Sometimes I feel my life is scripted by Rodney Dangerfield and directed by Mel Brooks. I’m afforded no respect whatsoever, even by those who specialize in it. Take the Cub Scouts, for example. One warm day last year I decided to wind up a shopping trip to a local discount store with a cold soft drink.
I’d been standing in line behind a woman with more children than the Osmonds. The kids had perfected the art of whining about everything. And, since there was enough junk to sink the Titantic at that particular register, they had plenty of fuel.
They wanted gum, they wanted candy, they wanted the cheap plastic toys hanging tantalizingly low. They wanted chapsticks, mini-flashlights and change for the machine in which a quarter buys a plastic egg containing a spider ring worth about 1/100th of a cent. Their mother ignored them. The rest of us listened to the unending litany while the line moved at the pace of a political convention.
In the lead cart was a woman who picked up nothing with a price tag. Not one thing. And her cart was full. And the guy who was running around checking prices moved like an arthritic sloth.
Behind me was a young couple engaged in an under-the-breath argument. I actually kind of enjoyed listening to them spar with one another, but they kept shushing up when they hit the good parts.
“Al, I need a price check on this bra and panties set.”
“Okie, dokie!” Al was off and crawling to the lingerie department, a size 40 DD clutched in his uncomprehending fingers.
“Mom, I want some Skittles! I want Skittles! I want Skittles!” Each new round picked up an extra voice until all were chanting in unison. Mom contemplated the ceiling tile.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m not the one who wore his underpants on his head at the party.”
“$15.98.”
“Thanks, Al. Now could you go and get me a price on this toilet plunger?”
“Okie-dokie.” And on and on.
So, why didn’t I change aisles? Because they were all alike. And besides, it’s a rule that any line I get in immediately fills with people with no price tags, whining kids and Al at the helm. I eventually made it out of the store and into the bright hot sun. It took me two hours to finish my shopping, one of which was spent standing in line. I wanted a cold drink.
I strode over to a drink machine, next to which was standing a cute little Cub Scout. He was selling candy bars. He watched carefully as I put my last bit of change in the machine and punched the button. Nothing happened.
“It’s broken,” he offered.
“Thanks for the information,” I snapped and wearily pushed my cart back into the store to get my refund. There were 512 people at the customer service desk and one clerk who looked as though she’d just learned that one of us had backed into her car. In front of me was the Whiner Family. I knew Al had to be lurking somewhere nearby.
After about 20 minutes, change in hand, I left the store and wheeled my cart up to a different drink machine. The cute little Cub Scout was still there.
“Want to buy a candy bar?” he asked. “Oh, it’s you. Never mind.”
All I can say is if that kid ever tries to help me across the street, I’m running, because with my luck, Al will be driving the ambulance.
(To see more of Carole's work, visit www.funnywords.com or www.thehumorwriter.com..)
