Aaron Reichenberger is back with this heartwarming family tale of clams, love, hope and courage. By love we mean criminal obsession, by hope we mean utter desperation, and by courage we mean risk-taking actions with a valuable pastrami sandwich in hand. By clams we mean clams.

For the last month and a half I have been trying to flirt with a checkout girl at my local Wild Oats. Her name is Molly, she has black hair (formerly red), she is quite the efficient worker, and she is very cute. This sums up the total of my knowledge of Molly, because while I may have been trying to flirt with her on an almost weekly basis over the last two months, I have been wildly unsuccessful, and I am quite positive that she has no idea I even exist.

I have never been one to engage in flirtation with random peoples. Sure I've picked up on girls at parties and bars, but I have never been even remotely good at it, and therefore, I rarely ever try. The vast majority of women that I have hooked up with throughout my life have come from the same "arena", the wonderfully fertile realm of friends of friends. Yes, I am the guy who asks almost every friend I have if they have any cute single lady friends, and to be frank, I see absolutely nothing wrong with this. The last two serious girlfriends I have had were both friends of my main man Morris's ex-girlfriend Stacy. My last two years in Denver, almost every girl I hooked up with was a friend of some friend of mine, and I think I can safely say that all parties involved were all the richer for it. I got to hook up and hang out with some attractive fun people, they got to hang out with me and find out that no matter how bad things may have been before they met me things could always be worse, and my friends received some juicy gossip and funny stories about a side of me they never knew.

Which leads me to my time here in Portland. Here in Portland I have been very lucky to have met, and made friends with, some incredibly cool people. The only problem is, is that the entire social circle I have met here in Portland consists of, and extends to, nothing but married people. Now, if I and they were swingers, this could be a rip rocking good time. But I'm not, and neither are they. This, obviously leads me to quite the predicament. Chiefly, how in the hell am I supposed to meet a cute single girl in this damn city?

This is where Molly comes in. I first saw Molly on Thanksgiving day when I was picking up a couple bottles of wine to take to my friends house for Thanksgiving dinner. I picked up two bottles, one of which ended up being the worst bottle of Chianti ever made, and proceeded to the checkout line. It was while standing in line that I looked over and noticed Molly working the register one lane over. I was struck immediately by her obvious qualities of cuteness and dimples, and I could not stop looking at her throughout the whole checkout experience. As I was leaving I made a vow to myself that from here on out I would make a point of trying to flirt with her every time I shopped at this Wild Oats, and I would not stop until I got either a.) her phone number, or b.) a lifetime expulsion from the Fremont Place Wild Oats for harassment of store employees. What follows is a synopsis of my experiences in attempting to woo Molly the Checkout Girl over the course of the last two months. Please note that all dates are approximates, and may not be one hundred percent accurate.

1. The Casual Conversation, December 3rd, 2005

I came into the store with two goals in mind: 1.) Get a delicious pastrami and swiss sandwich for dinner, and 2.) Get myself on Molly's radar. After speaking with Angela the sandwich artist (because that is what Angela is, a fucking sandwich artist. Nobody lays the pastrami and swiss down quite like Angela), I grabbed a water and headed to the checkout line. It was here that I encountered my first problem in executing Operation Checkout Girl: The fact that while I obviously needed to be in Molly's line in order to act on my plan, her line also happened to be the one that had five more people in it than any other line. Just what in the hell was I supposed to do? I mean, should I go get in her line and deal with the extra wait time? But what if in the act of doing this, in making her line one person longer, I just served to annoy her and make her day that much harder? That sure as hell won't do, annoying a girl doesn't necessarily seem like the best way to get her phone number. So, should I instead go and checkout in the line across from her, and try and make eye contact with her from this line?

My first day on the mission and already I was rattled and finding myself in difficult situations. I almost bailed out right then and there, but then I remembered that at that second Angela was probably finishing up on my pastrami and swiss, and there is just no way I could let a work of art like one of Angela's sandwiches simply go to waste. It's a crime against nature. Pulling myself together I decided the best course of action would be to simply take a lap around the store, and then hopefully by the time I got back, Molly's line would be shorter. Nodding to myself, I turned to do the aforementioned lap, when I noticed that in the minute or two in which I had been standing slack jawed in the middle of the store the lines had roughly evened out, and Molly's line was now no longer than any other.

I got in line and in almost no time I was standing there ready to check out. Taking the ticket for my sandwich, Molly asked the soul penetrating question of "how was my day going?". Typically verbose, I found myself searching for a clever/witty answer, I ended up coming up with something like this:

"I'm well. I mean, my day was well. I mean, my day was good. You? I mean, how was your day? Crap, that was stupid."

The amazing thing about all of this, is that even though I had somehow managed to combine the most generic answer, with the most asinine response, she didn't even blink. The reason? Because, I don't even think she fully recognized that she had asked me a question. I was just another customer getting the same programmed greeting. Obviously my rugged good looks and musky cologne alone weren't going to be enough to get me recognized, I was going to need to make myself stand out. So, after completing my purchase, getting a customary "Have a nice night", and never even receiving a response to my question of how her day was, I returned to the deli, picked up my sandwich, and made my way home. At least I had managed to complete one goal that night, and sometimes 50% is a good enough number to keep a person coming back for more.

2. The Attention Grabber, December 11th, 2005

December 11th was three days before I headed home for the holiday's and I knew that if I wanted to get on Molly's radar before the end of the month this may be my last shot. I had contemplated several different methods in how to get Molly's attention, and had it narrowed down to two: 1.) Wear a fake arm cast and concoct a story about breaking it while saving an old woman from a burning building, or 2.) Purchase a wide array of food products and magazines with the hope that one item in the batch would catch Molly's attention. Since I could not procure a fake cast, and lying about saving old women has always led to bad results in my past, I decided to go with option 2. That night I not only purchased several rare and unique varieties of shallots and eggplants, but also North Kenyan dates, Thai peanut curry paste, Indian basmati rice, some kind of fruity Italian water, and south Florida whitefish. I also went with a wide array of political and mens fitness magazines. I left no stone unturned in my quest to find some singular item which would get Molly's attention, and in the process, get me on her radar. Feeling confident, I brushed off my lapels, put on my most disarming smile, and got in line.

Well, as you can probably guess, our conversation went something like this:

"And how are you today?"
"I'm well Molly, yourself?"
"Good, thanks....that'll be $43.50. Do you need a bag for all of this?"

Yep, $43.50 of the most random organic produce and not even a goddamn batted eyelash. I was starting to think that I was going to have to parade around naked for this women to even make eye contact with me. Not yet ready to concede defeat, I made one last effort.

"So Molly, I've never made anything with...Chukka root, any tips?" I said, picking up the first item I could grab.

"Nope, never even heard of it. Here's your receipt, have a good night."

Not even eye contact. I just dropped $43.50 on Chukka root and Adbusters, and I didn't even get eye contact from the vixen! Dejected and with a bag full of food that I had no idea how to cook, I headed home already preparing for stage 3 of Operation Checkout Girl.

3. The lucky break, Molly changes her hair, January 3rd, 2006

My first trip to Wild Oats following the New Year, and I had absolutely no idea on how I was going to get Molly. No clever plans beyond Chukka root, fake casts, and helpless old women had popped into my head, and I had already tried or abandoned all of these. I was fucked, plain and simple. So it was to my pleasant surprise when upon entering the store that day I noticed that Molly had dyed her hair from red to a very cute shade best described as raven black. I knew right away what I had to do. It was a plan that was guaranteed to garner some form of response: compliment her on the new hair color. Flattery, what a wickedly awesome ally you can be.

Grabbing my jar of salsa and a gallon jug of Arrowhead water I made my way into Molly's line. I'll admit, I was feeling quite confident about myself, almost smug. I could feel the smile creeping onto my face, and knew that tonight was going to be the night. I was next in line, and absolutely nothing could stop me, I was a locomotive of smooth pimping bearing right down on a helpless lady named Molly, and it was all good. That is, until the 40 year old Asshat in front of me said the following:

"Hey, I like the new hair color Molly. It looks good. Have a great night, see you tomorrow."

I literally couldn't believe my fucking ears. I mean, are you shitting me? What are the odds that Asshat McGinty, the 40 year old slayer of Aaron's libido would happen to drop my compliment on Molly literally seconds before I was about to do the same? It defied all logic and reasoning, and you could say I was literally struck speechless. Openmouthed and dumbstruck I moved in front of Molly and assumed the now customary pose of faceless Wild Oats customer #152. Going through the checkout process I simply stood there silent, until at the very end of the transaction, as she was handing me my receipt, I spat out in one hurried sentence:

"The new hair works Molly. Good job."

Good job? Really? Terrified at the stupidity I had just let escape from my mouth I ripped the receipt out of Molly's hand and fled for the door, nearly trampling an old woman buying Chukka root in the process. It was in the midst of my headlong flight into the night that I realized that I may have actually succeeded in the first phase of Operation Checkout Girl: Getting myself on Molly's radar. The only problem is that it was most likely as a somewhat handicapped and verbally challenged retard, who also liked to run down old women.

4.) Sick of it all, I decide to go for the glory, January 14th, 2006

After the hair color debacle, I decided to give Molly about two weeks to forget me before attempting the last desperate phase of Operation Checkout Girl. No more tricks, no more attempts at flattery, no more letting 40 year old Asshats beat me to the punch. It was time for me to just come straight out and ask Molly for her phone number. This type of thing is far from a strength for me, and the odds of me accidently blurting out how cute Molly's dimples are instead of asking for her phone number were significant. If I was going to go down, it was going to be in flames, it was going to be in attempting something worthwhile. So, tugging my coat into place, I put my head down and entered Wild Oats.

I figured I needed to be in a solid, positive frame of mind for this attempt, so a trip to Angela the sandwich artist was first. Ordering a London Broil sandwich, I received my bill, and headed for Molly. There was no line, and subsequently no time to sit there and think about what I was about to do (in the process talking myself out of it.) I was committed to getting her number, and after weeks of failure, the moment of truth was at hand. Handing Molly the ticket for my sandwich, I opened my mouth and prepared to say what I could only hope would be some smooth pimping maneuver. But, I never got the words out. Because right before I started to speak, I happened to look down and make a singularly startling discovery: Molly was wearing an engagement ring.

For a few seconds I didn't know what to do or think. I just stood there, motionless, staring at her hand. Then it hit me, the greatest feeling in the world. It was a sense, nay, a tidal wave of what I scientists call: Relief. It was all clear now; the reason I was unable to get on Molly's radar wasn't because I was un-smooth, or because my plans were born of idiocy, but because she was engaged! But now I think, maybe not. Maybe I really am a verbally challenged, social retard, with a penchant for concocting foolish schemes to get the attention of cute Checkout Girls. Really, it could go either way. But it feels much better believing it's the former, and not the latter.