Star Trek: The Next Supermarket

Forced by Federation budget cuts in the late 24th century, the crew of the
Starship Enterprise, 1701-D, found itself picking up part time work in
order to make ends meet.  Several of them, in fact, obtained jobs at a
grocery store, where they made the best of dealing with 20th century human
life . . .

It was the lull after the mid-afternoon Sunday rush and both Wesley Crusher
and Lt. Worf were working the Express Lane at Vons.  Each was dressed in a
tidy white uniform, with a bow tie and bright blue apron neatly tied around
their waste.  Wesley fit into the motif rather well.  But Worf, with his
gargantuan Klingon head and snarly attitude, took a while for the shoppers
to get used to.

Assistant Manager William Riker, on duty that day, had done his best to
instruct Lt. Worf to be kind and pleasant.  And for the most part, Worf
was.  Oh, he occasionally growled a forceful pleasantry ("Have a *nice*
day," was his favorite), and he almost blew his cork when a food stamp
customer bought $20 worth of gum.  But for most of the day, Worf ran an
efficient checkout stand, dutifully (and somewhat forcefully) giving exact
change to each customer.

"Thank you ma'am," beamed young Wesley, handing a small, easily-toppled
plastic bag to an plump elderly shopper.

"You're so nice," she said, cheerfully, giving a cautious look over her
shoulder at Worf.  To Wesley she added, "My granddaughter would like you. 
She's 12!"

Wesley got a goony look on his face.  "Twelve?"  He thought of his typical
fans, the screaming teeny boppers, none of them able to fulfil his budding
sexual desires.  He gave her a goonish grin and she was off.

"You were very polite to her," Worf commented.

"Thanks," Wesley answered, turning to Worf who was looking quite disgruntled
with his situation.  He asked Worf, "I bet you find it frustrating to be
polite to all these human shoppers.  Some of them can be quite obnoxious."

"I know," Worf grumbled in a low voice, arms folded in front of him. 
"Several times I've been close to getting . . ." he searched for the right
word: ". . . Mad."  He took a deep breath and stared off into the distance. 
"But Commander, er, Assistant Store Manager Riker wanted me to be nice and
polite."  He looked back to Wesley, adding "I will try."

"I think you're doing a swell job," Wesley said goonfully.

There was an awkward silence.

"Worf," Wesley asked sheepishly, "how do Klingons do their grocery
shopping?"

Worf gaped at him, he said loudly, "Klingons *do not* go shopping!"

Wesley was taken back.  He stared at the floor.  "Sorry, I didn't mean to
insult you."  He paused, still curious.  "But, I mean, how do you get food. 
You don't go hunting all the time . . .  Do you?"

"We hunt," Worf said quickly.

Wesley started, "But what about simple stuff like milk and eggs?  Where do
Klingons go to buy, say, a mop?  Don't you have supermarkets?  I mean what
about toilet paper . . ."

"We don't have supermarkets," Worf loudly cut him off.  Wesley was
relieved, however, to find that Worf wasn't going to deny having toilet
paper.

"I'm just curious," Wesley said quietly.

Worf took another deep breath, realizing that Wesley was only being Wesley. 
He'd have to answer the kid's question. He looked quickly from left to
right, darting his eyes back and forth.  "Klingons order their groceries,"
he said in a deep, low voice.

"Really!" Wesley whispered, all surprised.

"Yes," Worf acknowledged.  "We phone in our grocery list.  They deliver." 
He added, in a very low tone, "But we *don't* go shopping."

Wesley gave Worf a goony smile.  "Thank you, Worf."  He added, clumsily,
"I'm always fascinated by Klingon culture."

Worf rolled his eyes.

After another pause, Worf grabbed the loudspeaker and thundered out,
"There's no waiting on checkstand nine, express items only."

Just then another elderly woman, much smaller and more frail than the
first, approached the express lane and began unloading her groceries.  As
each item wobbled down the conveyer belt Worf would lift it off, swiftly
pass it over the laser price reader, and enter its price.  He then flipped
the item back down the second conveyer belt to Wesley, who carefully set
everything aside for bagging.

"Is plastic okay?" Wesley asked the old woman.

"Excuse me," Worf bellowed, startling both Wesley and the old woman.  He
said it again, louder, "Excuse me!"

"What is it, Worf?" Wesley asked.  The old woman looked up at Worf,
horrified to see his misshapen Klingon head and beady little Klingon eyes
drilling into her soul.

In a trembling voice she asked, "Is there a--problem, sir?"

"This is the *Express* lane," Worf began, using a low angry tone.  "You can
only have ten items or less.  You have twelve."

The old woman was startled.  She couldn't speak.  Worf lowered his gaze at
her, scaring the bejesus out of the poor woman, "You must either take two
items back or get into another line."

With wide eyes, the old woman quietly said, "But there's no one behind me. 
Surely it isn't a problem?"

Worf screamed, "Can you read this sign?" He ripped the plastic fluorescent
sign down from atop the register and shoved it in the woman's face.  "It
says," he shouted, pointing out each word, "Express Lane.  Ten items or
less. No checks."

The old woman shook.

In a low tone, Worf added, "Now take two items back or get into another
line." He tossed aside the plastic fluorescent sign and snarled at her.

"Worf," Wesley's voice squeaked, "I don't think we have to condemn the poor
woman for two extra tins of cat food."

Worf turned to Wesley, "Rules are there for a reason, acting Ensign. 
Otherwise Commander Riker would not have put me in charge of this
position."  He turned to the woman and shouted, "Now go away!"

Fortunately, just at that time Assistant Manager Riker stepped in to
mediate.  Like Wesley and Worf, he was wearing a white uniform with a blue
apron.  A large feather duster was stuck in his left rear pocket.  "What
appears to be the trouble?" he asked Worf.  He gave a smile to the elderly
woman.

"This woman," Worf began, his tone bitter, "was trying to deceive me.  She
placed twelve items on the belt instead of ten.  Sir, this is the *Express*
Lane."

Riker nodded, "Thank you, Lieutenant."  To the old woman he smiled again
and said, "We're sorry for any inconvenience, ma'am."  He looked at Worf,
adding, "There shouldn't be any problem with twelve items today.  Just be
more careful next time."

"Next time I'm going to Ralphs," she said under her breath.

Before leaving, Riker whispered to Worf, "Remember Lieutenant, a little
pleasantness does well for business." Worf reluctantly nodded, still upset
that the rule had been broken.  But he wasn't about to argue with Riker. 
Instead, he suppressed his innate desire to kill anything with a head
smaller than his.

Assistant Manager Riker sped off to do more dusting, but before leaving
acknowledged Wesley with a shot of the old "finger gun."  Wes returned a
goofy grin.

With great pain, Worf managed to apologize to the tiny old woman, "I'm," he
swallowed, "Sorry."  He stared off into the distance, yearning to grab his
phaser and melt away all customers in his line of vision.  But that urge
was suppressed.  He continued by quickly passing the woman's last two items
over the laser scanner and giving her the total.  "$9.78," he said flatly.

Everything would have been fine, had the woman not produced a checkbook and
began writing in a check for $29.78.  Worf was incensed.  His eyes grew big. 
He growled, "Now you're writing a check?"

Wesley reached out to stop Worf, but it was too late.  The Klingon grocery
clerk grabbed the microphone and shouted into it, "Manager assistance on
checkstand nine."  The entire store rumbled.

Riker turned around immediately and headed back to Wesley and Worf.  "What
is it now, Lieutenant?"

Worf pointed, "She's," he took a moment to calm himself, "writing a check. 
Sir."

Riker folded his arms.  The old woman looked up dolefully.  Worf spoke in a
low angry voice, "Sir, permission to kill the shopper."

"Permission denied, Lieutenant," Riker quipped.  He apologized to the old
woman, occasionally giving a mean stare to Worf, "Again, I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, ma'am.  Please feel free to write a check."  To Worf he
added, "See me as soon as possible, Lieutenant."

Worf responded, "Sir."  He carefully checked the woman's ID and Vons check
cashing card, then stamped the check and gave her a twenty.  She walked out
of the store slowly at first, then darted quickly to her car.  Worf and
Wesley watched her the entire way.

After a time, Wesley leaned over to Worf and said, "I think you handled the
situation well, Worf."

Worf stared at him, "Meaning?"

"I would have gotten mad too.  I mean, this is the *Express* line."  Worf
nodded.  Wesley added, "Besides, I broke all her eggs, tore open her bag of
coffee, and kept her Jarlsberg cheese."  He tossed it up in the air, then
quickly re-hid it back in his apron.  He added, "I don't think she'll be
coming back."

Worf agreed.  "Thank you, Wesley," he said in all sincerity.  "You can bag
for me anytime."

 * Next time: The Enterprise crew works in a 20th century restaurant!