Will Val Be Banned From the Gas Station Chicken Store?

I fear that I may soon become persona non grata at the gas station chicken store.

They will not be giving me a thumbs up after yesterday's full-cup faux pas. When they see me enter, they will now see the cup as half empty rather than half full. Or probably completely empty.

Today I had good intentions. I was climbing right back on the horse that threw me. Dancing with the one what brung me. I should have sensed the bad moon a-risin' as I sat at the stoplight and watched a jacked-up pickup pull directly into my favorite parking spot near the door. AND glanced over at my moat parking space, and saw it occupied with a silver sedan.

I parked by the moat anyway, right under the big sign. Tempting fate, perhaps, but it didn't fall on T-Hoe. I hiked across the parking lot and into the store, my first obstacle being the plumber's crack of the giant man who was putting his weekly gas drawing red tickets into the cardboard box, and dropped them. He almost sent me flying as his buttocks lurched at me when he bent over. I may not be O.J. Simpson running through an airport, but my knees aren't shot yet. I juked around the noontime thankfully-not-full moon, and headed down the candy aisle to come around the end and get to the soda fountain.

Hullo! What's this, then? People in the way of my draught!

The gas station chicken store has two soda fountains, side by side. Coke. And Pepsi. Blocking both of them was a mother and two daughters. I assume a family connection, because they resembled each other, and the mom was bossing the kids. Not unduly. Kids need bossing. They were a round family. A say that not to be condescending or snarky, but merely for descriptive purposes. Val herself has never been svelte, and she does not stoop to not-svelte-shaming others. People come in all shapes and sizes. This family was the shape of basketballs with legs. It was like two daughter moons orbiting their mother planet.

It was, perhaps, their last hurrah of summer. Schools around here start on Thursday. All three gals were wearing some kind of tights that stop just below the knee. I'm not into fashion myself. There's probably a name for those togs. They were black, and each gal also wore a brightly colored striped or patterned knit shirt. Not matching each other. Fashionable enough for these parts. Each had her straight hair pulled back into a neck-nape ponytail. They were not slobs. And they were well-behaved. Not like the screeching toddler banshee I encountered in Walmart yesterday.

Anyhoo...they were taking up prime real estate that Val was in the market for. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I, myself, have done so in the past, when taking my two boys with me into a convenience store. Just the facts. Three people take up space. It's awkward in tight quarters.

The older girl, maybe 13, and the mom, had 44 oz sodas. They were putting on their lids and getting straws, and throwing away their wrappers in the wastebasket down by where I was waiting. The younger girl, maybe 9, was dissatisfied with her drink. I didn't hear the exact conversation, because Val is not an eavesdropper. The gist of it was that she wanted something different. I DID notice that while the older two were preoccupied, she was sipping heartily from her 32 oz cup.

As a solution, the mom told her to just pour it out, which she did, in the Pepsi fountain. The older girl pointed to the Coke machine, where there were two spigots for tea. I don't know the difference. I don't drink tea. The younger girl commenced to filling her cup with tea. That might sound petty, for Val to mention how that girl POURED OUT 32 oz of soda, when Val herself poured out 44 oz of soda yesterday, ON THE COUNTER AND FLOOR. But sometimes, Val IS petty.

Anyhoo...another customer strode in during the refilling. She might have been on lunch break from the nearby can-opener factory. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and tennis shoes, with her frizzy fried hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Again, Val is not pointing a digit from within her glass home, she's merely describing. Her own brunette lovely lady-mullet is generally in some faded-out state or another, so no shade thrown on Can Opener's color job.

Can Opener crept closer to the soda fountains. She saw me there. Acknowledged me. It's not like there was anywhere else for her to stand. As the stellar family orbited away from the drink machines, Can Opener magnanimously motioned for me to proceed. Okay. I'm glad she had manners. But we both knew I was there first, even though my long white beard was just starting to come in. She didn't have to be so grandiose about it.

As I was about 30 oz into drawing my magical elixir, Can Opener could wait no longer. She grabbed her own cup, and stepped up to the Pepsi machine. Different strokes for different folks. It made me no nevermind. She barely had room, with the Orbits standing there in no-woman's land, not quite bellied up to the register, but with their backs to the chicken-ordering counter.

I took my full 44 oz of Diet Coke, and my $30 winning ticket, and started to check out. Mama Orbit had left her little satellites, and headed for the back of the store. The oldest one was standing at the front, but with her back to the register. I didn't know if they were ready to check out, so I stepped up and laid down my ticket and set down my 44 oz cup back away from the edge, with my hands off.

I THINK I BUTTED AHEAD IN LINE!

Mama Orbit returned just as I set down my stuff. Too bad, so sad. She didn't say anything to me. She was busy telling The Littlest Orbit that no, she was not getting a donut. I am sorry if I took their turn. But they needed to crap or get off the pot. Other people need to use the pot for their own crapping. So you don't just run across the store and leave your two young 'uns holding down the pot.

I was in no hurry, though. I'd waited a good long time for them to complete their soda fountain performance. I even asked what number the next ticket was, and took it anyway, even though it was number 018 on a roll that goes to 019. (I won $60 on it, too!) My transaction was completed without incident. And by incident, I mean a deluge of Diet Coke cascading down the counter and onto the floor.

The Man Owner didn't seem at all put out by the fact that I might just possibly have cut in line. I don't think he'll tape a sign to the register prohibiting sales to me just yet.