Discount carded

I was in the grocery store the other day for the first time since I returned from Australia. Vons in the Valley.

I walked the aisles slowly, eyes wide over the colorful boxes of cereal and seemingly unending choice of Coffee Mate flavors and brands of half and half. The refrigerated section full of ready-to-eat food that I didn't know could be all that ready to eat was something I didn't know I missed. And the range of special little healthy drinks and packaged health food was too much, frankly, for me to take in all in one visit. So I meandered, bought some frozen burritos (organic!), pre-cut celery, nectarines, and a six pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, among other things, and headed to the checkout counter.

This is where my joy ended. This is where the romantic dream state died. And this is the point at which I was reminded that there are stupid people everywhere that need to be clocked.

At the checkout counter, I waited patiently for a group of five or so people clearly preparing for a party to get themselves into the line, which seemed to be a bit of an undertaking that my glaring failed to expedite. Finally they begin to unload the cart of party supplies. I looked at the gum, wondering if they had the same stuff I chewed in Australia. They didn't. I selected another brand, which ended up being slightly unsatisfying, but whatever. It's gum.

"Sorry, that phone number doesn't work," I heard the cashier say to the leader of the pack after I selected my gum. "Do you have another one I can use?"

"That's my number, so no."

"Anything? Any other number you can think of that might work for this card?"

Now, granted, I came into this exchange late, but, I'm sorry, he doesn't have another number, dumb ass! The big to do continued, and, in the end, the kids couldn't get a discount on their groceries, because, as I found out after listening closer, you need a number to prove that your discount card is your discount card.

My turn.

"Do you have a Vons card?"

Sigh. "No." I was patient. I was calm. I replied quietly and quickly in order to end our exchange.

"Are you sure?" said the bagger. The bagger. Really? I turned my head toward him.

"I'm sure."

"Because sometimes it could be some random number that you once had but it will work. Maybe your parents' number? Sometimes,  you'd be surprised, they'll have a discount card that they use here."

I looked at him. My parents? He was busy bagging my stuff, lobbing flippant suggestions because he desperately needs me to save money on my celery. And, apparently, my so-called "parents" have a discount card that I could be using right now to save this unbelievable amount.

"No," I said in the same tone, though I looked at him with only one eye from under a raised eyebrow.

"Would you like to sign up for one?" asked the cashier and not the bagger.

Tag teamed. God damn it! I could only muster a head shake.

"You would have saved on two items by now," said the happy, rather smug by now, bagger. Are you fucking kidding me?

This time I looked at him, with both eyes, and said nothing to him as he continued foisting my goods into bags. I thought about their Saturday morning staff meeting wherein the head guy tells the staff that registrations are low and they need more names and numbers. More people to (prostitute) offer deals to!

I was finally allowed to complete my transaction and leave the store. When the day began, I wasn't the biggest fan of grocery shopping, but I gave into nostalgia so that I might buy beer. From now on, I will only go to stores with self checkout.