Well, it happened again. My problem with “line” people. This time it was in a Dunkin Donuts in an unnamed city south of here. The place doesn’t matter; it can happen anywhere that line-challenged people go, causing old coots like me to simmer in line behind them. I’ve bellyached about these people so many times you’d think I’d get over it, and I have, to a degree. I’m ready for the people who stand there for five minutes staring at the menu and when it’s their turn go blank, the people who are surprised they need to dig out their wallet and get money to pay. The people who yak into a phone and have to be nudged every few minutes to move up.
But my most recent encounter introduced me to the “line clump” phenomena. Two couples and five kids formed the clump. Blocking off the entire counter. It started okay, the fathers jumped in front of everybody and ordered coffee. Nice and simple: regular, hot coffee, no extras, no special mixes. Just coffee. That was a ruse, to trick me into thinking the clump wouldn’t be a problem. The kids, after their mothers pulled them apart and shoved them to the counter, went next. Not toddlers, mind you. Pre-teens and teenagers. The first one, a ten year old, couldn’t decide. After a minute of gazing at the donut rack, he raised his arm and pointed. “I’ll have that!” The clerk had no idea where he was pointing, but took a guess, “This one?” “No. That one,” he yelled. “This one?” On and on it went. He had terrible aim; he should get his finger sighted in the next time he uses it to point. Finally, the right one was determined.
Then came the drink decision. That only took thirty seconds of contemplation. “Milk!” Of course milk is in the cooler he was standing in front of for five full minutes before it was his turn. The clump parted, like the Red Sea, and he made his way to the cooler, grabbed a container of chocolate milk, getting a glare from his sister and a, “Mom said you can’t get chocolate milk,” from his brother.
One by one the little darlings made their way to the front of the clump and went through a similar process. Then, came the elder siblings, full-blown teenagers. All girls. They knew precisely what they wanted; a complicated latté prescription that would cause registered pharmacists to reel if they had to follow the formula. I couldn’t. I know it involved whipped cream, shots of this and that, ice on the side and a few other additions that must have been Latin words because I’d never encountered them before.
Finally the moms, the only real adults in the clump, came forth with their orders. And, then got into a fight over who was going to pay. “I’ve got it!” – “No, I’m getting it.” No you’re not!” An embarrassed wise elder from the teen group stepped forward and said, “Why don’t you each just pay your own tab?” The look on the cashier’s face was priceless. She’d rung it up as a single order; now she had to pull it apart. At this point I wasn’t annoyed any longer; this had turned into a “happening.” It felt like I was in the middle of a flash mob. I just chuckled to myself and watched the show. Yet another chapter in my handbook on line behavior. I’m slowly becoming the Emily Post of queue etiquette.
Comments, complaints: send to mlessler7@gmail.com.
