Sunday, March 10, 2013
High Drama on Aisles Two, Three & Four
On my way home from the gym yesterday, I decided to "pop in" to the Wal-Mart really quickly for some Diet Coke and an impulse purchase of Pringles. This was, of course, a terrible mistake. When I hit the checkout, I quickly realized that there was a woman trying to use a Wal-Mart gift card two people in front of me, which was of course an impossible dream. There was all sorts of wild gesticulating and brow furrowing surrounding its use, but very little actual progress towards completing the transaction. So I switched lines, only to have my new cashier abandon her line entirely to go assist with the gift card situation, which is clearly a two-man job. There was further discussion (and dare I say a little voice raising) but still no movement on either line. My cashier then returned to help the person in front of me, who had only three items. She scanned his Diet Coke. She scanned his white wine. She examined his ID. Then she scanned his red wine and promptly dumped it on the floor. This is when shit got real.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I might have got glass in my face!" the cashier exclaimed.
"Are you all right?" the customer in front of me asked.
"I don't know. I don't know. The glass went everywhere! Did I get glass in my face?"
It did seem to me that getting glass in one's face is the sort of thing of which one is generally acutely aware. Through, for instance, blindness, searing pain, or bleeding. But I did not feel I was in any position to judge.
"Um, I don't see any glass there. Did you feel any hit you?"
"I don't know. What if I got glass in my face?"
We appeared to be at a standoff. A resolution of sorts came in the form of a manager, who came and started screaming at people.
"Lashondra! Get a mop. Get a mop over in here and clean all this up. Tisha! Tisha, you go on ahead and check Monique out here. Make sure there ain't no glass in her face. Lordy. Are you going to want another bottle of that wine?"
As though he would prefer to just lick up the bottle residing on the floor.
But another bottle was successfully procured, identification was rechecked (because underaged drinking would be the REAL tragedy here), and the shellshocked customer was sent on his way. Finally I stepped up, Pringles in hand.
"Excuse me, sir," came the voice from the next aisle. "I think my son may have gotten glass in his face."
This in reference to a child who was smiling and laughing without any sign of injury or, in fact, any care in the world.
It was another ten minutes before I finally emerged with my Diet Coke. And no, it did not taste any sweeter because I had to work for it.
On my way home from the gym yesterday, I decided to "pop in" to the Wal-Mart really quickly for some Diet Coke and an impulse purchase of Pringles. This was, of course, a terrible mistake. When I hit the checkout, I quickly realized that there was a woman trying to use a Wal-Mart gift card two people in front of me, which was of course an impossible dream. There was all sorts of wild gesticulating and brow furrowing surrounding its use, but very little actual progress towards completing the transaction. So I switched lines, only to have my new cashier abandon her line entirely to go assist with the gift card situation, which is clearly a two-man job. There was further discussion (and dare I say a little voice raising) but still no movement on either line. My cashier then returned to help the person in front of me, who had only three items. She scanned his Diet Coke. She scanned his white wine. She examined his ID. Then she scanned his red wine and promptly dumped it on the floor. This is when shit got real.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I might have got glass in my face!" the cashier exclaimed.
"Are you all right?" the customer in front of me asked.
"I don't know. I don't know. The glass went everywhere! Did I get glass in my face?"
It did seem to me that getting glass in one's face is the sort of thing of which one is generally acutely aware. Through, for instance, blindness, searing pain, or bleeding. But I did not feel I was in any position to judge.
"Um, I don't see any glass there. Did you feel any hit you?"
"I don't know. What if I got glass in my face?"
We appeared to be at a standoff. A resolution of sorts came in the form of a manager, who came and started screaming at people.
"Lashondra! Get a mop. Get a mop over in here and clean all this up. Tisha! Tisha, you go on ahead and check Monique out here. Make sure there ain't no glass in her face. Lordy. Are you going to want another bottle of that wine?"
As though he would prefer to just lick up the bottle residing on the floor.
But another bottle was successfully procured, identification was rechecked (because underaged drinking would be the REAL tragedy here), and the shellshocked customer was sent on his way. Finally I stepped up, Pringles in hand.
"Excuse me, sir," came the voice from the next aisle. "I think my son may have gotten glass in his face."
This in reference to a child who was smiling and laughing without any sign of injury or, in fact, any care in the world.
It was another ten minutes before I finally emerged with my Diet Coke. And no, it did not taste any sweeter because I had to work for it.
