The sad fact of the matter - and it’s a tough pill to swallow - is that I don’t have enough money for ice cream.
The calzones are waiting in the car. My fiancée is waiting at home. The lady behind the counter is waiting to be paid. All of us – me, my fiancée, the lady behind the counter, even the calzones – will be happier when I complete this transaction. Unfortunately, though, there is a snag.
I don’t have enough money.
The calzones were more expensive than I’d anticipated and even though I left the house with twenty dollars, I only have five bucks in my pocket at the moment. That should be enough for some chips, soda and ice cream: it certainly would be at a regular grocery store. There is, however, a reason that places like this are called convenience stores, not value stores.
I started sweating during my ten-minute wait in line, as each of the approximately seventy people in front of me each paid more than five dollars for their purchases. By the time I reached the grumpy cash register lady, I was distinctly nervous.
“Nice night, huh?” I’d started to banter, only to be silenced by an icy stare.
Now, the grumpy cash register lady, who I’ve privately nicknamed Helga, has added up my total – eight dollars.
I know exactly how much money I have on me. I know it isn’t enough to pay for this purchase. And yet, for some reason – call it stubbornness, call it stupidity, call it masculinity - I decide to look through my pockets for the eight dollars anyway.
Explain this to me. Please.
I have a bad habit of hauling too many of my personal effects around in my pockets and it comes back to haunt me now. Under a grumpy squint from behind the register and amused sniggers from the line forming behind me, I remove two sets of car keys from my pockets, along with four pens, a white-board marker, a staple-puller, a five dollar bill, a handful of pennies, a watch, my cell phone and half a handful of lint. I make a pile with all of it on the counter, next to the junk food I can’t afford.
I’m now in the profoundly uncomfortable position of having to question each item of my purchase – “How much was this? Uh, huh – and how much was this?”
Surprisingly, the only reasonably priced item is the bag of chips. In a moment of whimsy, I’ve picked up a “Fiesta Mix” bag of corn chips, cheese curls, pretzels, and – for all I know – floor sweepings. This is two dollars – not exactly cheap, but considering where I am, not too unreasonable.
Each ice cream bar however, is almost two dollars. These obviously have to go. Ditto with the sodas.
“Could you void all this, while I rethink the situation,” I ask Helga. She glares for a brief moment, then sighs with resignation and gives a grim nod.
(Throughout this whole process, I can imagine the tortured screams of the calzones in my car, painfully congealing.)
An embarrassing series of trips to and from the counter ensues. A half-gallon container of plain vanilla ice cream rings up at $4.90 and is returned to the freezer. Replacing the sodas with juice, or even bottled water does not provide any real savings.
The rest of the people in line have made a tacit agreement to let me butt to the front of the line with each humiliating price-check. I am providing a small measure of amusement – of the thank-God-that-isn’t-me kind.
I briefly consider going to the extra-discount section of the junk food aisle, but ultimately decide not to. My fiancée has been pretty understanding up until now with my on-again, off-again affair with Little Debbie, but it’s probably better not to push it. These things should be handled with discretion.
I end up getting the chips and one soda. I pay and thank Helga, who gives the vaguest hint of what looks suspiciously like a smile. I think she’s just glad to see me go.
I nod to her and after pushing fruitlessly for five or ten seconds on the door marked “pull”, make my way out into the night.
