So I go to the supermarket tonight. Need to buy a few things, like milk, bread, eggs, soup, and other items to carry me through the next few days.
Oh, and some beer. Sam Adams.
Now, I’ve just moved to Michigan from Oregon…arrived in the state last Friday and started work on Monday. I haven’t had the chance to get my Michigan driver’s license yet. I didn’t think my Oregon driver’s license would pose a problem, but then again, I didn’t count on getting a cashier who was apparently operating with a 1.5 volt brain. The poor woman needed to check my ID because of the beer purchase, and was thrown for a loop by my foreign ID.
“Oregon?” she said as she gazed at the unfamiliar object. “What’s that?”
“It’s a state,” I said, trying to keep the amazement out of my voice. “It’s located between California and Washington. I just moved here from Oregon last week, and haven’t had the time to go to the DMV to get a new license.”
“Oh.”
A long pause.
“This says you were born in 1994,” she said.
I looked at where she pointed. Instead of unleashing an acerbic tongue-lashing for her apparent illiteracy, I simply pointed out the line above the date in question, which indicated when the license was issued.
“Here’s my date of birth,” I said, pointing at the appropriate line. Just in case, I added that the letters “DOB” above my birthdate stood for the phrase “date of birth.”
She looked at the DOB, and then at me.
“Oh.”
That’s it, I thought. I’m officially in the fucking Twilight Zone.
“Is there anything else about the license that is bothering you?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “It’s from Oregon.” She does not pronounce the state name correctly.
“And?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Did this bitch flunk geography in grade school or something? She’s never heard of Oregon?!
“I promise you,” I said, “it’s a state. An American state.”
“Well,” she said, putting the license back on the plastic mini-table that customers used for writing checks. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Your lack of education shouldn’t be my problem, you moron. But I don’t say that. There are people waiting behind me, and as I turn around to gauge the impatience of the man behind me, I can see on his face the unmistakable expression of amusement.
“Get your manager,” I said, not bothering anymore to hide the irritation from my voice. “And I suggest that your manager bring an atlas.”
She calls the manager over. The manager, a woman of Shamu proportions that must have been interrupted during her evening feed because she was annoyed as she arrived.
She does not bring an atlas.
“Za problem?” she said as she arrived at the counter.
“This gentleman is purchasing some beer along with his groceries,” the cashier said. “And he gave this for his ID.” She said the word this the way someone might refer to a warm bucket of phlegm.
The manager looked at it. “Oh,” she said.
I make a silent oath to myself that if I hear either one of them say “oh” again, I’m walking out with my license.
“Let me look this up.”
Apparently the manager has access to a book depicting driver’s licenses from various states and provinces throughout North America. She finds the one matching my license.
“Oh wow,” the cashier exclaims. I gaze at her in undiluted astonishment. Yes, you poor addled sop, a place called Oregon really exists. Thank you so much for making me feel like I’ve moved to the edge of the fucking universe, where apparently anything further away than the address of your crack dealer doesn’t register upon your consciousness.
The manager reads the description of the Oregon driver’s license, her finger moving under each word as she reads. I note that she is apparently a VERY slow reader. She gets to the part about the back of the license having two bar codes on it. She flips the license over and examines it.
One bar code is of the traditional design, lines of varying thickness. The other bar code is made of varying pixels of black and white.
“Does this look like a bar code to you?” she asks the cashier. I almost blurt out my disbelief that she’s asking this geography-impaired nitwit for a fucking opinion.
“Uh,” she saids. “I don’t know.”
Shamu studies the license for a long, long time. At one point, she glances up at me when I shift my stance in a rather obvious manner and says, “I’m just making sure that you’re over 18.”
“Do I LOOK like I’m over 18?” I ask her.
“Well,” she said. “I don’t know.”
GodDAMMIT!
True story: some number of years ago, I was asked to provide my ID when I tried buying a ticket to see the movie “L.A. Confidential.” Now I’m getting a flashback to that moment, when I’m staring at that prepubescent chick behind the glass wall wanting me to prove that I’ve reached the age of majority just so I can see an R-rated movie. I was about 24 when that movie came out.
I’m not enjoying the flashback at all.
Now I’ve dropped all pretense of civility. I pull out my hospital ID badge and slap it on the mini-table. “Ask yourself something: do you really think that the Children’s Hospital would issue an employee ID badge to someone that hadn’t even finished high school?”
The manager stared at the badge. It was a rather nice piece of work.
“Well…” she said. And that was all. She just trailed off into an empty sentence.
“Look,” I said. “I really don’t have all night. I’ve got lots of unpacking to do. Just make a command decision as to whether or not you think I’m over 18. If you decide yes, great, I’ll pay for everything right now with cash. If not, I’m walking out the door and getting all this stuff somewhere else.”
She stares at me. “OK. I think you’re 18.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said, as I get my license back and fork over some money.
Some people just don’t have the common sense of an oyster.
(In case you think I’m being facetious, you should see the number of military guys who hand me their ID and really think I’m not going to do the math on the fact that they’re under-age. It’s truly mind-boggling. They have the nerve to get pissed off about it, too, when I make fun of them. Which of course I do. Repeatedly.)