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Where’s my Discount?

October 25, 2010 / / 0 Comments

It happened this morning. Turned another page in the life thing.

At the convenience store for my morning caffeine – Mountain Dew, if you must know – the tall clerk looked down at me and said, “Good morning, young sir.”

You’ve heard the same sort of thing, I’m sure. My mother is called “young lady” by one of the waiters when we visit. She’s flattered by it. He’s a handsome waiter.

I’m not sure I’ve reached the feeling-flattered stage, just yet. The Quik Trip clerk didn’t say “young sir” in a condescending tone; in fact, it rolled off his tongue as if I really was the ten-year-old street urchin I imagine myself to be. On the inside, I’m the Artful Dodger – only without the shoplifting and pickpocketing part. Street-wise and ready to take on the world.

Trouble is, at some point I turned into the old guy who enters the store and has the door held open by a young gang member. He had tattoos that had tattoos. His ball cap had a bill that looked the size of a carport and was shifted slightly to the side, probably to help him get it throught the doorway.

Maybe he held the door open because he recognized the Artful Dodger in me, except I’m guessing he wouldn’t recognize a character from a Dickens novel, if young Jack Dawkins led Oliver Twist right out of the book and they both picked his pocket.

The whippersnapper sacker at Reasor’s asked if I wanted to have him help me carry out my purchases – two little bags that could have easily been one medium bag. “I think I can manage,” I said, suddenly unsure.

There is bound to be an up-side the the whole aging thing, and I’m hoping it is more than the senior discount at Taco Bueno. I once thought that over the years I was storing up wisdom, but it turned out to be an after-effect from the tacos.

At least we (the Dodger and I) can laugh about it:

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What Changes We’ve Seen!

October 22, 2010 / / 0 Comments

The grandbabies are one year old today. In that amount of time, the twins have become little people, junior versions of the rest of us, smiling, laughing, making silly noises, and driving to Quik Trip for Hot Cheetos.

Time flies, you know. In just 99 more years, they’ll celebrate their 100th birthdays. How different I imagine it will be then. Those turning 100 today have seen some changes, don’t you know! Before 1910, there was no Jell-O. No toaster in the kitchen. In fact, the bread sold in the store wasn’t sliced – that machine hadn’t been invented yet. There were a few cars on the roads, but there were few good roads. And none of the cars had windshield wipers because they hadn’t been invented yet. In fact, rain had only been invented a couple of years before.

No doubt, the twins will see some changes. “What sort?” you ask.

I wish I could say. I hope all the changes are the greatest thing since sliced bread. They’ll probably involve cell phones, new apps, of course, like a lawn-mowing app and a drive-the-kids-to-the-dentist app. They’ll find some cures by then, and maybe I’ll still be around, getting rested up for the twin’s 100th birthday party using my cell-phone’s nap-app.

Happy Birthday, little ones!

Ghost in the Machine?

October 21, 2010 / / 0 Comments

I was standing at the counter behind the cash register. “Hello?” someone said. It startled me, I’m not ashamed to say. I knew no one was in the store.

It was assumed that no one was under the counter. That’s where the voice came from. I looked down.

“Hello?” I replied, after some hesitation.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m here,” I answered. “Where are you?”

“Here.”

Good thing we got that settled. Except it wasn’t really. Where was here? The voice was coming from under the cash register, down with the boxes and bags and stuff. It seemed to come from the paper shredder and I thought of K95FM.

When I worked there, the transmitter, all 100,000 watts of it, was on the top floor of the Liberty Towers condos. People who lived there could pick up their favorite country hits on their toaster, dishwasher, or electric toothbrush. The condo-owners sued. The transmitter got moved. Maybe it had been moved again – to somewhere near my shredder.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to find you,” I answered. “Keep talking.”

“Have you lost your phone or something?”

The phone. I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t know why not, really. At the moment, I was trusting my ears and the probability that her voice was rising up out of the paper shredder. Come to think of it, where is that darn cellphone?

It wasn’t in any of the regular spots, and as I made myself lower to get better reception on the shredder, my hand bumped the front of my pants. The phone was in my pocket. Ah, I thought, the phone has gone sentient. Calling people on its own now.

I finished the conversation out, speaker-phone style – since I don’t know how to change it without hanging up, or clicking off, or whatever it’s called these days. Disconnecting, I guess. I’m disconnecting now, I said, frivolously.

Time to read the manual and figure out how the phone sends its voice through the paper shredder.

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