I went into a RiteAid drugstore this morning to find those
mini Bic lighters. My mistake. I had to interrupt a clerk chatting with an
octogenarian lady about her health to ask where I’d find them. She walked me to the candy and food aisle and
there they were, three for $3.99. And
some good-looking chocolate to go with a wonderful Bordeaux I’d found.
When I checked out, the clerk asked what year I was
born. “Why?” I asked.
“We have to ask everyone.”
“What? For buying
Ghirardelli chocolate?”
“No. The lighters. Didn’t you see the sign on the door? We check age for cigarettes, lighters, all
that.”
“Look at me! Do I look like a teenager?”
“What year were you born?” This pit bull was not going to give up.
“1939.”
Back story: I needed
to replace the insert in my favorite lighter, a Breitling watch promotional
piece given to me by a niece who works at Tourneau. When I went to an air show at McGuire Air
Force Base last week the Air Police wanded me, along with the 10- and 11-year-olds
I was with. Then the AP (we used to call
them Apes) asked suspiciously, “What’s this?”
“A lighter. For
lighting cigarettes.”
“I’ll have to take it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“We have jet fuel here.”
I replied, “I think I’m smart enough not to smoke around jet
fuel.”
“We have jet fuel everywhere.” And, poof,
my lighter disappeared into his pocket. Turned
out all of us tourists and gawkers were stuck behind 100 yards of Jersey
barriers, another hundred yards from the planes, which kept flying back and
forth, from the left and then the right, upside down and right side up, Very loudly.
I hate to be a grumpy old geezer. I should have been proud that the Air Force
was protecting me against terrorists of all ages, and that RiteAid was shielding
the health of geezers. Still, I wonder
what the immigration requirements are for moving to Canada. The U.S.A. is becoming a very scary place to
live.
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