On the day that Call of Duty: Black Ops came out, I naturally found myself standing in line to get it for Nate (because I’m just THAT awesome of a wife, and Target seems to have a mysterious homing device that constantly calls to me). The electronics department was a disaster with early holiday shoppers and 12-year old boys fawning over the newest PS3 and Xbox games, and a growing crowd waited behind me at the checkout counter for someone to come ring us all up.
The woman behind me kept huffing impatiently at the base of my neck, and I had the odd feeling she was hoping I’d step aside and let her in front of me. No such luck, lady (and by the way, were you aware that they actually have DOZENS of checkout counters at the front of the store? No need to stand in this line for five minutes if it’s pissing you off that much. Geez). The clerk eventually showed up, taking my game and requesting ID so he could validate that I was old enough to be buying M for Mature. Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it when I’m older, right? So no problem…I handed him my ID but then remembered that the DMV punched a hole in it when I changed my name after getting married, and they’ve been taking their sweet time sending me the replacement. The guy looked at my mutilated ID, baffled, as I quickly explained the situation, pulling out my interim paper identification to assure him that I’m well over 17.
“That’s okay, I believe you,” he gestured to the paper, “but the machine requires me to swipe the ID of someone over 17 to check out with an ‘M for Mature’ rated game. I’ll have to get manager authorization.”
As he reached for the phone to call over a manager, the woman behind me sighed again loudly, stepping around me so that the clerk could clearly see her eyerolling and annoyed head-bobbing. “Um, if you want I can just swipe your ID to make this go faster,” he offered her. “It doesn’t record any information or anything, it just frees the lock on the machine so we can go ahead and process the purchase.”
She contemplated that for a brief second and then smirked hostilely. “Sure. You can use my ID to check her out…IF you check me out first.”
We both turned to her, the clerk’s head tilted in confusion, my jaw hanging slightly agape. Did she seriously just try to negotiate a line cutting in exchange for an ID swipe? And shall I remind you all that I’m pregnant? Aren’t people supposed to be NICE to pregnant women?? “Uh, no. I’ll wait,” I stepped up closer to the counter. I wasn’t in any big hurry. Game. On.
The clerk shrugged, bemused, and pressed the code to page the manager. “It’s just gonna take longer to get to you now,” he informed her.
She narrowed her eyes, her voice rising to a high shrill as she stomped off. “Well just nevermind then! I’m late to pick up my daughter and we’ve been waiting here FOREVER for someone to ring us up and…” she trailed off in the direction of the store entrance.
The clerk and I were left across from each other with incredulous expressions. I turned to look at the line, hoping the manager would show up before anyone else threw a fit.
“Wow,” the woman behind me remarked, handing her ID to the clerk. “I don’t think SHE was mature enough to be getting M for Mature, anyway.”