On Wednesday afternoon, I decide to stop by on my way home from work. I need a few things and this store has several different kinds of bubbly in small bottles. Yes, I buy the small bottles because they don't explode at me when I open them, and because it's just me so the small bottles don't go flat in between mimosas.
When I arrive at the counter, a gentleman around my age is behind the counter talking to another employee, a younger guy, about how he used to belong to a union. "The best union," he says proudly, "the very best union of any of them." I know instantly that he is not talking about the national teachers' union because that's my union, and, quite frankly, the teachers' union sucks as anything other than a political mouthpiece. The older man keeps talking, gives me a side-glance, and starts ringing up my order.
MAN: "ID?"
ME: "Excuse me?"
MAN: "Yeah, I need to see your ID."
At this point, I turn to look behind me. I mean, it's a slow day, a Wednesday afternoon, and I may very well be the only shopper in the entire place. I look back at the guy, who is staring at me intently.
ME: "Am I on Candid Camera?"
MAN: "No. I just need to see your ID, please."
ME: "Are you punking me?"
I have my wallet in my hand to pay, but there is no way I'm taking my license out for him, not because I am trying to be rude. I am quite simply in shock. I know when I go to the Boston Garden for hockey games, every single vendor is required to ask every single patron for an ID every single time. But this ... this is Twilight Zone shit. I shove my wallet toward him with my ID still firmly behind the plastic sleeve that covers it. He sputters and stares then continues ringing me up. Maybe that great union he belonged to was the Welders' Union, and his corneas have fried.
MAN: Uhhhh, just tell everyone you got carded today, I guess.
ME: Yeah, I guess so, indeed.
I shake my head, hoping to be on the road and driving before the apparently blind old guy leaves work and gets behind the wheel of his own vehicle. Then, I take my purchases and head to the car. Now, let's be serious here. There is no way that guy mistook me for a twenty year old. Nope. No way, no how. All I can imagine is that the two cashiers were bored out of their skulls with such a slow afternoon. It probably went like this --
(I walk into the store. I am the only shopper. I disappear down the aisle to the back of the store.)
OLD GUY: Hey, let's bet on the broad's age.
YOUNG GUY: How will we know who wins?
OLD GUY: Well, whoever waits on her, let's card her.
YOUNG GUY: What?! She's like seventy. Maybe seventy-five!
OLD GUY: Nah. I'll bet she's like fifty-six-ish.
YOUNG GUY: Are we doing an over-under, or do we have to low-ball like on The Price is Right?
OLD GUY: Whoever is closest in years. Doesn't matter over-under.
YOUNG GUY: Ten bucks?
OLD GUY: Yeah, but let's pay it out in lottery tickets.
YOUNG GUY: You're on!
That's how I imagined it because my gray hair and wrinkles surely give me away. It's a fun game, and I'm sure they both had a big laugh at my expense. No matter. I got the bubbly, and I am enjoying my purchases. It's a win-win in my book.
