I buy a diet Coke and a Hershey bar. So far, so good.
Debit or credit? the clerks asks.
Debit, I reply. I’m thinking I’ve got it made. And then.
The clerk, an attractive enough woman in that Boy George sort of way, places my soda and candy bar in a plastic bag. This will not do.
“I don’t need a bag,” I tell her.
She looks up sharply. What’s the old song? If looks could kill they probably will. That’s me.
“What?” she says, giving me an icy stare.
“Oh, you know,” I mutter, not wanting to go into the whole plasticwastegarbagedumenvironmentalismarantxasanchezvicariosavethebabyseals-
She isn’t satisfied. She stares at me. I stare at her. She stares at me some more. My Hershey bar stares at my diet Coke. They both appear to be staying out of it.
“Why would you tell me you don’t need a man?” she asks in a tone that doesn’t even bother to mask its accusatory nature.
“Um, no, I didn’t I mean uh …”
I realize I have crossed some imaginary line in her head. She is greatly offended and I’m not sure how to fix it. My mind races through old Dear Abby columns. Nothing. Really gotta switch to Dan Savage in these trying times.
And then I hit on the perfect solution.
I grab my bag, put my head down and make a run for it. Screw environmentalism. Survival comes first. Just gimme three steps.
It lives with me in the car now.
Because, come to think of it, I DO need a bag.
I suppose it’s all karma. or maybe karma chameleon …