| rev:text
| - I need therapy. I must suffer from some kind of disorder. I need to learn meditation, something to help me cope with everyday nuisances.
For me, a trip to the grocery store is "about as popular as a root canal." That's under the best conditions. On a recent Friday afternoon outing to Trader Joe's (reeling from the news about J.D. Salinger), I was on edge almost as soon as I walked in.
The PA system was cranked up full blast to help employees kick off the weekend. I saw one worker dancing in the aisle. It's great to see people having fun at work, like the fish throwers in Seattle. But the music. Others hear a snappy tune. To me it's just piercing screams, blood-curdling caterwauling. Shrill sounds make me cringe. I struggle to overcome the urge to howl. The fight-or-flight response starts to kick in. The heat is cranked up to about 85. Blasts of hot air bear down on me like a blowtorch. As I grab items from the shelves, the mounting discomfort weighs on me. I'm growing ill-tempered.
When you step up to the checkout at this Trader Joe, the first thing the checker does is hand you a slip of Trader Joe receipt paper to write your name & phone number. That enters you in the weekly drawing to win a $25 gift card. It's a special drawing for those who recycle shopping bags or bring their own.
This guy didn't give me the entry slip. I'm fighting to hold the remnants of a good mood. Swiping my credit card, I mention the drawing. "I suppose you want me to give you some paper," he says. I'm getting testy. He hands me a bit of paper from the receipt machine. Trader Joe employees tend to be cheerful and helpful. How did I end up with this douche? Why me?
While I fill out the slip, the lady behind me in line is crowding me. I don't like being crowded. I grab my groceries and start to leave. The checker gives me a look of wide-eyed bewilderment. "YOU HAVE TO PAY!" He's shocked. This is the first time he's confronted a criminal.
Shit. I know I swiped my card. What the hell? Bad swipe! I have to step back to the credit card terminal and swipe again. Now I feel really stupid and annoyed.
The lady beside me grimaces and clears her throat. I mock her.
"Ahem! Ahem! Sorry for the inconvenience," I snarl.
"I wasn't being rude," she says. "I have bronchitis and I was just clearing my throat." Damn, she does look sickly. A pathetic old creature.
Right about here is where the voice comes in: WANT TO GET AWAY?
The checker glares at me like I'm a monster. I bolt.
Normal people aren't fazed by hideous music, blasting heat, people crowding them, or checkers with attitude. They can laugh off a bad swipe. To a normal person, that vile hag was just a harmless grandma. Is there rehab for guys like me?
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