Okay, here it goes. Another Old Coot, pet peeve! Well, it can’t really be called a “pet” peeve since it is article # 652, all of which were some sort of peeve. They can’t all be Pet. I’ll just call this Peeve #652. It takes place in line at a counter. A checkout counter; an ordering counter; a merchandise return counter. Any counter where humans line up.
The line moves along fairly well, with only the usual number of glitches: people who wait for the clerk to announce the cost before digging around for their wallet (like it’s a big surprise they’re going to need it), or people who change their minds and ask the clerk to remove an item from the total, or people with an expired coupon and the clerk has to ring for the manager, or the tape on the cash register runs out and has to be replaced. None of these delays push my peeve button. I expect them and have set my temperament on tolerance instead of crabby.
It’s okay for a while, but little by little the irritation builds up. Maybe the “wallet-seeker” takes extra time getting into their wallet, or the coupon challenged customer has more complications than an expired coupon; they are also trying to use it on the wrong size item. Then along comes the TALKER.
She tells the clerk she likes her haircut, “Where did you get it done?” The clerk is hooked! Flattery gets you a conversation. “Over at Shear Paradise,” she replies. “Katie did it.” A conversation is unleashed. The customer says, “I go by that shop all the time; I’ll have to give it a try.” “You should,” the clerk responds. “They are all excellent stylists.” – “It goes great with your face,” says the customer. “Thanks,” replies the clerk. “I used to have bangs, but this style changed me. I love it.” Bla, bla bla, on and on go the Talker and the clerk.
Meanwhile, her groceries remain on the conveyor belt while some old coot standing in line holding a gallon jug of milk in one hand and juggling a Snicker’s bar, a tub of ice-cream, a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a bag of chips in the other. He wasn’t smart enough to grab a basket on the way in. Why bother? He just came in for milk. (I refer to myself in the third person when I do something stupid.)
Here’s more of the stupid part. The conversation with the clerk follows an ebb and flow pattern. Just when it appears to be coming to a close, it shoots off in a new direction. Finally, the old coot, three back from the TALKER begins to weaken; his hands are cold, turning blue and cramping up. A rumble sounds and then the volcano erupts, “GET A ROOM,” yells the old coot and then looks around, as though in wonder. Everyone else in line looks at him. They know who said it. They would applaud if they could do it without joining his team. Finally, the line moves forward. The old coot gets to unload his items on the counter. When the clerk looks up he says, “I like your haircut; where did you get it done?”
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