(Im)Patiently Waiting

I think I spent about ¾ of my waking hours the other day standing behind someone in line trying not to have my head explode.  It was tough, and I am now exhausted.

 It started out at the gates of Club Fred, aka Pelican Preserve, the 55 or better community (NOT a retirement community) in which my parents live in Ft. Myers, FL.  As I am not a resident, and have no interest in plowing through the gate, I have to go through ‘security.’  As much of a coward as I admit to being, I’m pretty sure I could take any of the guards if it came down to it, not that I have any interest in doing so, as following rules makes me feel safe and secure.  Anyway, there was a car in front of us who was apparently, from the length of time it took and the number of interactions between driver and guard, catching up with all the details of his life with his long lost twin brother that he hasn’t seen since second grade.  Then it was our turn.

 We pulled up to the gate.  I know we are on my parents’ list of permanent good guys, so there should be no requirement that anyone get in touch with my parents to see if the dangerous looking minivan full of iPods and stuffed animals and bathing suits and tired looking people was going to come in and vandalize the place.  We announced our names, and the names of my parents, whom we were visiting.  My maiden name, Brudner, is for reasons I never quite understood fairly unpronounceable for most people.  People never mispronounce Rita Rudner’s name, and routinely handle “Bruckner,” but substituting the “ck” for a “d” or removing the frontal “b” throws people for a loop.  So we had to repeat the name a few times.  I admit this offended me a little bit, as if my parents were famous and worth knowing and how DARE he pretend they were just one of hundreds of people aged 55 or better living on campus.  Eventually we were given our pass, along with an extremely friendly but not needed or wanted (my daughter’s teeth were floating in the 50 million ounces of root beer she insisted on getting from the RaceTrac 100 miles back) explanation of how it was good for six months, and so we should hang on to it, and my parents’ street was just down the road and to the right GOT IT JUST OPEN THE GATE THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

 A little while later I went to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for my world-famous guacamole, since my mother discovered 45 minutes before the actual event that she was actually supposed to bring something in a pot to a pot luck.  It doesn’t take me long to make guacamole, and the store was just around the corner, so I figured I had plenty of time.  I picked out the avocadoes and the other necessary items, and flew to the express line.  There were two men in front of me.  One had groceries already bagged in his basket, and the other just had a few items in his.  The ‘regular’ lines were long.  Two other folks got in line behind me, each with under 15 items, like I had and like they were supposed to. 

 Turned out the two guys were together, and had bought what had to be 75 items.  They wanted to pay for the items with a check.  Apparently the concept of a checking account was new to them, because they had to have help in filling out the check.  ID was proffered, and the cashier put the check in the scanning machine.  Swishswish.  And again.  And again.  She pushed some buttons on the keyboard of the cash register.  Then swishswish again.  Swishswish.  Swishswish.  More buttons.  More swishing.  More ID checking.  More pointing at checks.  Then the calling over of an Assistant Manager who looked like she had just come from her 10th grade history exam to come to her afterschool job as Assistant Manager. The Assistant Manager typed some things on the keyboard.  Then swishswish.  Swishswish again.  More typing on the keyboard.  Swishswish.  Swishswish.  This took a loooooooong time.  So much so that my ten year old daughter, who was with me, said, “What is the problem?” 

 Usually Socratic in my teaching methods, I said to her, “What is the definition of insanity?”

 She knew this one.  I use it a lot.  “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”

 “Good,” I said, praising my daughter for her ability to learn.  “That is what is going on.”  This was right before the actual manager came over to do some swishswishing of her own.  I finally caught the cashier’s eye.  “Is there any way you can void them out and deal with them at customer service so the rest of us can get through?”

 “Sorry,” she said.  “We can’t save a transaction and move it.  We have to void it out.” 

 “That’s what I’m saying,” I said.  “Void it out and re-ring it up at customer service so the rest of us who have been standing in line in the “express” line can get through.”  I admit it, I used exaggerated air quotes around the word “express” to make my point.

 I tried really hard not to roll my eyes when she said, “sorry, we can’t,” but I don’t know how successful I was.  I did not jump over the conveyor belt and throttle her, which is what I thought about doing, but did not and would not because such things are illegal, and I wish to set better examples for my impressionable children. 

 Eventually it occurred to the manager to send the cashier over to the empty lane behind us so those of us wedged in the “express” line could get through.  I made it back to my parents’ house with all of 96 seconds left to get the guacamole made.  I was only a few minutes late.  

 But it was worth the wait.

 Lori B. Duff is the author of the Amazon ‘Hot New Release’ Mismatched Shoes and Upside Down Pizza, a collection of autobiographical humor essays.  You can follow her on Twitter at @LoriBDuff and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/loribduffauthor