Carded
As Ginny and I traveled to and fro yesterday, we stopped at a drug store so I could buy some pipe tobacco. When I took two packs up front to pay, the young man at the register asked me for a picture ID to prove that I am over 18 years old!
This confused me because I turned 18 over 50 years ago but I dug in my pocket and showed him my senior citizens bus pass.
He said that the chain management has decreed that anyone, without exception, making a tobacco purchase must show proof of age.
Since no one else was waiting, I told the young man about something that had happened to me back in 1969 or ’70 when I drove a tractor trailer truck all over the United States.
I happened to met a bunch of other drivers in some city; I think it may have been Indianapolis or Okalahoma City or Omaha — doesn’t much matter. Anyhow, six or seven of us got to talking and decided to go out for supper and a beer.
We settled in this bar and the cocktail waitress, a youngish but veteran blond, came over to our table. She appeared very shy and spoke to the youngest guy among us saying, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
All conversation stopped as we focused on her.
She dropped her eyes and spoke just above a whisper, “How long are you?
She captured our attention now as she extended one arm and began to measure off inches with her other hand. The flustered young man stopped her when she’s measured about a foot. “I believe that! A handsome young guy like you. You don’t have to prove it… not here. Not now,” she whispered throatily in a voice laden with undefined promise.
She really had our attention now.
She demurely spoke again, “Can I ask you another really personal question?”
The flustered young man bobbed his head, too stymied to speak.
She leaned close and said, “How old are you”?
“I’m 22” he replied.
“That, you are going to have to prove,” she said, “Let me see your ID”.
At that the lot of us roared laughing. Not a one of us had seen that coming.
That clever, diplomatic waitress created a lot of good will for her bar without embarrassing anybody about being carded.
She entrenched her tact in the memory of a crusty old truck driver 40 years later — and earned herself an extravagant tip.
Please, visit my website for more www.cowart.info and feel free to look over and buy one of my books www.bluefishbooks.info
posted by John Cowart @ 3:52 AM
3 Comments:
John, lately I've been leaving my blog reading to just a couple of chunks of time a week, which means I often read a number of posts from one person in one fell swoop. It is interesting to see patterns, or dare I say, repetitious themes.
But in your blog you portray the full gamut of human experience, like the funny bar story and preposterous idea of your being "carded", your ethical musings in "A knotty Halloween problem", challenges to the Iron Chefs in "Comfort me with apples", and of course your irreverent, sometimes amusing, always thought provoking theological posts. And then there is "An unexpected pain", where you lay your most inner self bare. I salute you, John, for sharing yourself so completely with us.
No freaking way. Woooaaah...that was funny.
But to be fair, your carder could have thought that you had that disease that makes you look much older, right? Something like that? ;)
that's a great story!
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