Won't Somebody Please Help Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?

I don't know why no one wants to help pitiful Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Earlier this week, I pushed my cart into a line at The Devil's Playground. There was only one lady ahead of me. As soon as her items were conveyored forward, I grabbed that little divider thingy and put mine on the counter. It wasn't a lot. Maybe 12 items total. Not a full grocery order. In fact, everything fit in the top section of the cart. The child-riding seat.

The old Devil's Handmaiden conveyed my own items forward. She took the payment of the customer ahead of me. Then she turned to me and said, "I'm leaving. But Gabe will help you. She's very good."

I'm familiar with Gabe. Short for Gabrielle, I assume, because she's a gal whose line I used to seek out all the time, since she IS very good. Quick and efficient, and sensible in her bagging choices. There she was, standing at the end of the bag carousel, waiting to take over.

But wait! A supervisor came over and spirited Gabe away to a different register!

The old Devil's Handmaiden could barely contain her disgust.

"Don't everybody fight over me!" I said. In an attempt to alleviate the tension. And perhaps lessen my unwantedness.

The old Devil's Handmaiden dutifully went about her business of ringing me up. Asked some extra questions concerning my purchases. But I could tell she was just patronizing me. As if it was my fault that I dared patronize The Devil, providing her with job security.

A couple days later, I stopped by the original Waterside Mart, which is now halfway up the hill, its former building at the edge of the river being occupied by a restaurant with a name sign in letters too small to read from the road. My intent was to buy three scratchers, two of them for Genius's weekly letter.

A shrimpy guy was behind the second register, the first one being unattended. Four people were in line ahead of me. No big deal. I have nothing but time. As I queued up behind them, the manager came over from the deli area, and opened up the first register. I know her as a former student. I would have gone to her line, but Mrs. HM is not a line-jumper. The people ahead of me had been waiting longer. So when Ms. Manager said, "I can help somebody over here," I let the two ladies in front of me go over there.

The next customers were done in no time. I thought about switching over, just to chat with Ms. Manager a moment, but then a straggler came up to the remaining lady there, with an energy drink, complaining that it wasn't really what he wanted, and she told him to take it anyway. I could see their transaction might take longer, so I stayed in my line. Which was moving again, and it was my turn to step up.

"I can help someone over here," called a dude from the drive-thru window register.

Well, since it was my turn at the original register, I did not move over there. Can you believe that the Shrimpy Guy cut eyes at the Drive-Thru Guy? Like how dare I step up to be waited on! Seriously. It was my turn, and Shrimpy Guy didn't want to serve me! I guess he was entitled to do nothing, while I was supposed to go over to the drive-thru area and ask for lottery tickets, which would have sent Drive-Thru Guy traipsing halfway across the store, behind Ms. Manager's register, to get them. IF I remembered the numbers of my selections, unable to glance at them in their case.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Give me an effin' break!

I am a PAYING CUSTOMER, not a plague-ridden, brain-eating zombie!