OH, CRUEL WORLD!

By Dig Reader

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Dear liquor store girl,

You were my favorite clerk. We've shared snickers over snicker-worthy customers. You never complained when I added a pack of cigarettes onto my purchase at the last minute. I've even seen you ogle the hot guys in the shop with your coworker. I do that, too! We could have been friends!

But then, one night, as I was prepared with my picture ID facing you—because I'm a rule respecter, I respect the rules—you waved it away. "But ... why?" I asked.

"You come in here every day," you replied—WITHOUT EVEN MAKING EYE CONTACT! How could you see where the barcode was on my six-pack over the bridge of your skyward-tilting nose?! I thought we had a thing. No judgment. Like at Planned Parenthood. Or, er, AA.

Do I still offer my ID and wait for imminent rejection? Do I avoid your register, making my chagrin obvious? Your "hey how's it going" greeting—do I detect the suppression of a victorious chortle in it? What was once a comforting treat at the end of the work day is now marred by self-awareness and the slight twinge of shame. One day, I won't be back. But not today, liquor store girl. You've still got me to kick around.

See you at 6:30. 

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