Bagging the Bagger

The year was 1993. It was the day after our honeymoon, and I’d just moved to Alexandria, Virginia to set up house with my new mate. My active duty Navy husband carted me around to get a military ID, submit Tricare forms, and obtain stickers for my car, so I could be an official, card-carrying military spouse.

Then he went to work and left me alone in our apartment. Looking for something to eat, I checked the kitchen. The cupboards contained a huge plastic barrel of pretzels, a half a loaf of white bread, and an old box of Shake-n-Bake left there by his old girlfriend. In the fridge, I found a stack of baloney, a gallon of milk, a bag of onions and a jumbo bottle of ketchup.

I’d better go shopping, I thought. There was a nearby grocery store, but DC prices meant paying seven bucks a pound for ground beef, so I braved the tangle of highways to drive to Cameron Station Commissary.

Arriving somewhat frazzled, I found a drab warehouse with austere interior. Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing, but I wandered aimlessly.There were arrows on the floor that I did not notice until I got several dirty looks for going the wrong direction down the isles.Although my new dependent ID card gained me entrance into this bastion of military support services, I didn’t seem to belong there. I felt like a fraud, like a 17 year old who just got into a nightclub with a fake ID.

Into my cart I nervously threw grapefruits, oyster crackers, a pound of ground beef and a box of raisins. I despised raisins, and had never purchased oyster crackers in my life. Although I still didn’t have the ingredients for a decent meal, I headed for the check out. I couldn’t focus; I was overwhelmed.

At the check out, the cashier looked as if she’d worked there for decades. Her movements were automatic, and her eyes seemed fixed on some distant point. I placed my meager merchandise on the rapidly moving conveyor belt, and as the items zipped away from me, I thought of my mother.

We grew up in a small town where the cashiers punched the prices into the register one by one, leaving plenty of time stare longingly at the candy bar selection on the adjacent eye-catching display. I remember waiting at my mother’s side for what seemed like hours as the groceries crept forward on the belt, inch by inch on their way to brown paper bags and our station wagon. Despite the long wait, the old days were so simple and unhurried.

When I was a teen, my mother went to a big grocery store in the city, where the cashier asked, “Paper or plastic?” Confused by the new-fangled bar code reader and speedy service, my mother replied, “Oh, I’ll just pay cash.”

As my oyster crackers sped down the belt, I silently reminded myself to think carefully and avoid a similarly humiliating experience on my first day at the commissary.

The unsmiling cashier was finished scanning my purchases in a flash. Fumbling to get my money and new dependent ID out of my purse, I quipped, “Whew! You guys are too quick for me!” The cashier stared blankly at me, not amused.

My paltry purchases were all placed into one plastic bag by a tall thin bagger with a graying beard. “Ma’am, I’ll carry this to your car.”

“Oh no!” I said trying to be polite, “I’ll just carry it myself.” As I grabbed the bag and started toward the door, the smile drained from the bagger’s face. He crossed his arms and looked away. “That’s your prerogative.”

I knew it. I screwed it up. Not sure what I’d done to irritate the bagger, I scurried back to my car like a cockroach running under the pantry door.

My husband returned from work that night, eager to find out how his new wife managed on her first day as an official military dependent.

Puzzled by the dinner of meatloaf with a side dish of grapefruit sections, he asked, “So how was your day, honey?” I related my commissary experience, and my husband immediately realized my mistake. He took a few minutes over dinner to explain the unwritten rules ÔÇô that one must tip the baggers.

Always mindful of that nerve-wracking day, I now pride myself in generously tipping the folks at the commissary and would advise any new military spouses to do the same. Oh, and another word of advice, never serve meatloaf with a side of grapefruit.

So how much should we tip the baggers? This topic has been widely debated over the years, and opinions range from no tips at all to $10. However, the prevailing view is that baggers should get about $1 at the express check out and $3 to $5 for a full load of groceries carried out to your car. For in-depth discussion on this issue, see “Commissary Tippers Tell All” by Stars & Stripes’ Terri Barnes, and “Tips on Commissary Tipping” by Northwestmilitary.com’s Jessica Corey Butler.