Batman

I’d like to carry my Baseball Bat with me all weekend, everywhere I go.

I’ll need some gas for my little trip into the city, and I stop first at the pumps. I’m not in a particular hurry, but I lean in to tell you that you are taking too long to chat with the cashier and you’re holding up the fucking line. You say something unfriendly to me - Bat, on your headlights. Of course you run over to scream and curse at me. Bat, on your windshield. You threaten to call the cops. Bat, on your cell phone. You try to touch me. Bat, on your kneecaps. I get my gas and the receipt won’t print. The little machine says "see attendant for receipt." This really isn’t convenient for me, as the reason I’m at the pump with my card is so that I don’t have to deal with any cashiers. Bat, on the little machine. I really hate those sliding metal boxes, you know the kind they have when the place is more of a roadside stand than a store, soooo - Bat, on the window. I reach through, careful not to cut myself, and get my receipt. "Thanks," I say. "Have a nice day." Bat, several times, on the little metal sliding box.

I often go to Wallgreen’s - or is it Wallgreen?- I don’t think even they know. I pick up a few trinkets and stuff. At the counter, there’s this guy who always looks at me weird. I think he’s gay. I don’t mind the gay part, but fuck, he’s just so weird. It creeps me out. You should have seen his face and the way he touched the items the day I went there with my boyfriend for, among other things, condoms and lube. Anyhoo, I try not to notice, but today I can’t help it. Wallgreen(’s) has taken to hawking candy at the till. I place my junk on the counter and he says, "Would you like to try -" as the sound of the Bat on the little candy display drowns out his pitch. "I’ll take that as a no," he says. "Enter your PIN number, please."

Next stop, the grocery store. It’s busy. There are always cars, usually nice ones, parked in the fire lane all across the front of the store. Not the ghetto one, either. The nice one near my flat. Who the fuck are these people that they don’t have to park in a space like the rest of us? Do I really have to say it? Yep. Bat, on them all. God, I love the sound of wood on glass!

Since I hate going to the grocery store to begin with, I purposefully avoid the manned check out lanes and go for the automatic ones. Even I wouldn’t beat down an old biddy arguing with the clerk over a damn nickel, though she probably deserves it. But just can’t take the risk, so automatic it is. Instead, I watch with some restraint the idiot in front of me who can’t figure out how to use the automatic check out. Each time the machine tells him something, he says, "What?" or "I just did that!" The whinny sound and accompanying body jerk that he makes is finally enough. I explain that the machine can’t hear him, it’s just a recording, as I bounce the Bat on the opposite palm. Again, he says something unfriendly. Bat, on his food not already in the sack. I point to the door with Bat, my head tilted in the gesture copied from a friend- the one she makes when she wants her kids to know that they should leave or bad things will happen. I brighten at Idiot’s departure and with Bat, rake off the smashed food onto the floor and resume my journey.

To Be Continued...