I had my shot.

The checkout girls were crazy busy and there was not a spare set of hands anywhere. I stood alone at the end of the line as the groceries came off the conveyor belt. It was a moment I had dreamed of since childhood and yet I barely recognized it. That’s how big the moment was.

It might have passed me by altogether. Then some voice inside my head hollered: “This is it, boy! This is your shot. Bag those groceries, boy! Bag them like a champion!”

I’ve always found it curious that my inner voice calls me boy. It’s as though my self-esteem is so low, even the voices in my head have the right to condescend.

So, I started bagging the groceries. I dropped a jar of pickles on top of the celery and there was a crunch. I crammed nine cans of Beef-a-roni around a loaf of bread and heard people wincing three aisles away. I stuffed a bottle of motor oil in with a package of meat and that was it. I was done.

The bagging girl hustled to the end of the line like a manager trotting to the mound. My day was over. I had my shot and I blew it.

It’s not that I’ve actively dreamed of being a bag person at a grocery store. It’s just one of those things I wonder about every time I’m there. The bag people go about their packing with such grace and skill, it’s like its own form of martial arts.

What’s more, they know our secrets. They know who is sneaking in bottles of Cutty Sark every time the wife sends him out for spaghetti sauce. They know who gets her hair color from a bottle and who has been battling diarrhea. Not just anyone can be trusted with those secrets, least of all me. What I don’t know about the bagging game could get me fired or beaten.

Is it OK to giggle when a man comes to the checkout with tampons? Probably not. But I don’t know that because I’ve never been a bagger. I’ve cooked weenies and moved furniture and pumped gas, but I’ve never loaded toilet paper, tuna fish and bottles of YooHoo into a sack for strangers. I feel I’ve missed out.

I’ve also never been a flagger. At least I think that’s what they call those men or women who stand near construction sites holding signs that say “Stop” on one side, “Slow” on the other. All I know about them is that they can completely control my life. If they flip their sign to the side that says “Stop,” I’m damn well going to bring my car to a stop and keep my hands in plain sight, so they can see I’m not going to try any funny stuff.

Flaggers intimidate me for reasons I don’t completely understand. Maybe it’s because they all have radios that keep them in constant contact with God knows who. Maybe it’s my mother on the other end of the line. Maybe it’s my fourth-grade teacher who will make me put my head down if I don’t come to a stop quick enough when the sign says so.

Flaggers never say a word. They don’t even make eye contact. Yet every one of us obeys them without question, even if it means we’ll be late for work or for our colonic appointments. A flagger is our conscience in an orange vest and work gloves.

Wouldn’t mind trying my hand working a fast-food drive-thru. There has to be a measure of sadistic joy in trying to trip up folks who are so hungry, they are willing to scream into the snout of a clown to get food. “You want to super-size that? Care to try a clamato milkshake? Is that for here or to go?”

Fool! Of course it’s to go! You’re at a drive-thru.

So, I’m betting that’s kind of fun.

If you invite me to work at your redemption center, I won’t say no. Call me crazy, but it just sounds like a blast ripping open one sticky garbage bag after another not knowing what you’re going to find in there among the bottles and cans.

Condom wrappers, glass eyes, dead mice, love notes, busted marital aids, hypodermic needles, underwear . . . These are the treasures of the redemption bags.

Plus, everyone is nice to the counters as they pluck out bottles and cans and fling them into the appropriate bins with such blinding skill. You want the maximum return for two weeks’ worth of Pabst Blue Ribbon, you best make small talk with the dude counting those dented cans.

But not too much talk. You don’t want to distract and annoy him or he just might forget to count those three bags of Zima from your experimenting days.

The pit at the oil-changing place? Oh, yeah. I want some of that action. Not because it’s any particular thrill to twist a bolt and watch shiny black liquid ooze out. It’s the thrill of working underground — standing unafraid as cars and trucks roll right over you. It reminds me of the excitement we got as boys looking up through cracks in the bleachers at the cheerleaders above. Only you get to look at mufflers and skid plates instead of panties and pom-poms.

I’d like to do trash pickup because it’s the only way I know to catch a ride on the back of a truck without getting yelled at.

I’d like to be a greeter at Walmart because people always wonder what the heck that guy’s job is.

I’d like to care for puppies, but no one will let me.

You crush one package of celery and it follows you the rest of your life.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can send job offers to [email protected].