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and gave the person a ten lyrics dollar bill... The machine would flash a display telling the zitster running it that they owe the customer $4.75 -- that's four one-dollar bills, and three quarters. She didn't say if it showed a picture of a quarter, so the cashier wouldn't have to guess lyrics at it, but it probably did. Stuff like that used to disgust me, but not anymore. I'm actually quite thankful for it now. Because most of those people need all the help they can get. And I'm a very busy man. I, of course, learned the fine art of cash registering on big cast iron car-sized machines at a Fas-Chek grocery store in 1982 West Virginia. Those babies didn't powder your ass for you, and hold your hand. No, cashiers back in my day were on their own, out on the front lines of marketing. In fact, register two at our store wasn't grounded properly and would routinely send a powerful jolt of electricity coursing through the body of whoever was running it. It wasn't uncommon to hear a crackling sound, then look over and see the flashing skeleton of one of your co-workers.
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