This morning, before breakfast, I realized I was nearly out of milk. I schlepped down to the neighborhood sCumberland Farms (it’s a skosh over a block away) and grabbed a gallon, then got in line to pay – there was one guy ahead of me.
He was an older guy, maybe mid-40’s, with a craggy face and graying hair. He was buying what looked like a 32-ounce bottle of malt liquor.
The clerk behind the counter, while he could obviously tell the guy was of age, was sticking to the posted policy of “we card everyone.”
“Do you have an ID?”
The guy just smiled. “Sorry. Speak English very little.”
(More slowly) “When – were – you – born?”
More smiling and shaking of head. “No unnerstand.”
“What – is – your –age?”
Smiling still “No unnerstand.”
Finally the clerk, in frustration, took the guy’s money (paid in quarters) and sold him his booze. He took it and left.
Here’s a guy who can’t even speak enough English to understand a request for his ID, buying booze at seven on a Sunday morning.
And I thought I was screwed up…