It Has Come To My Attention

"It has come to my attention..." That's what the principal used to announce over the intercom at my first teaching job, right before he revealed some horrendous problem that was perpetrated by us, the faculty, and needed rectifying ASAP by us, the faculty.

I kind of feel like that now. It's obvious that VAL IS NOT MEANT TO WAIT IN LINE.

No matter what I do, something goes awry in The Universe when I'm in line. From people slamming boxes of donuts down on the counter, cutting in front of me, cutting behind me making the rest of the line mad because they think we're in cahoots, asking for my cheesecake, asking for whiskey money at 11:00 a.m., pressing up against me so that my buttocks are violated, ramming me with a Walmart cart, rushing from the end of the line when a clerk opens a new register and asks, "Who's next?" I never seem to have a good line-waiting experience.

I would settle for neutral.

No special treatment necessary. You don't have to move out of my way to finish filling out your paperwork. I'll wait. I'll stand at a respectable distance, patiently, making no sound, drawing no attention to myself. All I expect in return is for people to hold their own position, not talk to me, not touch me, and not direct their misplaced anger at me. So simple. But it is not to be.

Friday, I was standing in line at the Casey's where I get gas for T-Hoe. I was buying scratchers, so I'd have two to tuck into Genius's weekly letter. I knew which tickets I wanted. I was ready to ask for them by number. I had the correct change in my hand. I got in line parallel to the counter. That's how the line works in this Casey's. The current customer is by the register, and the line flows along past the lottery ticket case, the unused register, the donut case, to the cooler and pizza ordering counter. A place for everyone, and everyone in their place, leaving a walkway from the door across the store for folks to enter and obtain their future purchases.

Only one man was ahead of me. An old guy I see in there often, who always buys one of the same tickets I like, a $5 Money Multiplier. He bought two tickets, and the short mannish woman who is SO FRIENDLY joked with him about it being $50. He looked at me and said she was trying to put one over on him, and I said I thought she was giving him the discount rate. Her banter did not slow down the transaction, and soon I was right there handing over my own money for my tickets. She told me good luck, I thanked her, and turned 90 degrees to walk out the door.

WHOA!

I came mere millimeters from having my right eye gouged out by the corner of a pizza box!

Some weirdo was standing just off my right shoulder, holding a pizza box aloft at my eye height. What in the Not-Heaven? I am 5'8", people! My eye is fairly high off the floor. Who carries a pizza box that high? I, personally, would hold it between my boobs and my waist. Which, thanks to the Playtex 18-hour sweatshop workers, are not in the same place. Who carries a freakin' pizza box at Val's eye height?

You know how you have that 7th sense? Like how you can blink right before a bug flies into the window to your soul? Or how, when you're sick and need eye drops, you happen to blink just before that drop lands on your eyeball? I had that instinct, and jerked my head to the left and avoided having my eyeball hanging down my cheek like something pictured on Beaver Cleaver's forbidden sweatshirt.

"OH!" said the weirdo wielding that weapon of eyelash destruction. And pulled the box back a bit as I feinted. "I'm sorry!" You bet your rumpus you're sorry, lady! Who does that? Who stands on the RIGHT side, the door side, of the customer being waited on? When there are three people already lined up on the left, waiting their turn? And who holds a pizza box that high, so close, like a tween licking his hand and holding it next to his friends face, and calling his name so he turns around and gets a saliva facial?

"Whoa! That was close!" I kept on going, didn't engage, got the Not-Heaven out of there while I still had both my peepers. Jeepers, creepers! I didn't need a pity party, and my adrenalin was pumping. 

I suppose that high-pizza gal was with somebody else who was paying, and had picked up the pizza and was reluctant to leave the store until it was paid for, but didn't want to clog up the line or block access to treats. Maybe I should have some signs printed, and give them out for free.

IF YOU'RE WAITING TO PAY, GET IN THE FREAKIN' LINE.

IF YOU'RE WAITING ON SOMEONE ELSE, STAND IN AN AISLE, OR BY THE DOOR.

Seriously. Who does Val have to mock around here to have a normal line-waiting experience?