Eating at the intersection of Tasty and Infuriating.
So, Trader Joe's. All I really wanted was one of those Cubano wraps and a salad. On paper...in theory...this should be a 5 minute proposition. Park, walk directly to item, purchase, leave, and consume.
When will I ever learn that Trader Joe's doesn't really work like a grocery store, or traditional retail business of any sort. It's more akin to an indoor farmer's market. Not the shitty little one's that you can also pop in and out of in a few minutes, no, I'm talking about the shitty big one's that are congested with aging hippies and vegans.
My quick trip for lunch took 20 minutes. 5 of which was spent in the most passive stand-off I've ever taken part in.
Upon arriving, I'm greeted with the usual suspects in the parking lot, aka: lots of Subaru Outbacks. And they're being driven as if the atmosphere had been replaced by sticky, viscous, organic clover honey. I have to pick my battles though, and laying on the horn while an aging deadhead gathers the brainpower to back a station wagon out of a parking space is not where I need to start a confrontation.
Finally, I'm parked. I enter the store, I know exactly where I'm going, and I'm still under the delusion that this trip will be different from every other trip to Trader Joe's. I assume nobody would be so absorbed in reading the ingredient list on a box of macaroni, making absolutely sure that this is really organic and not that faux, corporate "organic" that The Man shills at Safeway.
Oh, dear reader, how wrong, so very very wrong, I was.
This woman was there with a cart, buying cheese. A normal person would be sufficiently convinced that a foodstuff wasn't part of an evil Neo-conservative plot simply by dint of being sold at Trader Joe's. This woman, however, had to be sure. She wasn't old, wasn't wearing glasses, and I'm assuming (once again) that she was upwardly mobile and literate, if only because of her Seattlite uniform, making her a moving billboard for Columbia Sportswear and Northface. Regardless, she held that brick of cheese up to her face, almost close enough to take in the nutritional information using osmosis. While she studied the 2x2 inch tome, her cart blocked the sandwich I wanted. I came all the way out here for a Cubano wrap and god damn it, I'm going to get a fucking Cubano wrap.
The Gods ignored my silent pleas and seconds turned into many many seconds, which eventually turned into a minute, and then more than one minute. She has to know I'm here, at this point, I'm stalker-close to this chick and she couldn't give a shit about whatever I wanted, because she needed to check out this motherfucking cheese! I'm nearing the breaking point and I'm about to talk to a stranger. I don't want to talk to a stranger, and I go to great lengths so I don't have to talk to strangers, but here I am, and I'm fucking hungry, and this stranger and her stupid fucking cart are blocking me from my food. And then...
...she puts the cheese down and pushes her cart down to the meat section, purchasing nothing. Rage level - 7.2
Sandwich and salad procured. Victory is in sight. All I have to do is go buy my prize and then I'll put my tasty reward in my belly, enabling another few hours of bodily function.
I walk the long way around, avoiding the cluster of shoppers hovering over and inspecting the bread and make a turn at the wine isle. To my astonishment, there are 2 check out lines open. A store full of people and two people working registers. Rage level - 7.9
I get into what looks like the quickest moving line and, wait, what the fuck is that? Is that woman trying to write a check? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Okay, calm down, it might be 2012, but checks are still a viable method of payment, especially in a place like this. That check is a solemn promise between that person, her non-profit credit union, and Trader Joe's. It makes sense, because sometimes you don't have any cash (or canned goods for bartering), and I'd imagine a lot of folks here don't like credit cards. Rage level - 6.5...wait, no, 9.5, because that broad DID pay with a card and now she's meticulously recording her purchase in a ledger...AT THE REGISTER.
Nobody else seems to take issue with this though, and I'm left to be the lone insane guy that throws his shit on the ground and storms out in a flurry of profanity, unless I get my shit together and wait it out like a big boy.
I calm down and approach the register, having been in the store for nearly 20 minutes already. The guy running my lane looks just like I'd assume a Trader Joe's employee would look. Shaggy, unkempt hair. A beard that's walking the line between hipster and 1800s Canadian fur-trapper. Wrinkled shirt. I'm all ready to hate this guy, and then he takes my stuff and runs it through the scanner and I can see it in his eyes...the seething hatred. He hates this place as much as I do. I have found someone, a kindred spirit in this place. I don't know if he's worked here a week, or a decade, but however long it has been, it's been long enough to leave him a withered, soulless golem that knows only anger.
I should say something. I should figure out a uncreepy way to tell him that I understand, that I have empathy for his plight. I'm a smart dude, and I could probably do this and not have it sound like an awkward homosexual come-on.
But what I should feel, isn't what I feel. I'm happy. Someone is at least as unhappy, possibly much more so, than I. The last 20 minutes is erased and I'm suddenly feeling pretty chipper. My soul feels like, fluffy, almost whimsical. Like an old Catholic sin-eater has pulled all the negativity right out of me.
I'm totally unfazed by the fact that I'm evil inside as I eat my delicious sandwich.