Secretly hoping I get carded while buying PBR at Walmart
Jan. 23—The single cashier manning all 49 self-checkout stations at Walmart used her finger to tap a string of numbers on the screen as I waited patiently off to the side.
I've always despised the awkwardness of having to be waited upon, so I tried to break through my discomfort by making things worse with pointless small talk. I believe my go-to in this particular instance was "It's busy in here tonight," although it very well could have been something as equally inane as "Sure wasn't expecting it to get this cold today" or "Do you think that cat I spotted wandering around your parking lot lives around here?"
Whatever drivel flowed from my mouth, the cashier rightly ignored it and continued tapping the screen as if she were using it to translate the Bible into Morse code.
After what felt like forever, a box popped up in the middle of the screen. It asked but a single question of the cashier:
"Is the customer under 40?"
The cashier looked away from the screen and toward me, then down to the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my right hand, then back up at me again. Her eyes narrowed above her disposable mask.
I tried giving her my most innocent grin. Which was pointless, first because I was doing nothing wrong, and second because I, too, was wearing a mask.
I'm 40 on the dot — unquestionably old enough to both purchase bottom-shelf domestic beer legally and also pass the checkout station's single question standing between me and doing so.
And yet, I must admit, I feel a touch of pride at that skeptical look and the question that, at one point in my life, so often followed it:
"Sir, do you have your ID on you?"
I've always found obsessing over age to be a pointless, frustrating endeavor. After all, everything ages, and without a lick of input from any of us. Might as well spend your time worrying about whether the cells inside your body are dividing properly or fretting over the number of times you blink in a day. So, I'm getting older. Big whoop.
Plus, it should be clear to anyone who's ever seen the way I dress that maintaining an acceptable outward appearance is not high on my list of priorities. So when I catch a glimpse of my reflection and see the relentless waves of time have ebbed away at my youthfulness just a little bit more, I do my best to shrug it off. What do I care about those dark circles under my eyes? You know who else has dark circles under his eyes? Batman. So, I'm basically Batman.
Still, mythical is the person who truly loves to think about the inevitability of aging ... of the body's ongoing decay until it is left little more than brittle, wrinkled husk of the vibrant person it once represented. Who could possibly enjoy looking in the mirror each morning and seeing the wear and tear of yet another stressful day growing on his face like a tumor? Nobody, that's who. And no one likes Nobody.
So yeah, whenever those self-checkout screens ask their gateway question about my age, and the cashier requests that I prove I am, in fact, old enough to buy booze, it touches upon that part of me — however small it may be — that takes pride in the scant visible remnants of his youth.
As I offered the cashier an innocent grin she couldn't see, I began to slip my driver's license from my wallet, knowing it would soon be demanded of me. Before I could hand it to her, she turned back to the screen.
"Is the customer under 40?" it still wanted to know.
With a quick stab of her finger, she answered, "No."
"Thank you sir," she said as I gathered up my groceries, legally obtained beer included. "Have a nice night."
Sure, I thought. The dwindling number that remain.
ADAM ARMOUR is the news editor for the Daily Journal and former general manager of The Itawamba County Times. You may reach him via his Twitter handle, @admarmr.
