John Wayne

I bullied a cashier into carding me for beer. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

I don’t even drink beer. We were having a few friends over so I went to the store to buy supplies: alcohol and carrots. I planned to make a fruit and vegetable platter, but needed carrots. I knew what would happen. The vegetables would sit out all day. A thin crust would eventually form on the dip bowl. Then, I would quietly bitch and moan about wasting my time and money on food nobody wanted. My 4-year-old daughter insisted on tagging along. There is nothing classier than buying alcohol with a pre-schooler.

I placed the beer on the conveyer belt. “Ba, Ba, what does that say Mom?” I whispered that it was beer. “Beer? Are you going to get drunk again?” Again? What the is this kid talking about? The last time I got drunk was three kids ago. There wasn’t an ‘out of order’ sign on my uterus and my breasts weren’t looking at my toes. Don’t get me wrong I have had a good buzz at parties here and there. I’m not a total square.

When the cashier scanned the beer a question popped up on the register monitor. Is cust. over 40? She looked at me, toward my daughter and back at me trying to do the math in her head. Wrinkles + 4-year-old = x. It was like a showdown in an old western movie. I could hear the whistling in my head. Then, I pulled out the big gun; the bitch, you better not guess wrong because I am still in my 30’s look.

“Young fella, if you’re looking; for trouble I’ll accommodate ya”

She swallowed hard. “Can I have your ID please, ma’am?” I gladly showed her what may he the worst drivers license photo ever, grabbed my carrots and rode away on my horse in my minivan.

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