Old People

In my 2+ years at the grocery store, I've had the (sometimes mis)fortune of meeting a lot of old people.  I'm aware that the world, as a whole, is an aging culture, as taught to me several years ago in my sociology class with one fantastic senior citizen in Mr. Chuck Leonard.  But for how a town that boasts a high school fed by multiple districts, there are a hell of a lot of old people here.

For some, the IGA is likely their only connection to the outside world.  My experience tells me that they just want to get out.

One in particular is a nice older lady.  For awhile she came in late at night after I'd sent the last checker home.  I'd seen her in a lot, and after a few times, she revealed to me that she'd lost her husband.  I don't remember any of the rest of the conversation, but figured this might have to do with the fact that some older folks come in every day of the week.

But once isn't enough for a particular old man, who in one shift I've seen come in at least twice and heard he was already there before I've gotten there.  He's a shy guy but he'll always flash his smile.  Despite coming in multiple times a day, he's got a wife.  So I really can't figure out why he's in there.  One would guess he might want to escape from her, but he usually ends up dialing the Missus for one reason or another.

The real inspiration for this post came from working Friday morning.  I'm going to backtrack and say that the night crowd I'm used to working with is, on the whole, a more youthful crowd, with the biggest exception being two people who work third shift at the nursing home.  One regularly buys a few items and never wants her receipt.  The other usually only buys candy, paid for with a crisply bent dollar or two, plus change from his leather zip-up wallet.

But I digress.

While nightside is by and large a more youthful crew, it does have its old people.  But not nearly as many in the morning.  And, in my experience, old people in the morning are grumpy and unwilling to help me or themselves.

I was stocking the shelves with items freshly delivered that morning.  I caught eyes with an old lady and thought, as a manager, I should smile at her and say hi.  She thought, as a customer/old lady, she would just glare back at me.  No smile, no wave, not even a blink.  I kept walking.

Later on I encountered an old man.  This particular one felt, despite the narrow aisles of the store, he was required to take up what little room there was with his cart while bent over looking for the cheapest can of soup.  Carrying something which required both arms and knowing I'd never make it through the sliver of empty space he left, I said, "Excuse me," which got him to slowly turn around and look at me.  I readjusted what I was carrying and had to move this man's cart for him.

I should probably use this point to stop and discuss old people driving - not long, but just enough.  Ambling with canes, heads cocked to the side and leaning on the cart just to stay on two legs, it is my belief that folks who can barely walk should not be behind the wheel of a 2,000-pound motor vehicle.  At least they're driving slow.

I started this post speaking positively of old people and I think I should end it that way, instead of just badmouthing them. 

This one particular old guy came into the store to get some water softener salt.  He came in, paid for it, and when the two workers were loading it up for him, he noticed a difference in what the sheet of paper said above the salt outside the store and the price it rang up at.  It took me awhile to figure out what he was getting at (old people have a weird way of asking for things.  One guy said "yeah, gimme a couple lottery tickets."  "I'm sorry, how many?"  "TWO!"  Just tell me two in the first place, old man.)

I finally figured it out and he goes, "I don't mean to be a bitch..." and I had to go back inside because I was laughing so hard at those words coming out of this guy's mouth. 

He was refunded his money and sent on his merry way.

What others are thinking

I've had the opportunity to be at a few parties in my day.  As normal as some of the behavior is to me (headbanging, moshing, property damage, violently screaming, rented wheelchairs), I realize it's got to be shocking for the typical beer pong player to witness some of this.

My friends have asked me a lot lately, as somebody who chooses to stay sober, what a party with them is like.  My response: unless any of the above outrageous things are happening, a party usually sucks for me.  I've come up with an intense gang of hellraisers and for me to settle with anything less isn't satisfying anymore. 

Even more than my reaction (since I know my friends and what they're capable of doing), I've really got to wonder what other people think.

So over the last couple of weeks I've compiled a list of people who have never met the group as a fully functioning world-wrecking unit yet to see what might be going through their minds watching the mayhem unfold.

Handlebar dude:

I just showed up at this party with my Natty Light.  I walk into a room labeled 'The VIP Lounge' and half a dozen guys are congratulating my handlebar mustache.  Weird, but, I'll roll with it.  They ask me where I'm from so I tell them.  None of them know where it is so they're not interested. 

But I'll be damned if I won't have a fun time.  Clearly these people love my choice in facial hair.  I'll use that to my advantage to make friends with every last one of these people.

Girl whose boobs are almost out because she wears a tube top to this party and wrestles one of the more insane people of the group:

I just got to this party a few minutes ago.  For some reason there's a wheelchair here but nobody is handicapped from what I can tell.  Whatever, I'm gonna get drunk as fuck.

It's been awhile and I'm pretty loose.  I'm with my friend, and this guy we met just took my show.  Time to wrestle!  He's a wiry dude and I think I'm into him.  The three of us grapple for about 5 minutes before I get my shoe back.

Now a long-haired beared maniac has taken possession of the wheelchair and is spinning around doing wheelies.

Oh no, the afro'd bastard just suggested he do a kegstand in a wheelchair...

WHAT ARE THEY DOING?!

Pissed Off Bro:

I'm playing a game of beer pong and I see these dudes walk in.  One of the guys seems to know somebody else.  Whatever.  Just don't wreck my streak bro.

Aw fuck, I dunno who this assclown is.  But these ugly motherfuckers have him up and he's doing a kegstand.  Did this guy pay anything?

On second thought, he clearly didn't.  He just left.  What the fuck?  Well, he's gone, but his friends are still here.  One of them is drinking straight from the nozzle on the keg.  And another one is pouring it into one of our kitchen cups.  That's it, I'm gonna punch these guys in the face.

Wait, where'd they go?  I hope they didn't take that cup with 'em.

Pissed Off Bro #2:

So I'm dancing to this shitty rap music.  It's so loud the neighbors probably can't hear their shitty metal music over it.  Yes!

The door is open to this place and there's a dude in a wheelchair being pushed in.  All these people are chanting "Let him party!"  What a buncha assholes.  Hey, who the FUCK let these guys in here?

WHO LET ALL YOU UGLY MOTHERFUCKERS IN HERE?!  This is a bro party!

I dunno who the guy was with the afro, but I'm gonna go kick his ass later on tonight.  Fuck these guys.

A-B-C

I just went to the store to pick up some apple cider.  That stuff is just too good.  As I was checking out, one of the checkers asked me when I start school again. 

In a haze, I forgot what day it was.  But it wasn't going to do me any good to remember when this lady kept shouting "Tuesday!  It's Tuesday!" in the next lane.  I looked over to see a woman about my height, probably in her late 30s and blonde as she unloaded her basket with a few groceries.  While she kept shouting at me, I shook myself out of my confused state and wanted to tell this crazy lady today is Monday, but just looked at her and went, "What?"

"ICC starts school on Tuesday."

"Oh, well, I go to Bradley," I said in a moment of clarity.  "And we start school on the 21st."

I hate saying where I go to school.  Everybody here assumes that college-age kids go to ICC first, probably also assuming they'll fail or drop out and work at a place like the grocery store the rest of their lives.  I'm not saying people don't have a right to earn a living, I'm just saying grocery store manager isn't something I still want to be doing when I graduate.

By not going to ICC, I hopefully made this lady feel like an idiot for rudely interrupting my conversation. 

On the other hand, what usually happens when saying you go to Bradley is that people act like you had to outlast some sort of battle royal to get into the school. 

"Oh, you go to Bradley!"

"No, I go to Bradley," I say.

Luckily for me she shut up and paid for her items, leaving me to wonder why she was so belligerent in telling me when ICC starts school.  Maybe she has kids of her own that she wants out of the house.  Or maybe she's one of those parents that lives vicariously through her kids, knowing every single appointment they need to meet and weird facts about them. 

The soft side of me thinks she was just trying to helpful in my seemingly confused state of mind.  Things might've been clearer if this lady wasn't shouting at me in the first place. 

If she wanted to help me, she would've shouted, "It's Thursday!  Thursday the 21st!"