I went into a RiteAid drugstore
recently 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?” she
demanded.
“1939.” Satisfied, she took my
money.
Back story: I needed to replace the Bic insert in my
favorite lighter, a 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 summer 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, and 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 with cigarette lighters and
that RiteAid was shielding the health of geezers. Still, I wonder what the immigration
requirements are for moving to California.
This is becoming a very scary place to live.
