, bring that energy. But the Trader Joe’s checkout experience does not qualify.
Yet not only do most of my TJ cashiers come right up to the “creepy AF” line on the regular, they perform gymnastics on it.
If I place a frozen food bag on the belt, calm down, team member. It’s cauliflower gnocchi, not a gift I picked out because I remembered your birthday.
I’ve heard, “That’s my absolute favorite!” so many times, I’m convinced it’s in the employee manual: “Pick one of our items to compliment, while making the customer feel like it’s really about their good taste.”
I admit, it’s difficult making new friends when you work from home, and most of your social interactions occur during school drop-off. (I’m fairly certain no one in my adopted hometown has my name in their phone without my daughter’s name in parentheses following it.)
Still, I take pride in my organic friend-forming process. It occurs over years of seeing you at parties; making sure we’re musically compatible; and telling you secrets about my Bangkok vacation in 2000 that don’t get back to my wife through yours.
I’m not comfortable bonding with you based solely on my affinity for cruciferous pasta substitutes. Especially since I’m only buying them because my wife texted me to.
And Stop Asking This …
Half of my checkout conversations at Trader Joe’s seem to involve being asked: “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
I’m comfortable with evil social media billionaires knowing my location 24/7. But from a real live person I’ve never met—I’m sorry, no. You don’t get to inquire into my private affairs without a search warrant.
I crafted the perfect response for that, by the way: “Oh, the usual; meeting with my parole officer.”
Sometimes a crew member will get my point, smile and say, “That’s funny.” Either way, though, all friend-pretending immediately ceases and desists, and it’s a beautiful thing.
“Would you like all your beverages in the same bag or spread out to distribute the weight?” a clerk, whose name tag read “Steve,” once asked me.
This was a perfectly reasonable, considerate question, so I’m not proud of the Saturday Night Live skit I improvised in response.
“No thanks,” I replied. “But I do need all my groceries sorted by color.”
Steve’s eyes desperately scanned mine for any signs of a joke. I made sure there weren’t any.
“I have OCD,” I lied. “Please place all red items in one bag—and also make separate bags for each of the other colors.”
Steve complied without batting an eye.
OK, maybe I am just a little proud.
Anyway, Steve was correct. The bag for yellow—which held my bottles of French Market sparkling lemonade, cold-pressed pineapple juice, and Synergy Golden Pineapple kombucha—was entirely too heavy to lug up my apartment stairs.
Smells Like Fake Team Spirit
About a month ago, as I was busy concentrating on which of my family’s shopping-list staples Trader Joe’s had discontinued that week, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
“I love Nirvana,” crew member Josh told me.
It took me a second to realize I was wearing my Nirvana T-shirt. (The best job perk about freelance writing is getting to dress like you’re still in middle school.)
I’ve come to expect fake bonding at the Trader Joe’s cash register. But I thought the aisles were off limits in this game of deceit. Never in 20 years of TJ shopping had I been engaged by a crew member who was stocking shelves.
But Josh was bold. So this was the moment I chose to define my boundaries—to bust this corporate house of fake friendship wide open.
“So what’s your favorite Nirvana album, Josh?” I asked.
I prepared to pounce when he incorrectly replied, “Greatest Hits?”
But his answer tracked. “Nevermind—but everyone says that, so I’ll say Bleach, because it’s a tie for me.”
Insta-Bro, No Joshing
Josh was the real deal. What followed was a surprisingly deep conversation about the vapidity of modern pop music and the lost art of organic pop-culture trends. (Sorry, I began my career as a rock journalist.)
Suddenly, this stranger was a BFF as instant as Trader Joe’s miso ramen. This was a blossoming bromance, not a crew-customer situation.
After about 10 minutes, Josh finished unloading his “U-boat” and needed to return to the back of the store. We exchanged names and a hardy “nice to meet you.” I envisioned a future hanging at Josh’s when my wife goes out with her friends.
My family teased me about this alleged new friendship of mine, but they also encouraged it.
“Josh sounds like a nice guy,” my wife said.
Our 15-year-old daughter was even prouder of my newly reanimated social life. “It doesn’t matter how you make a friend,” she told me. “It just matters that you’ve made one.”
If Josh happened to be working during my next shopping trip, I resolved I would get his number and enter it into my phone alongside my real friends—no parentheses involved. Maybe we could even grab a beer and finish discussing music after his shift.
As luck would have it, my about-to-be friend was right there when I entered, unpacking Teeny Tiny Avocados.
“Hey, Josh!” I said, smiling big and reaching out for a firm, brotherly handshake. The friendliness in my eyes would have made a Trader Joe’s regional manager weep with joy.
Josh looked up from his avocados while returning my handshake.
“Hi,” he replied. “Do I know you?”
