{What If} This Cashier Thinks I’m An Idiot?

“You too?” Who says “you too” to a cashier?!

I’m an idiot! She’s not eating food! She’s on shift at a Panera! During the lunch rush! The only person who should say “you too” to a cashier is Bono, of the band U2, and only in response to the question, “Hey, what band are you in again?”

What if the cashier thinks I’m an idiot now?

Only an idiot would say that. So I guess the correct phrasing is, “What if the cashier knows I’m an idiot now?” God, I’m so dumb. I bet Bono never has this problem. I bet Bono is consistently attentive and engaged with every conversation he has. And charming. I bet every cashier I’ve ever had to deal with was like, “God, I wish this was Bono right now.” What if that cashier makes fun of me next time I’m in? “You too,” she’ll say. What if U2 is playing on the loudspeakers next time I come through this Panera? I think I would literally just drop dead.

Wait, what if she actually was eating behind the counter?

GOD, I’LL LOOK LIKE SUCH A CREEP! “You too!” Like I knew she was eating. Like I knew she was eating a meal, and regularly eats meals behind the counter while she’s working, at this exact time. She’s got to be. It’s lunchtime! She works in a Panera! I bet she’s so creeped out right now! She probably thinks I’ve been stalking her! For weeks! What is she going to do next time I come through? Confront me? Call the police? BONO NEVER HAS TO DEAL WITH THIS. MAYBE THE EDGE, BUT NOT BONO.

What if she doesn’t just report me to the police?

What if—I mean, if I’m spying on people in a Panera, who knows what else they might think I’m up to. What if they think I’m spying on everybody? Creating dossiers for who knows what?! What if they think I’m spying on the GOVERNMENT. We’re only THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM THE NATION’S CAPITOL. What if they think I’m gathering intel for some foreign nation-state?! They’re going to report me to the FBI! The CIA! The NSA!

I bet she thinks I’m some Russian counterintelligence officer, deep undercover, and she’s going to blow the whole thing open as an anonymous tipster!!! And look at me! I could be Russian! I’m surely going to match the description of some Russian spy they’re looking for, and then it’s GAME OVER, MAN. I’m going to have to go on the lam! Run away! Change my name! Escape to where, as Bono might say, the streets have no name, but he gets to say that under wildly different and less stressful circumstances!

What if… what if she’s right?

The cashier? What if I am a Russian intelligence agent? What if I’m so deep undercover, I don’t even know it? She is eating meals. I have been spying on American citizens and the corrupt American government. HOW WOULD I EVEN KNOW?! ARE THERE CODED INSTRUCTIONS WITHIN ALL OF U2’S SONG LYRICS?! IS THIS WHY MY SUDDEN FIXATION ON A BAND I’VE THOUGHT VERY LITTLE ABOUT MY ENTIRE LIFE, EVEN WHEN THEY DOWNLOADED THEIR ALBUM INTO EVERYONE’S LIBRARIES WITHOUT ASKING, WHICH SEEMS LIKE A HUGE VIOLATION OF TRUST ON APPLE’S PART? WERE THOSE INSTRUCTIONS TO SLEEPER AGENTS AND HAVE I BEEN ACTIVATED?!?!

Oh no. She asked how I was doing, too. And I said “not much.”

It may already be too late.