Road Rage in Aisle Four

My plan was to visit Mom on Wednesday so as to avoid the Thanksgiving traffic. Besides, if everybody goes to see her on Thanksgiving day she wouldn't have any visitors the rest of the week. So I drove out to The Crossing 'retirement' Home, and as has become my routine, met up with Mom in the dining hall. Not only do I bring Mom some joy, but the other ladies at her table now look forward to my entertaining visits. After amusing the ladies with my sharp wit I took Mom on a little stroll around the place. She seems to like going through the Skilled Nursing facility. It's a long walk and probably makes her feel good that she's not in there. Finally it was time to say goodbye and off I went, back into the city. Like I said, I had a plan. To make Thanksgiving easier on myself, I had ordered a full dinner for eight from Mariano's on Lawrence Avenue. I was to pick it up on my way home from Mom's. All went well on the road until I exited at Lawrence Avenue. Gridlock. Creep, creep, stop. Creep, creep, then another long stop. Mariano's was a little over one mile from the exit and it took me thirty minutes to get there from Lake Shore Drive. By the time I pulled into the only available parking spot, a disabled parking spot, I was ready to blow. Thank goodness Mark has that disabled placard. (Yes, I know I'm an asshole for using it.) So with my nerves frazzled by the traffic and an hour of entertaining Mom's lunch bunch, I entered Mariano's only to be overwhelmed by the number of shoppers. But I didn't care that it was bumper to bumper shopping carts. I knew that all I had to do was fight my way back to the deli department, pick up my turkey dinner, and checkout.

"I'm sorry sir. You'll have to go up front and pay first before we can give you your order."

"What do you mean? the last two years I've picked up the box of turkey and fixings here at the deli and paid for it on my way out."

"Our store policy is that you must pay first."

It was at this point that the first curse slipped out.

"I don't have to pay for a pound of bologna from the deli before you give it to me. If I asked for a pound of corned beef you'd give it to me and I would be able to pay for it at the cashier on my way out. What the hell is wrong with you people? Just put the box in my cart and I'll pay up front."

"Sorry sir..."

"Let me speak to the manager." (I've learned a few things from Mark.)

From the back of the deli department a short, plump man came out to speak to me.

"No, I can't give you the order until you pay up front."

Thirty minutes of driving on the Dan Ryan Expressway, fifteen minutes of dealing with traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and finally thirty minutes of gridlock traffic on Lawrence Avenue, and I didn't blow my top. Not until this greasy little man in his blood stained apron told me I had to fight my way back through the shoppers, pay for my turkey dinner, then back to the deli counter, then back up front, did I finally lose it. Oh yes, I cursed up a storm the whole way. My dad, Big Al, would have been proud. I used every word he had ever used and then some. Mothers shopping with their children learned new ways of swearing. Old ladies looked away in horror. I did not quit until I pulled out of that handicapped parking space and made my way back home.