Burn in hell, Publix whores

June 16, 2005

Some how, even after constant stops at my local, friendly, neighborhood Publix, the cashiers do not remember me in the slightest. Normally I don’t obsess over clerks in grocery stores, but I go to that store so often to pick up beer or chicken wings that you would think they would know me as the “alcoholic carnivore and devourer of many a chicken wing,” by now. They don’t seem to remember at all, however. Which makes the whole “Did I wear this shirt when I went in yesterday? Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. She’s a whore anyway, who cares what she thinks,” debate that goes on in my head before I head to Publix a waste of time. They don’t remember me or my same stained t-shirt or bloated face and it doesn’t matter. I base all of this on the fact that every single time I go up to the counter and show my ID, I’m given the classic line: “Oh, a New Years baby! Were you the first one born?”

I can see the poor girls huddled in an orientation office somewhere on their first day at work. “Now,” says a balding manager, “requesting ID’s is something we have to do, so let’s make it as easy as we can for our customers – if they were born on Christmas day, by all means, crack a joke about them being such a wonderful present! A New Years baby? Ask them if they were the first born of the year! It’ll make them feel relaxed and appreciated, and that’s how people should feel when they’re in Publix.”

I’ve been forced to fake a smile and reply to the question so many times that I’ve actually given several different responses, ranging from “Oh, I doubt it,” to “Well, it was North Dakota, so I guess it’s a possibility,” to “Nice shoes, wanna fuck?” That last one is a complete lie. But regardless, I would remember the weird, disgruntled looking fellow frequently buying 12 packs of Schlitz and chicken meat by the box if I was a cashier, and I would probably remember forcing myself to blurt out that horrible line about the New Years baby to him – so why don’t they? I’m a strange bastard, admittedly. Does that not call for some sort of memory of me? Couldn’t they at least have a negative memory? A small one?

Tonight the exchange with the cashier was something about her being tired and getting off in 30 minutes. “Have a good night,” she said as she handed me the receipt. I responded with “You too, well, what’s left of it anyway!” I immediately scampered off when I realized my comment was vaguely threatening and mostly odd. Maybe I’ve just been reading too much of that Jack the Ripper book. For future reference, I did not murder her.

Anyhow, that’s just something that was bugging me. I’m not a memorable person. OK. Good, I didn’t want to be remembered. I guess it doesn’t matter. Aside from all of that, they were out of Beck’s Premium Light, so I suppose my fat ass is going to stay fat. Here’s to Grolsch and calories! Cheers!

5 Responses to “Burn in hell, Publix whores”

  1. DBW Says:

    So, were you the first one born? I read that whole thing – twice – in hopes of finding out the real answer, but I didnt find it. Come on man, you cant end it with a cliffhanger like that!
    Screw it. I dont care dammt. What I do care about is that youre just now getting around to reading about Jack? What the Hell?! Werent you supposed to read that book on your way to Ireland… the first time? Cheeses! First you slap me across the face with the Tomatoes thing, and now this, whats next, huh? Whats next?

    — DBW —

  2. Drew Says:

    For whatever reason, I had set it down and then forgotten about it. I picked it up again a few days back and wondered why I had put it down. Although I’m still not done and still not convinced this guy Sickert with his deformed penis (if he had one) had anything to do with any of it. But its a nice idea. Yes, I’m full of bad excuses.

  3. Ted Says:

    Who the hell is DBW?

  4. Drew Says:

    Family member from California who is angry because he told me to read Jack the Ripper: Case Closed and watch revenge of the killer tomatoes, both of which I’ve failed at.

  5. Michael Says:

    I worked at a movie theater for 9 months, most of which was spent tearing tickets and cleaning people’s shit up because they are lazy fat asses and don’t want to waste their calories from their double-butter popcorn and gallon of coke on throwing that shit away.


    Tearing tickets… Right… I saw a lot of faces every night, and I must say that I only remembered the ones that were either obscenely fat or ugly or disfigured in some way. So at least she doesn’t have that sort of memory of you. Better to be just another asshole buying beer than that guy with the fucked up eye or something. Be grateful, you son of a bitch.

    Just my two cents…

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