Wait...there's a caveat here, probably an important one. Usually, when these folks take umbrage with me, I'm with my mom. Full of blatant hand dismissals, eye-rolls, "whatever's," and oft-times rude behavior, my mom believes everyone's out to rip her off and the entire world owes her. Who knows, maybe they are and do, and I'm the one in the wrong. Grocery check-out clerks certainly believe so.
Case in point (before the world went into lock-down mode), during a recent weekly grocery store trip, I dragged my mom up to the check-out line. The cashier (older than me, younger than my mom) kept trying to have a conversation with my mom and ignored me. Which is more than fine with me, except my mom can't hear very well and can barely see. I find myself in the unenviable role of translator, barking loudly so she understands. Which I imagine makes me look like a jackass.
Anyway, my mom decides she wants to hear more about the store's "points program." And it's my turn to roll my eyes.
We're gonna be here a while, I just know it.
"I just don't understand this whole points program," my mom says to me in her teeny-tiny peep of a voice.
I sigh and repeat it to the cashier.
"Well, I have a brochure that'll explain it to you," snips the pelican behind the counter.
"Mom," I shout, "she has a brochure!"
So, this transaction goes on for a while as I'm playing Switzerland, trying to remain neutral in a battle over a free piece of cheap Tupperware I don't care about. Then it hits me: I'm now the United States, hip deep in this war! How'd that happen?
Meanwhile, my mom's flying Switzerland's flag, standing off on the sidelines with an innocent (devilish?) smile. All to win a free piece of Tupperware which she'll never get because she won't accumulate enough points within a month's time, but, hey, my mom never lets anything "free" slip by her.
Finally, we're done, all packed and good to go. The cashier dangles the Golden Brochure, fanning herself with it, baiting my mom. When I reach for it, she yanks it away. I try again, and she raises it above her head like some playground bully.
I sigh, try to retain my cool. 'Cause the only thing worse than being a tall, shaved-headed, big guy is how freaked out people get when they see a big, shaved-headed, tall guy freak out.
"She can't read it," I explain. "She's blind."
Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, the cashier says, "Is she really, now?"
"Yes. Well, okay, about 90% or so. She has Macular Degeneration." Now, I'm getting pissed off because I'm being questioned, put on the spot, and forced to explain myself. Mercifully, my mom's oblivious to the entire exchange.
At long last--and much to the relief of the growing line of people behind us--the cashier relents and unleashes her treasure. "Okay, then."
"Gee thanks." I snag it away and instantly give it to my mother. After all I don't want the cashier thinking I kept the literature all to myself for evil, nefarious means. (Mwah, hah, hahhhhh, I shall rule all of Kansas with the power vested in me by this almighty brochure!)
"What's this?" asks my mom.
Sigh. "It's the brochure, Mom," I shout. And by this time, I truly am shouting, partly out of frustration, mostly out of anger. Which I'm sure makes me look like I'm being mean to this poor sweet lil' ol' lady. I had to get outta there. Fast. Before mob mentality took me out over in the produce aisle.
The trials and tribulations of being the tallest, most despised man in grocery store lines.
Speaking of trials and tribulations, anyone who's ever read any of my books knows I like to drag my characters to Hell and back. Sometimes, literally! Check out Demon with a Comb-Over, my serio-comic horror tale about a hapless stand-up comic (who's tall, shaved-headed, and big!) who has the bad misfortune of heckling a demon.
No comments:
Post a Comment