Nightmare in Aisle 26

My grocery store has decided to change up its "perks" program. Ordinarily, this shouldn't be an issue. But it's different when the damn program doesn't work. (For the uninitated, the "perks" program gives the grocery shopper gas savings and special deals on food; my wife and I used to not believe in such crass mercantilism and invasion of privacy, but with the gas prices what they are these days, we've become believers.)

So, I have an established card with the old "perks" program. Stupidly, I thought it'd just roll over to the new program. But, no, things aren't ever that easy. Before my weekly grocery shopping run, I stop in at the customer service desk. But there's no customer servicing to be done and no one in sight. I wait...and I wait...and I wait. Meanwhile, just a few feet from me is a young clerk, standing there, doing absolutely nothing but avoiding eye contact with me.

Finally, a woman appears. I asked "Do I need a new perks card? Or what?" (Because I'm already getting a little huffed.) A deer caught in the headlights, her eyes flutter to and from, panic overtaking her. 

"No," she finally says, "but you'll need to activate the new program."

"Great! Activate me!" I proofer my old card like it's Willy Wonka's golden ticket.

She refuses to take it. "No, no, I can't do that. You'll have to wait until 9:00 before the lady who's going to do it gets here."

"Okay, whatever, guess I'll go get my shopping done." Usually it only takes me about ten minutes to whip through the store. But since I had a grueling 25 minutes to kill, I took my time, lollygagging around in the medical aisle, reading all the labels like some kinda weirdo.

Ding! 9:00! I head back to the customer non-service desk. "Hi! I'm back. Where's the perks lady?"

"Um...she's not here yet. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back?" she says, while I'm leaning on an obviously full cart.

Suddenly, the non-helper kiddie clerk starts shouting, "She's here! I see her, Jan, she's here! Finally, she's here!" (I realized the kid's job was to rat out other employees and not much else.)

So, the new woman (who seemed to me to be much too old for green dyed hair, but whatever, it takes all kinds) rolls up to the the customer service desk and the initial woman--Jan--fills her in. "Marsha, you've got to start activating the new perks cards."

"What?" Marsha is stunned by this news, her mouth opening and closing like a land-locked fish. "Nobody told me that!"

"Well, they just told me. This gentleman has been waiting for you." Jan juts a thumb at me while they both pretend like I'm not there.

At long last, Marsha pastes on a smile and turns to me. "Follow me."

I follow her to a desk with a "Perks!" sign on it near the front door. Marsha then starts playing with two different tablets, growing more agitated and flustered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the system's not letting me in." Then she whips her phone out. "Let me try on this."

So, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting, standing in front of green-haired Marsha fiddling around with two tablets and her phone. "It's just not working, sir. Hang on a minute." She gets up to leave, takes a look at me, then decides I look suspicious and comes back to gather her electronics. "I'll be back shortly."

Meanwhile, another older woman with a very menacing glare rolls an empty cart up next to me. I say, "Looks like this might take a while."

"Yeah, I can see that," she says, staring at me while not seeing me, not really. "While we wait, perhaps you'd be interested in seeing my nails. They please a lot of people."

Okay, my supposed ten minute grocery gathering trip just grew stranger. "Oh, um...sure...let's see your nails...or whatever."

She stands up from leaning on her cart and wiggles her fingers, giving them that special jazz hands touch. Little eyeballs and ghosts and spiders adorn the tips.

"Ohhhh, that's really....ah...that's really...you must really like Halloween."

Ms. Spooky-Fingers face puckers up and she glowers at me. "Why would you say that?" she says and shakes her head.

Thankfully, Marsha rode back in to my rescue. Completely out-of-breath, she huffs out, "Okay, I think we've got it worked out." She starts back to fiddling with her armada of electronics. Again frustration sets in. "Hmmm...I don't know why...wait! Here we go!"

Over to the side of us, the little kiddie clerk narc pumps a fist and shouts, "Yesssssss!"

Marsha begins to quiz me about my life. By this time, we've gathered quite a group of "Perks Desirers," many of them grumbling about how they couldn't sign up online or how they've had to come back several days or how their savings wasn't counted at the gas pump. But Marsha is relentless, asking me my address, phone number and age in front of the crowd at my back.

Suddenly, Marsha "Jeckyll and Hydes" back into frustration again. "Why won't this let me in? It was working a minute ago! Why the... What's going on with...DAMMIT!" She counts to ten, takes a breath and says to me, "I'm sorry, sir. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back."

I sigh and wave a game show hostess hand over my full (now melting) cart.

She excuses herself again and bolts, leaving me at the mercy of Ms. Spooky-Fingers again.

"I don't care as long as I'm out of here by ten," she says. "I've got to go get a shot in my eye again."

I sigh, do an internal eyeroll and know full well I shouldn't get sucked into her spiderweb of craziness. But I can't resist, either due to the social niceties of humanity or just dumb curiosity. "Ohhh? Do you have macular degeneration?"

Again, she gives me the evil eye. "Nooooo! I had a stroke in my eye! Can you believe that?"

"Um, well, no...I guess not. Did the...ah...doctor say how it happened?"

"No! I was on the phone waiting for six hours, too!"

Please, Marsha, please come back, please come back, please bring your green-haired self back and...

My prayers worked! Marsha reappeared like a green-haired, out-of-breath genie!

"I'm sorry it's taking so long. Yesterday, the system went down. I've got to talk to the assistant manager about this."

So, we're all waiting for the assistant manager to come down and pull a perkish hail Mary. I'm stuck between Ms. Spooky-Fingers and Marsha of the Green Hair getting angry at electronics. Finally, the little rat fink clerk shouts, "Ahoy! Here she comes, Marsha! She's here!"

Some young kid (I've eaten potato chips older than her) enters the fray and says, "I'm sorry, everybody. The perks system is down again."

There was a good hour-and-a-half shot out of my day. "Well...how am I supposed to get my gas points?" I ask in a pissy manner.

"Oh, the old cards still work."

Huh. Imagine that. Maybe they should've told me that ninety minutes ago. Just another perk of the store, I guess.

Speaking of perks, you'll receive absolutely none from reading my books. But I would recommend you do so anyway. And why not start with my ghostly mystery, Peculiar County? (It's my personal favorite of all of my books. There's your damn perk!)

Bait and Switch at the Grocery Store

I didn't want to do it.

I never envisioned myself doing it.

But, recently, I went full-on Karen on a poor, hapless assistant manager at our neighborhood grocery store.

(Hangs head in shame.)

It really wasn't her fault either. I kinda knew that at the time, but when you're mad, you're mad. Yelling always helps. Well, not really... Or does it?

Anyway, my local big chain grocery store was running a promotion, the kind they do so often. If you're a card-carrying "Rewards" member, this entitles you to special sales, promos, gimmicks, and all kinds of crap. This week, the featured promo was if you spend $65 bucks on groceries, you'll get 65 cents off a gallon of gas. In this day of inflation with $4.00 gallons, that's what I'd consider a SCORE!

So, I start piling unwanted junk into my cart. Lessee...gotta have those bacon-wrapped jalapeno peppers, can't live without stuffed mushroom caps, french onion dip I need to sustain. You know, all the essentials. Anything to get the cart to tally up to 65 bucks.

So, the old check-out guy rings me up. When I get my receipt, I notice my 65 cent gas deduction isn't on there. I think, no problem, an oversight, I'll go directly to customer service and have it corrected, not the first time.

So the young girl grimaces and says, "Did you ask for it?"

"What?"

"Did you ask for it? You have to ask for it now."

Crickets. So many crickets. 

"I've never had to ask for it before," I say.

"I know," she says, her grimace growing. "It's a new rule that just came down from corporate. You have to ask the cashier for the discount."

My crickets slowly morphed into rockets red glaring. "It wasn't advertised! If that's not illegal, then it's highly unethical!" By this time, I'm gaining quite an excited crowd of looky-loos. Surely I'm on YouTube somewhere.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's not my rule."

"I'm not happy about this." I thought, wow, those strong words will show her.

"I know, I'm not happy about it either," she says.

"Well, can't you give me a break this once?" Like I'm pleading with a cop to let me go with a warning or something. "Can't you honor the gas discount since it wasn't advertised?"

"I wish I could," she says. "But it's the new corporate rule."

"I'm not happy about this." I keep chanting this like some kind of delusional mantra from a crazed bag lady. "I'm not happy about this." I hang my head, shaking it in disbelief. The further I travel through the store toward the exit, the angrier I'm getting. I can feel my face simmering with fireworks rage. I start yelling and cussing, Karen gone wild. "Goddammit! Had I known about this I wouldn't have bought sixty-five bucks worth of this crap! You didn't advertise it! That's illegal! Bait and switch! I'm not happy about this!!! I'm not happy about this!!!"

I'm getting louder and louder, truly looking and sounding like a schizophrenic bag lady pushing my cart by this point, yelling at no one in particular.

By the time I get to the car, I'm shaking. Ten minutes later, I'm home and feel really kinda bad about the way I treated the poor, hapless assistant manager. I've been searching for her for a month now, hoping to apologize, but haven't found her. I hope I didn't cause her to quit.

Meanwhile, the corporate office still hasn't replied to my Karentastic ranting messages. I wonder why?

While on the topic of bad behavior, there's plenty on display (of the "normal" and supernatural sort) in my darkly comic suspense thriller, horror, mystery, satire werewolf extravaganza, Corporate Wolf. Give it a look-see and learn how not to compose oneself in a corporate setting. (And how not to eat your coworkers). 

No Escape From the 24 Store

Not too long ago my daughter told me to go check out The 888 International Market and Cafe in Overland Park, Kansas. She said, "I love it. It's great."

First I thought, "well, big deal, it's a grocery store." Then I thought, "hey, my mother-in-law is coming for a visit, maybe that'd be something cool to take her to."

HUGE mistake number one... For you see, as much as I love my mom-in-law, I had forgotten what a "shopper" she is. And get her together with my wife, they've been known to vanish within one store for hours at a time. (I can't believe I had so easily forgotten the Infamous Shoe Store Trauma of 2006. I must've blocked it out, just too traumatic and painful to recall. After being in the tiny shoe store for hours and hours, I now have PTSD: Post Traumatic Shoe Drama. I mean, c'mon, shoes are things you stick on your feet! Not much to see!)

Anyway, the three of us trundled off to the 888 International Market. Curious as to why it was called "888 (which sounds like a telemarketing company)," I did a little research, but didn't get very far. Apparently, in some cultures "888" signifies financial abundance and material wealth. I believe it after seeing the prices in the store. (It could've been worse, I suppose...I wonder what the 666 Market has to offer?)

My daughter thinks "The 888 International Market and Cafe" takes too long to say, so she's handily shortened the title to "The 24 Store" for easier, quicker reference, but I digress.

So we entered the store. And it's...overwhelming. Aisles and aisles and miles and aisles of some of the most colorful, expensive, rare, and downright gross items you've ever seen amassed under one roof. The store lived up to its lengthy moniker: while specializing in Asian foods from around the world, other countries and cultures were likewise represented.

There's an entire aisle devoted to squid jerky! Literally dozens and dozens of squid jerky options. I don't know about you, but one option is probably too much for my shy, Americanized palate.

And, hey, you want sea cucumber? It's only $229.99 a pound. Bargain!

Once I stumbled onto the duck egg aisle, I'd had about enough. Multiple colors of huge duck eggs, all of them ugly blacks, greens, browns, and other unappealing colors. Not only had I had enough, my stomach had, too.

The problem is it was the second aisle in the store and my wife and mom-in-law were looking at Every...Single...Item.

I said, "Are you going to look at everything in the store?"

"Probably," they said.

I couldn't even see the back of the store, worse than a never-ending corn-maze. Even worse, they didn't even have a "husband bench." So, I bailed, sat out in the car and did rewarding things like play a game on my phone.

After another hour, I went back in to check their progress. Once I found them, they'd completed almost 2/3 of the store, yet they hadn't even left the food section yet! Uh-oh, I thought while staring at all of the cookware, gifts, pottery, furniture, you name it, they had it. Pretty sure there was even a kitchen sink aisle.

Back to the car I stalked as I cursed myself for offering this ludicrous day outing to them in the first place. I had naively forgotten that my idea of shopping (dash in, pull it off the shelf, toss some money down, where the hell's the exit?) doesn't coexist with theirs as I sat in the back of the car like an abused dog.

Men, please take heed of my cautionary tale.

My short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is also full of cautionary tales, but they generally end a bit more horrifically than my recent shopping trauma (although if I convinced myself of that while sitting in the parking lot that day, I'd have called myself a damn liar!). We have underground monsters, Bigfoot love, psychopathic children, strange vegetation, giant bugs, and more ghoulish fun than you can shake a scythe at. Check it out here.

 

Computer Store Clerk Melt-Down!

I suppose it's my fault, really.

In what kinda world would anyone be dumb enough to go to the computer store to buy an external disc drive on Christmas Eve? A fool's world, I tell ya. 

Not only did I brave the menacing crowds, the insane drivers, and waits that made the lines at Disneyland seem like a cakewalk, but I had to go back to the store twice. (No one ever told me that a "floppy" external disc drive is different from a DVD drive; even with a hundred salesmen milling about and it'd be a cold day in Hell before I'd ask someone for help). Anyway, I brought the wrong disc drive home, plugged it in, cursed, drove back to the store, this time taking twice as long because of the congested streets.

But here's where things turned really dangerous...

After waiting my turn in line, the meek, older than me, bespectacled bald man waved me to the counter.

"Well?" he said, clearly as sick of the Christmas crunch as I was and assuming the onus should be on me to start the give-and-take without the need of opening pleasantries.

Ashamed of my computer illiteracy, I explained the situation.

His brow furrowed as he appeared to be looking for something he'd lost. "Where are all of my pens?" he barked.

"Um...I'm not sure," I mumbled.

"Fine, whatever." He jut his arm out, pointed toward the back of the store. "Go get what you need and come back."

I did. The line had doubled. As I slowly inched closer, I noticed Mr. Personality's color had darkened, an explosive  bouquet of mad-as-hell red.

Finally end game was in sight! The surly clerk snatched the proffered disc from my hands, slapped it down, sighed, and said, "Look, is this just a purchase?"

I scratched my head. He scratched his. "No, I'm returning one drive for the other. Ah...remember?"

Befuddled (one of his two emotions, the other being Explosive Anger), he closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." When he opened his eyes, immediately he began searching for something again. This time I knew it was his lost mind.

"Dammit," he blurted. "There were four pens before I went to lunch! Not even a lousy half hour! And there were four pens! Four! I come back and there's not one!" He starts swatting the register and knocks over an empty coffee cup, presumably the abandoned home of runaway pens. "Never a single Goddamn pen to be found when you need one!"

Okay, by this point my collar inexplicably tightened. Eyes lasered in on me, Lookie-Loos wanting to know why I'm torturing the "nice" old man behind the counter. 

A woman rushes over, possibly the assistant manager. "What's the problem?" she asks me.

"Um, well...there's no problem, just--"

"Somebody keeps stealing my pens! I had four of 'em! Four pens! I'm gone for 25 minutes for lunch, I come back, and they're all gone!" He throws a knick-knack at the register. "Is it too much to ask for just one pen?"

I pat down my coat pockets, hoping to find a pen to ward off the visual daggers being lobbed my way.

Clearly addled, the assistant manager begins playing peek-a-boo behind the counter, popping up and vanishing down again, on a futile pen search.

Finally, the manager goes behind the "returns" wall, and mercifully brings back a pen.

Mr. Congeniality snags it from her and clutches it hard. No one's gonna pry that pen from out of his death grip or God help them if they try.

He finishes the long drawn out transaction and releases me with a friendly, holiday bark. "Next!"

I rush from the store, heart hammering, thankful I escaped with my life. Watching a man melt down over pens was scary. Shooting spree scary.

After I settled down and settled into traffic again, it finally dawned on me: the guy never used his pen for anything, not a single drop of ink spilled. I guess it's the principle that counts.

Happy holidays!

Speaking of crazy people, if I were you I'd probably avoid those folks stranded by a Winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. But, by all means, do read about it: Dread and Breakfast can be purchased here!

 

We went looking for a TV and all we have to show for it is this stupid new house!

Bada-boom. And not really. But almost.

My wife--wise and almighty--told me we should never go shopping while "hangry," a term a candy bar commercial adeptly coined, equating one's hungry physical being with an angry mind-set. Ergo, don't make snap purchases at the grocery store.

Back to pertinent business, recently our TV went blinky, double-vision blue and red. It's fine if you wear those awful 3-D glasses with the impossible to clean and always smudged plastic lenses, but otherwise, unacceptable. 

Sunday afternoon, we set out to ogle new TV's. The modern technology mind-boggled, fossilized me into the prehistoric era. I didn't have a clue, still playing videotapes at home, for Gawd's sake.

Out of desperation, over-whelmed, we quit. Made a promise to research. Just like back in school.

On the way home, we saw a house for sale. "Open House," the sign read, a beguiling treasure trove awaiting we failed hunters. Being no fools, tired, "hangry," disgruntled, we slept-walk inside. And fell in love.

Thankfully, keener senses prevailed. We were in no position yet to buy a new house. (Just thinking about our collection of books and movies throws my back out of whack).

But enlightenment struck that day. Food shopping while hungry is one thing, a minor faux pas. Making major life decisions while your mind belongs elsewhere is another.

"Oblivi-shopping." Remember the word. I'm trademarking it.

Contracts should be enacted while oblivi-shopping. Within a 48 hour time period, buyers of a life-changing purchase should not be held responsible if the following preexisting conditions exist:

*Hunger;
*Irritability;
*Stupidity;
*Sleepiness;
*Drunkeness;
*Hemorrhoids;
*Pregnancy;
*Insanity.

I've made remorseful purchasing decisions under the influence of seven of the eight pre-existing conditions.

It's about time someone started looking out for hungry, irritable, stupid, tired, drunk, hemorrhoid-ridden, and sometimes insane people like me!

Caveat Emptor!

A mall is no place for a middle-aged, out-of-shape guy

When my daughter and two nieces conspired to go the the mall, they asked if I wanted to go.

Did I want to go? Absolutely not. The mall, to me, is a place to be avoided. Full of women's clothing stores and various lotions, ointment and holy-hell-priced tea boutiques.

But I relented, bowing down to the peer pressure of "#familybonding." Plus my nieces claimed (a mighty big stake) they wanted to try Sushi. Well. Mall Sushi isn't probably the best introduction, but I went with it anyway.

Thirty minutes in, sweat started rolling off my shaved head. I huffed and puffed like I wanted to blow the whole place down. I kinda' did, too.

I'd entered a new era, one that hadn't waited for me. I became a dinosaur, a relic of a past age. Teenage girls cruised the halls, bags of expensive clothing dangling from their wrists like charm bracelets. Clusters of energetic boys, wearing shorts far below the level of common sense, hooted and hollered like monkeys. When I saw the price for the three girls to ride the carousel, my wallet weighed down my shorts nearly as far as my teenage brethren. Security guards eyeballed me warily, a Sesame Street game of "one of these things doesn't belong here."

I followed the girls into high-priced and trendy clothing stores, feeling out-of-sorts whenever the young clerks (I wear underwear older than them) approached. I considered asking if they had XL sized men's skinny jeans, but it sorta defeated the whole purpose, I think.

The food court was a trap in waiting. Acoustically amplified voices reverbed off the high ceiling. A multitude of fried foods awaited the unwary traveler, all the kiosks lined up like gaudy shuckster tents at a carnival. And for some reason, the cart-driving janitor had it in for me, ramming his vehicle into the back of my legs, not once, but twice. I suppose I provided a target too good to ignore. He didn't offer an apology, just a dumb, blank look. The look I'd grown accustomed to. Message received. I didn't belong.

And the Sushi, oh, the Sushi. My nieces were predisposed to hate it, something I suspected. But after shelling out big bucks for a tiny tray, these were the results:

My mall adventure was a painful lesson. It had me questioning my "middle-aged" status.
When did I get old? Granted, even as a youngster, I've never enjoyed going to the mall. I've always thought of shopping as a necessary evil, not an event. Get in, grab, get out. Eyes straight ahead, know what you want. Don't turn around, lest you turn to stone.

But the hits kept on coming that day. Later, at the grocery store, the check-out girl tried to ring me up on a senior discount. I haven't yet hit that very unmagical age. So I fought, very vocally, to spend more money on my hemorrhoid creme.That'll show 'em.

For a different kind of horror, check out my new book: Ghosts of Gannaway.