Earlier this evening I had the fortune to observe the following scene unfold in a local Wal-Mart. There’s really not much need for set up here except to note that, as usual, the lines were excruciatingly long and that I was standing in the Express Lane. For those of you unlucky enough to frequent one of these said portals to hell on a regular basis, you’re familiar with the fact that there is a three foot by two foot sign over each of these Express registers on a twelve foot pole with reads ’20 Items or Less, Please.”
Now, I’m standing in a line with approximately five people in front of me and fifteen behind me because Wal-Mart, in all their cost saving glory, refuses to open more than five registers whenever their parking lot is over seventy-five percent full. The cashier helming this impending disaster is obviously, or more probably obliviously, nonplussed by the entire situation and is taking her and everyone else’s sweet time in ringing up each item as if she was the first to examine King Tutt’s treasure. About the time she has whittled the workload down to only about three more people in front of me, it comes to my and the gentleman’s behind me attention that the woman in front of me has a cart nearly full of items. We begin to make increasingly loud conversation about the fact that apparently not everyone had the mental faculties required to count to twenty without starting over on their fingers or having to take their socks off. General tittering and continued comments could be heard directly behind us for at least thirty feet.
Before we get to the real meat of the story, however, I need to describe this creature of inelegance that was camping out in front of me. The woman was obviously middle aged but for some reason had the compunction and audacity to dress as if she had just raided Hannah Montana’s wardrobe collection (come to think of it, I think I may have seen most of her outfit on the clearance rack on my way through to look at power tools). The woman was most likely an attractive African-American lady at some point before gravity, age, and significantly bad choices began to take their collective tolls, and now her multicolored peacock-esque travesty of a highly over glued hair discombobulation was only outdone by her hi-I’m-auditioning-for-the-part-of-the-human-coke-spoon-in-the-next-Tarantino-opus nails which were carefully positioned away from any possible contact with her cart. Her overall appearance, coupled with the fact that she seemed to audibly grunt and snort at our comments while she picked whatever small animal she had recently fed on from her teeth with said nails, forced my little writer brain to grant her a nickname there on the spot: Haughty, Unimpressive, Bitch Like Entity, but we’ll just refer to her as the HUBLE for short.
Moving on, the HUBLE approaches the register and I hear what is one of the best conversations I have heard in quite some time while jammed in that eternal cautionary tale that is shopping at the local Wallie World. It went a little something like this:
Cashier: “Ma’am, I’m sorry but you have too many items for this line. I know you’ve had to wait but I can’t ring you up here. The next register is just opening with no wait and I’ll get her to hold for you.”
HUBLE: “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes so no, I’m not moving. Ring up my shit.”
Cashier, smiling ever so slightly: “Ma’am, you are over the item limit for this register and I can’t process you through here. You need to move to the next register.”
To clarify, the other register was wide open and actually waiving off someone at that second to accommodate the HUBLE as quickly as possible. Hey, it’s not often the blue vest squad gets it right so I guess you have to call it for them when they do, you know?
HUBLE: “Look bitch, what you need to do is ring up my shit and let me get the fuck up out of here. Plus, I’m in a hurry and just got my nails did (sic) so you’re gonna have to empty my mofuckin’ cart. So how bout you snap too and do your fuckin’ job ho.”
Before anyone in line could start in on her, and believe me there were a number of volunteers aside from little ol’ me, the cashier smiled just as sweetly as she could and spoke.
Cashier: “Honey, what you need to do is get your ghetto country ass out of my line and in the back of someone else’s before I have security through your common ass on the sidewalk. Now move.”
Just as I was about to indulge in a bit of hero worship, a voice piped in from somewhere behind me and also suggested that what the HUBLE should also consider is sitting down next to one of her four or five bastard kids at the house and watch some damn Sesame Street to learn how to count. The woman then began to imitate the Count on said program perfectly with a fast “One, two, three dumb ass bitches in Wal-Mart ah, ah, ah.”
Needless to say the HUBLE’s pride, and possibly her pinkie nail on her right hand, was seriously injured as she slunk to the back of the now ludicrous line that had formed at the previously empty register. It should be noted that she was all the while talking loudly about how much she hated white people. For the record, my overgrown ass and the lady with the improv skills were the only two Caucasians in the vicinity.
You know, boys and girls, life isn’t the easiest thing to slug through on a daily basis. I think it’s important to be appreciative when the little entertainments like this come along.
That, and quite honestly, sometimes it’s just satisfying to watch a dumbass get theirs.
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