From my cranial archives, filed under “WTF just happened?!”

I was on my way home from work and stopped at 7-11 to grab a pack of cigarettes. Yes, lung-blackening, life-shortening tobacco. To you, perhaps, that’s the “WTF,” but wait, it gets better.

This was a long time ago. You, my emphysema free reader, may not understand, but just after horse and buggy made their exit, cigarettes were locked behind the counter. Probably as much to prevent theft as to deter under-aged smoking. (Or maybe vice versa?)

But I am so old (How old are I?) I started smoking when you could sneak away from a restaurant dinner with your parents and buy them from the vending machine in the lobby. Or the bowling alley. Or the mall.

You don’t know how lucky you have it being protected from such a calming, delightful, nerve-sooth… I mean, smoking is bad… and whatever… anywho….

So, to buy cigarettes, you have to wait in line, holding nothing, which is awkward in and of itself. I never know what to do with my hands. Sometimes I’d buy a Snapple just so I could fidget while waiting my turn. Is that even still around? Strawberry-Kiwi was my… jam? Is that still a thing? How old are you, anyway? Does your mother know you’re here?

I get to the cashier and place my order. He stares intently, almost like he’s waiting for a punchline. I stare back, just confused. He asks for my ID. My turn to stare intently, because you only have to be 18 and I have very obviously been 18 at least twice at this point, but as he is holding the key to the cigarette case, he has all the power, so I hand it over.

Now, I’m not going to say all convenience stores — that would be racist — but this particular location had a penchant for the less… let’s just say he hadn’t made it out of chapter books yet, and I watched his lips move as he read my address. To date, there is no law requiring a blood sacrifice for tobacco, so I reached over and snatched my license back, admittedly kinda really pissed.

He has the pack in his hand, he pauses and asks, “Do you have a husband?” I did chuckle, but it was that losing-my-temper-but-trying-to-hide-it chuckle, and I reply, “uhh… no.” He counters with, “A boyfriend?”

He still hasn’t hit “total” on the register and I’m certainly not going to waste more time stomping out and driving somewhere else, so I give him a straight, chuckle-free, “No.”

I know where you think this is going, I did too, and I was preparing… but the next question caught me so far off guard…

“Who makes your car payment?”

I said “what?!” at least three times because… What?!! Did I walk into Little 7-11 on the Prairie? 7-11 B.C.? Who makes my car payment?

Thoroughly shocked, perplexed, gobsmacked… I blurted the truth. “I don’t have a car payment.” But I did wonder why the assumption was, if I did have one, I wouldn’t be capable of making the payment myself. It’s not like I’d just given him five dollars in change scrounged from the coin return of the pay phone in the parking lot. (Oh yea, I went there, I said “pay phone.”)

I never went back to that store. As a matter of fact, I moved. Yep, just to spite that arrogant 7-11 cashier, I bought a house and moved out of his jurisdiction.

Do I still smoke? Eh, maybe. 

Do I still drink snapple? Oh hell no, at my age, heartburn city!