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Sauce: In which I make a mortal enemy.

I had nice encounter yesterday.  I was at the grocery store, ready to sell my soul and make my escape, when it happened.  I was peering down the aisles, checking out the check-out clerks, looking for one who wasn’t:
  1. A teenage guy.  
  2. An ex-tattoo artist/failed rapper with a bitter heart. 
  3. That girl who commented on my ice cream preferences in a negative way seven months ago.  

I was hoping to find a kind, comfortable middle-aged woman, or maybe that cute guy who was there last week and who I maybe just thought was cute because I liked his name (his name was NOT Elmo, in case that thought would ever cross your mind).  
ANYWAAAY. 
After six aisles failed to meet my criteria, I came to the last aisle, which was manned by a youngish woman.  She looked normal, so I stepped into her lane and set my groceries down.  As I did so, I glanced towards her to see more clearly who I was up against, and our eyes locked for a fatal second:




Then, she hastily removed her finger from the deeper recesses of her left nostril and wiped it discretely on her shirt.  I felt something I ate that morning take a u-turn and start traveling the wrong way up a one-way street.  But it was too late.  Basket on the belt, I was committed.  Not to mention, she knew that I knew.  I wasn’t going to be a wuss.  Swallowing hard, I pretended she wasn’t touching all, all of my week’s food, and started writing out a check.  
(Let me explain quickly that I prefer checks and cash to credit cards, simply because if I had a credit card I’m sure I would use it indiscriminately and maniacally.  Also I hate receipts.  Not to mention, in ten or fifteen years I’m sure they’ll put me in a museum somewhere with the label “The Last Checkwriter.”  Which would be, like, rad and groovy.  Dude.)

I was placidly filling in the amount when a finger descended from above and landed squarely on my check.


I thought, oh lovely, she’s holding it so it won’t move as I write.  Though that seemed hardly necessary and I had a...let’s say a suspicion...that it was the finger she used for, you know...other things.  I shifted my hand awkwardly and kept writing, only to be interrupted once again by a single word.  
“No.” She said.  
I finally looked up, into her eyes.  In them, I saw hatred.  I was privy to her secret...I had seen the darkness of her innermost being (not to mention her nose)...and could not be allowed to leave alive.  
“You don’t have to fill out your check,” she said, whisking it away from my numbed grip.  
“We don’t send checks to the bank anymore, so all our machine does is read the bottom of the check.  That’s why we give it back to you.  All you have to do is sign the keypad.”
“Reasonable, reasonable,” I said, “good to know, it all makes sense now, you have solved for me the mysteries of the universe and I am a better person for it.  Lady, I am in your debt.”
She continued.
“You shouldn’t pay with checks.  Almost nobody even takes checks.”  Then, triumphantly, “I have a card.”  Why don’t YOU have a card, you blinking IDIOT, you who think you’re better than me because YOU only pick your nose behind locked doors and actually know how to form numerals with a primitive writing utensil!  
I beat a hasty retreat, feeling as if I’d lost an important battle before I’d even known it was taking place.  



Of course, I was unprepared.  Next time, I’ll know my enemy.  After all, my meals this week will contain trace bits of her genome, which is the very essence of her being.  Next time, I will be prepared.  I will be armed, and I will conquer. 


I will bring cash and use the self-check.

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