Sunday, March 25, 2007

This one's for the girls

This one's for the girl who works the fast-food outlet near my apartment, the only choice I have for grub after work. Before I get there, I'm already mad that there are no 24-hour stores in my part of town. And that I forgot to stock up on real, organic food earlier in the day. And that your fast food somehow costs more than the organic food. So there's really no need for you to act like I'm the one who's bugging you. If I am, could you at least not show it in the attitudinal drop-off between your cordial greeting and the pointed, rushed "uh-huhs" that follow as I struggle to keep your attention so that you know my sandwich has no mayo so that I don't have to deal with you yet again when you inevitably get it wrong? And would it be so bad if you responded with "thank you" or "sure" instead of a brusque, "That'll take five minutes"? Then I drive up to the window and see your aged-raver self running around like you have 950 customers from that credit-card commercial where everyone's dancing in a show of fascist efficiency and I'm the one stopping everything with an old-fashioned card, when in reality you haven't seen any face but your own for hours. That cute way you take my debit card in a huff and slam the window shut gives me all the warm and fuzzy feelings of a bank robbery. Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're having a hard day. Well, how about you and I make a deal; I'll stop bothering you if you promise never to read the newspaper I just spent eight-and-a-half hours putting together. Well, at least now I have a chance to prove my devotion to ending global warming by shutting off my engine as several songs flit in and out on my radio while my card goes through God knows what. By the time you finally hand me my food, I'm not checking it for mayo anymore; I'm checking it for spit. Aged-raver spit. As I eat, I hope I don't have to get urine-tested for meth anytime soon. But if I do test positive and get fired, I can rest assured that there's at least one bottom-feeding outlet that'll hire me because apparently they have no standards of service or of common courtesy. Have a nice day!

This one's for the self-centered princess in the Camaro who cut me off in the bike-shop parking lot. Look, Kappa Kappa Kristi, I'm sorry that this tiny parking lot appears to be a one-way, one-lane row of spaces and that I came in on the wrong side; but hey, I was coming in off a crowded major freeway and nothing's marked. As soon as I saw you strolling in head-on, I immediately threw the stick in reverse and crept back like E.T.'s dog in that scene when E.T. is about to get loaded on Coors. And lo and behold, as I realize I'm about to shred the brand-new fender of my brand-new car on the jagged concrete curb, you keep on going. In fact, you actually speed up! Why? Maybe the person you're devoting the bulk of your limited mental energy talking to knows the answer. After about the third near-shredding of the brand-new fender on my brand-new car (Did I mention I just bought this thing?), I decide that I'll just let you hit me head-on since you're a stay-the-course kind of gal and from the looks of things your daddy will buy us both new cars without a shrug if a collision occurs. But instead, this perverted game of chicken somehow ends even worse: when it looks like there's nowhere else for this Ricky Bobbitch to go, she somehow bends the laws of physics and goes around me! And fast! At no point does she ever stop or even slow down. In fact, she doesn't even look at me, preferring instead to fixate her pissy, irritated face on her partner in Simple Lifing. I wonder if she'll look for any new sideswiping dents on her car, seeing how close she came to literally tipping me over? Well, I can tell you she didn't, because as soon as she passed me she parked into one of the several empty spaces for which absolutely no one was clamoring. And I finally pulled up to the bike shop, where I could fulfill my original intent of buying a bike to relieve stress.

This one's for the girl--er, tall man--who carded me at a bar. I don't mind being carded, because it reaffirms my insecure psyche that I don't look like I'm pushing 30. But that's not why he carded me; the bartender knows everyone who frequents the bar by name, personality and drink, but he didn't recognize me. This despite the fact that I often visit with co-workers, who are some of his favorite regulars, and that he has talked with me on several occasions. After telling him this, he says, "Well, you know, I see a lot of people every day and I just don't remember you." Well, isn't that nice? Say, that makes me want to buy several rounds of alcohol from you! My friend orders something complicated, which the bartender promptly gets exactly right. I ask for a bottle of Bud Light--the simplest thing this guy ever has to do--and he gives me the wrong thing. "Sorry, I forgot what you wanted," he says, displaying a remarkable metabolism of memory in a five-second span. Later, he comes outside and clears our table--including my beer, which I've barely touched--and asks us what else we want. I say, "nothing," while the others confirm their preferences. When he comes back out, he gets their orders right and gives me another beer! Which is coming out of someone's pocket. This'll probably be the night the bartender finally begins to remember me. Figures.

Be good.

3 comments:

Cajun Tiger said...

You are no longer in the South, Toto...manners are a foreign concept there like here.

Ian McGibboney said...

Well, to be fair, drivers are even worse in the South. People here have incentives to take care of their vehicles and drive safely. As for manners, eh. I think that's mostly for show. I could use a laid-back, French Quarter vibe here, though.

Speechie said...

HAHAHAHA...and this all from the guy who actually had a thing for Utah... man, what a riot...

You are right about manners though. In Louisiana we call all the women Miss and Ma'am and the men Sir. In Utah, we say hey you...*shrugs*

It's a hard knock life, Little Orphan Ian. Even if you don't have 24-hour convenient stores at least you can find a bar...and a beer.

Peace love and peanut butter cups,

Speechie