September 30, 2006
RITE ON! or HOW TO CHECK ONE'S NUTS AT THE DOOR
(Neither my finest nor most poetic piece of prose)
Friday was a great one in NYC. The cold snapped in by evening and it was one of those days just a few after the equinox that one walked down the street smiling and thinking "Huh, I probably should have brought a jacket with me; I kinda miss that jacket" instead of "Damn! Why didn't I bring a jacket with me?!"
I met with some friends at WR after they got off from work and there was a spirited discussion in the back garden regarding the merits and downsides of bidets. We're a very high-minded crew. We later decamped to a nearby southwestern restaurant where I shared some flautas(sp?) and the company of the perpetually lovely Meghan. After walking M. home, I headed back to WR to pick up my stuff and drink some stuff.
I gotta say, for the members of the conspiratorial bigoted lunatic fringe out there: Jewish people don't just control the international body politic. Apparently, they also control Manhattan's night life. From the few night's I've seen, the days between Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur have been deader than dead. I suggested that K put "Do Something Tonight You'll Have To Atone For Tomorrow" on her bar's sidewalk chalkboard, just to drum up a shred of business.
So things weren't jumping. And I mean no disrespect to my companions sitting veritably alone at the end of a mostly vacant bar, but I was beginning to feel like I was in the Losers' Lounge of the Bravo Channel's "Celebrity Poker Tournament" hosted by Dave Foley, which I'd joined after going all-in on a hand anchored by a pair of threes. It was bleak.
Here's where we get to the nut of the story.
As I'm wont to do, I asked my friends K and K and the bouncer Junior if they wanted anything from the store before I headed over there. Kendra said "Yeah, get me some chips: sour cream-and-anything flavored, and some salted peanuts." She gave me $5 and off I went. Walk into any 24-hour drug or convenience store and one can find anything sour cream-flavored. I'm pretty sure I saw sour cream cough drops, right next to the garlic and onion band-aids. So the chips weren't a big problem. The peanuts were a tougher nut to crack.
Rite Aid's corporate inventory manager must have a sweet backdoor deal with the honey-roasting industry. You can't buy a goddamn nut in that store that isn't honey roasted; either that, or honey roasting is Planters' way of pawning off remaindered nuts to second-string retail establishments. Finally(!), I found a can of salted peanuts with the Rite-Aid private label brand. I got the hell out of there with my snacks.
I was a returning hero for about 30 seconds, when Kendra tore into the can.
"Gauh!" These suck! They're totally stale!"
I tried some. Actually, I don't think they were stale. They weren't crisp or crunchy like roasted peanuts were supposed to be; I guess I'd describe them as mealy. And for salted peanuts, they weren't very salty. They tasted gross. Not stale, but they basically sucked. Suddenly, my grand gesture had turned into an affront, so I offered to take them back. K's kind of a ball-buster. I love her like a sister, but I'd hate to have to bunk with her in prison 'cause I'd be her bitch in about six, alright, three hours. And it wouldn't be the good kind, like one would hope for in an imaginary mixed-gender prison establishment. She'd be shopping me around in trade for smokes or something. She's kind of a tough cookie (although all gooey and sweet in the center; just don't tell her I said that.) So like I said, I offered to take them back.
"Oh! You're going to return 'em?" holding up a can of opened peanuts and with not a small hint of sarcasm. Apparently, my manhood was being challenged. She helpfully pointed out the Rite-Aid quality guarantee on the side of the can saying "We guarantee the quality of all of our products and will provide a full refund to unsatisfied customers. With a smile."
OK. I was being called out. With an audience, albeit a very small and probably drunken audience. Over a $3 can of peanuts. This is how some guys gut-check themselves in the stupidest situations they hoped they'd never got involved in.
"Hells yeah! It says it on the can, so I can't see how they can't give me your money back."
"I'd like to see that."
"Alright then!"
And that's how I marched across 2nd Ave. and surrendered my dignity, but like to think I gained a small shred of respect.
I walked back into Rite-Aid and picked out three bags of chips that basically--or, exactly--matched the dollar value of an unopened can of peanuts, although mine was now opened and essentially worthless. I was prepared to throw down the gauntlet, invoke Robert's Rules of Order, and the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury. I was not going to be denied. I let it all ride:
"Uh yeah, I'm really sorry, but my boss is kind of a . . . psycho . . . and I'm pretty sure she's . . . schizophrenic. She just kind of . . . realized . . . that she's maybe allergic to nuts. She's gonna fire me I don't get these exchanged. You can keep the two cents difference if I could just exchange them for these chips."
"I'm gonna have to get approval from my manager."
"Of course; sure, yeah!"
And just like that, I swaggered back; the conquering hero. That story, of course, was too good not to share--and I am a terrible liar--so I copped to it to K in about 30 seconds. I think she knows I'm not the type to browbeat some poor woman working the graveyard shift at a Rite-Aid. I'm comfortable with that.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at September 30, 2006 6:05 AM
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