By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
My wife and I were walking by a local ice-cream chain when she decided she wanted to indulge in a creamy scoop. It was there that we met you: a cashier with unkempt hair, fingernails sporting badly chipped pink polish and an attitude usually reserved for DMV employees. You shouted out, "Next person in line!" as if we were in jail waiting to grab our cafeteria lunch.
While my wife went to the end of the display case to point out her selection, you refused to shuffle your lazy ass from the opposite end. You only leaned over your cash register and stared at us. I exclaimed, "My wife's pointing at the flavor she wants!" Still nothing but a blank stare.
We walked over to your end of the counter to see what the misunderstanding was. It was then that you greeted us with, "$2.30." That's it! The price of our scoop of ice cream before you'd even scooped it!
I handed you my debit card, and it was only after you swiped it that you informed me of the almost-$1 charge for using it. Tired of your attitude and annoyed by the extra charge, my wife grabbed the card back and snapped, "Forget it!" You still hadn't scooped our ice cream, anyway.
As we stormed out of the store, we heard your eerie words echo out: "Next person in line!"
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