Call the Politeness Police

During my roughly twenty minutes out among the public today, my interaction with some other person caused them to call for help. This happened not once, but twice. Two things became clear from these episodes: I may have a rage problem, and people seem to think that there is an unfriendliness police at their beck and call. Like Siri for etiquette.

I should know better by now. I have a bad habit of making an observation or expressing frustration in just such a way that it catches someone wrong, offends them or generally lights them up. There’s a fine line between clever quip and shitty comment. I sometimes cross the line. Hell, I pole vault across the line.

So I’m at the grocery store during a sudden rush where every register has a line, even Uscan. Word to the wise: any time one has to cue up at the Uscan, there will be a conflict. Another thing I should know by now. But I spot a woman bagging what appears to be only enough items to fill one bag, plus a birthday cake. No one behind her, and she’s nearly done. Slip items in bag, cake on top of cart, done. Simple, right?

So I wait. I’m a patient man, in general. It’s not as if I need to rush off to work or feed the kids or anything. So I grab Magnolia magazine off the shelf for a little light reading while I wait. Turns out the woman hasn’t paid yet.  So she stops bagging, comes back up to pay, and goes back to the end of the isle. Assuming she’ll be done momentarily, I begin scanning my items, which sail down the belt and crash into her three as-yet-unpacked items. Rather than snatch up her hothouse cuke and whatever else, she makes a big production of trying to fend off my 4 6-packs of soda. (Lesser quantities at full price.)

She had employed the divider bar, which failed to contain the onslaught. They always fail. As she’s frantically barring my items and explaining the failure, it occurs to me, and I say to her, “...Or you can just bag your items and go.” Seems so simple. She didn’t like it. So I repeated it, added a few choice curse words, and even demonstrated by grabbing her items and assisting her in placing them in a bag. That was it. She’d had enough and began crying out for help. Literally crying out, over and over. And she would not back down, nor would she bag her items and go. Again, we’re talking three items.

After a minor shouting match witnessed by her “help,” a deadpan store manager, I gathered my items and went to another register. All the while this lady is inconsolable. In the age of Kavanaugh she’s ready to take this matter all the way.  Call the FBI.

There’s a human cashier at the second register. Humanoid at any rate. So in the interest of conversation I point out to her the great volume of soda I, a single man living in a 1-bedroom apartment, must buy in order to get the sale price. At Giant Eagle sale items are often priced in multiples, but the sale price applies even to one item. Except for soda. Signs all over the department proclaim it. “Lesser quantities at full price.” So I pointed it out.

To which the cashier says to me, “Well, you don’t have to buy it.” Which catches me wrong this time. Mind you, I’m a little high strung as dumb bitch #1 is still ranting and raving, 2 or 3 employees flanking her now, and they’re blocking the exit to be sure to catch me. Perhaps the cops are on the way.

So I ask the cashier, “Did an employee really just tell me not to buy?” She denies having just said what she said. So I fan out the cash I’m paying for the items with, and waving it at her I ask, “See this? The cash I’m paying for these items becomes the funds from which your paycheck is derived. If you tell me not to buy, where do the funds come from to pay you on Friday?” This basic truism of economics never goes over well when shared with inept retail workers. I know this. And yet…

So an argument ensues. “I’m just trying to contribute the money that pays your fucking salary.”
“I’m a person and you can’t speak to me this way. And watch your language.”
“Fuck you. Just ring my groceries.” 
That’s it. Cursing always empowers the righteous to call out for help. Which she begins to do. But she did complete my purchase. So I’m free to go. Sort of.

Bitch #1 and 2 henchmen blocking exit. Bitch #2 Calling out for the manager, who is probably one of the henchmen and therefor occupied. Bagger? Dubious. Uncertain. Paused. Directly ahead of me, an emergency exit door leading directly to parking lot, avoiding main exit, clearly marked with sign saying “Not for customers, emergency exit only.” Not for customers, indeed. So I’m out the door, emergency style, the slamming of which permanently stifles the wails of Bitches 1 & 2.

Bitch #1 is sure she’ll have me. I gotta leave sometime, right? Little does she know I gave her the slip. I hope she’s still there waiting.

But back to my original point. People in the suburbs really think there is someone on call to assist them and punish evil-doers for something so trivial as a shitty comment or curse word. Recently the manager of my bank threatened to call 911 because in frustration I dropped an F bomb. In my defense, I was just trying to get the teller at my bank to do my goddamn-fucking banking. Whoops, there I go again.

Suburban crime spree. Suspect still at large.