dispatches from the america

Some like to call the global south the "third world" but my current latitude is pretty damn close to Canada and I could've sworn the other day that I was in a place less that "developed." The place in question was the customer service desk at a local "supergrocerystore" in which you can buy both novelty t-shirts that merrily announce the onset of hunting season and Dorito knock-offs in bulk. I was getting a key to my parents' Infiniti copied so I can occasionally tool around town/drive into oncoming traffic on my way to Michael's, my favorite Chinese-produced inhalant supplier (they offer 50% off coupons ALL THE TIME), without having to wait till my mom's makes me lunch to grab her keys.

So I'm at the counter, being helped by a rosy-faced young man with a bit of a paunch and a kind manner named John. I simultaneously wondered sincerely why he hasn't killed himself yet and how I can make him my friend (we would eat tacos and watch movies together), and then briefly pondered whether the American education system intentionally breeds what its overlords ensure will become a nation of fine customer service employees, like John. Better that than a nation of perma-breeding substance abusers, I suppose-- at the next counter over was a woman, probably not much older than myself, outfitted from head to toe in grey "sweat" material (the uniform of suburban high school dropouts, along with silver eyeliner and cakey mascara), her hoodie allowing plenty of room for the approximately seven-month old fetus lounging about two feet below the "bullshits" and "fucks" emanating from her mouth in a voice that only be described as 2-packs-away-from-corpse.

She was attempting to return a box of contact lenses that she claimed were for some 84 year-old man in her life, but Scott L., the cross-eyed manager of the department, refused. Scott L. kept his cool as the mother-to-be insisted that she receive a gift card or cash in return for the contacts, accusing the institution of "not hav[ing] [their] shit straight" and that they should in fact get it straight. Scott L. told the woman that they could not grant her a refund of any sort without a receipt. She continued to express her dissatisfaction with the policy of the store as Scott L. pointed to a sign that stated said policy in large bold type. He suggested that she retrieve the receipt and bring it back to the store, to which she responded with more displeasure, stating that she lived in a town about twenty minutes away. Scott L. pointed out that they do have another branch in that town. She was not pleased with this response. This inane back-and-forth continued for several moments before Scott L. left the window, reiterating that this elderly man's health was the most important matter. Scott L.'s absence didn't deter the woman from firing expletives mostly to herself.

There's a phenomenon that has sprung from the unwavering, God-given rights in America of "freedom" and "we're the rightest" and "I deserve." An unintended consequence of this very modern American viewpoint is the formation of a new type of American: a person who is so incredibly wrong but so certain she is right, who will go to great/insane lengths to convince other people that she is right, including willingly embarrassing herself in public to starting completely unwarranted/pre-emptive physical violence. She believes that by executing these actions, the world outside her own mind will then be convinced she is in fact correct. This is evident on the Jerry Springer Show, in our former president's bombing of Iraq under the pretense of "weapons of mass destruction," and in the existence of Sarah Palin admirers.

The future mother stood at the desk with her fetus for a good minute or two while she muttered to herself incoherently and folded up a bag at the glacial and uneasy pace of a beer sipped while you were drunkenly sure you'd puke in a few minutes. I remained vaguely afraid to look over, as she was volatile and I lamely feared she would view my non-junky face as both a threat and an easy target. A quick glance revealed heavy eye-lids and a lips that were close to harboring drool. She finally slouched off.

"Tweaking?" Nancy S. was about to go on break and had swung to the front of the desk with a hardcover from the library.

"Just a little" said William N., not without irony, who had been quietly watching the scene unfold from the next desk over.

"Sad," said Nancy S. She sounded like she meant it, sounded like a mother herself, maybe of someone around the woman's age.

John apologized for the key taking so long to make. I told him not to worry and thanked him sincerely, and cut in front of everyone on my way out of the store.