After patrolling aisle after aisle of produce, clothing, miscellaneous home supplies I’m floating on a serious high. Feeling my Zen, my mojo, my whatever. I’m moving like a ninja, stealthy, dodging carts driven by toddlers, avoiding collisions with distracted granny’s. I am on my ISH! Mentally I calculate the length of the lines while also figuring up the amount, with taxes, of my purchases. I am multi tasking like a Sonofabitch.
I make my decision, push through with a smile, come to a halt in the line and…. Feel the bottom drop out of from beneath my feet. What the what? What is that little notebook, those tiny sheets of paper that you are happily scribbling on. It can’t be a… gasp… checkbook?! I mean who does that? I feel pieces of my life slipping away and think, not again! No more.
No more will I stand idly by while life is stolen from me by such a one as this. Indignation rises up in my breast… How dare you?! I will not take this. Two steps forward… Scurvy bastard… Slowly puts my purchases on the belt, adding the divider with a little click of irritation. Standing in that line I declared Revolución!
The time is now for us. We, the cash toting, debit and credit card swiping, time saving, in and out, bad mo… shut yo’ mouth! The time is now that we should rise up against the shackles of paper checks. Those vile little sheets of paper holding some oblivious soul hostage. Those halting progress in the checkout, proud of their little ledgers, their silly questions ringing like a spike in your ear. “Do I need to write anything?”
We glare and make unflattering comments in our head. Our expression becomes corrupted from the moment that tiny notebook clears their person. Time slows down to nanoseconds, each a flick, a lash flicking across our consciousness. A rush of air swirls, fills your ears, like the ocean. Our pupils dilate in disbelief as we are transported to the past faster than Marty flipping McFly.
Our lips clamp tight to hold back the venom tickling our lips. Words of angst and disdain screaming through yur brain. Our fingers grip at the buggy handle, hoping to hold it still against the overwhelming desire to drive the cart into the jovial check writer’s flesh.
Why are you doing this to me, we wail in our head. Why, why, why?! Swipe your card, swipe your frigging card! They turn benign eyes to us, smiling with innocence like they had not wasted life that could never again be recaptured.
Our skin is flushed, feeling like a victim of a kidnapping. The cashier is the hostage negotiator, verifying the funds transfer for our release. Our eyes are now glued as that slip of paper is sucked in, spit out, sucked in, spit out. Little words scrolling across the back, a covenant with the store and the Neolithic asshole who gave it to them.
When they slowly push the cart away, a heavenly choir sings. The sun pushes past the clouds and the rushing leaves my ears. This is not over. Another day we will war, nemesis. You, I and that little notebook. And on that dark day, I will be the victor.
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