The Scratch NOTsy

Everyone knows that Val likes her scratchers. She scratches every day. Her habit takes her to assorted venues to purchase her lottery tickets. It is a positive experience 99.99 percent of the time. Saturday was not one of them.

I stepped into the liquor store with specific tickets in mind. In my hand were four winners. A $15, $6, $3, and $3. I always have the bar codes scratched off. All the clerk has to do is swipe them under the scanner at their Missouri Lottery terminal. It shows the amount, and then prints a receipt to send in with the tickets. One receipt for the whole transaction.

First of all, I couldn't get in the door of the liquor store! Is that any way to do business on a Saturday afternoon? Technically, it was only half the fault of the liquor store. There are double glass doors, to pull one or the other open to enter. The one on the left was locked. I tried it twice. Because I could see through the glass that I wasn't getting in the right door. A woman had just entered, pulling a BABY CARRIAGE, and had parked the bambino RIGHT THERE. Oh, she was nowhere in sight. Just the blocking baby buggy, practically with its front rim against the glass. 

I finally pulled the right door open, and peered around, wondering if I dared touch another woman's baby buggy to move it back so I could enter. I decided not. Then she came up the first aisle, and pulled it back a couple inches. "Sorry." Then she stood in front of the counter, like she was going to buy something.

I squeezed my ample rumpus inside, and tried to stake out a socially-distanced spot of tiled turf to wait. Momma ambulated her perambulator out the door then. Never making a purchase. I bellied up to the counter, holding my four winning scratchers.

The lady behind the counter is one I've encountered before. Her disposition has not improved. She just stood there, kind of behind a hanging-down display. I thought she might be catching up with something. Maybe she'd just taken over the drawer. Maybe she was getting a money drop ready. Since she didn't greet me, I waited, looking at the scratcher case. I had my winners fanned out, so it was clear that there were four of them.

"Did you want to cash those?"

"Yes."

"Are you getting more tickets?" [Said with an inflection like YOU'D BETTER BE!]

Let the record show that Val is not a demanding customer. Never in a hurry. I don't sit upon my high horse, spurring it to paw the ground and snort, looking down my nose at people I consider there to SERVE ME. Although they literally ARE there to serve me. They're cashiers!

Such was the vitriol that I actually considered turning tail, and galloping my high horse out of there, never to darken their door again, since it seemed to be such a PROBLEM to complete my transaction. You know what a hot-head Val is with people who give her less than exemplary service. NOT! You'll never see a customer more meek than Val. The only reason I stood my ground was the thought that if I left, I would have one less venue for the purchase of lottery tickets.

Anyhoo... I responded to her question-demand with:

"Yes, all but one dollar of it."

It's not like they have a sign that they won't cash tickets, or that there's a limit on how much (like Casey's has a $100 limit). They are a licensed dealer for the Missouri Lottery, and, as such, a part of their duties is to redeem tickets. I was not expecting them to do anything special.

"Well, we're out of BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."

"I'll never remember all those. But I'd like a number..." I named my selections, slowly, so she had time to remember them. As luck would have it, none of them were tickets she was out of. She tore them off, scanned them, put them on the counter, and looked at my receipt.

"Are you sure you don't want a one-dollar ticket?"

"I'm sure. I never win on them."

Sheesh! You'd think she begrudged me my ONE DOLLAR back.

I hate going in when she's there. It's like she doesn't want to do anything. Just standing there breathing at her counter is somehow triggering to her. Like I should NOT ask for any kind of service. Last time, it was the lanky guy working, who called me HON. So cheerful and polite. This gal is like that certain Seinfeldian soup-monger.

Oh, and all my tickets were losers.