Friday, January 22, 2010

One Up on Receipt Guy

New poem. I hope you like it. Sorry about the last three days of absence; I've just been exhausted. Working 7 days a week is about the least fun one can do. Also, I want you all to email me your guesses about what is wrong with the picture I put up earlier... Let me know what you think! IncitingARiotPodcast@gmail.com. My thoughts will come tomorrow and may either make you think, disgust you, elicit a giggle, or all of the above. But, then again, it wouldn't be the Riot without that, now would it.

Love and Lyte,

Fire Lyte



                       One Up on Receipt Guy

I don’t feel I dress poorly or
glance furtively right and left
while restraining a bulbous overcoat.
I do not smell – okay maybe I do,
but it’s expensive stink – either from the gym or bottle.

All things equal and considered then,
Sir, I am quite curious to know your reason
for ‘randomly’ stopping me of all the people
exiting that particular supermarket at that particular time
for a supposedly random cavity search of my receipt.

Yeah, Receipt Guy, I knew you didn’t check the
ticket of the couple in front of me.
And those folks meandering to the sides and back?
They apparently passed your most astute mental filter.
Me, though, I got the look, the hand wave, the
‘Can I see your ticket…?’
as you eyed my box of Gain laundry detergent.

Minutes… Not seconds, but minutes passed as you
crinkled the paper of my receipt in your hands
your hands that seem to know how to lean onto
the bars of partial barrier between the exit way and the Subway.
Finally, you give me the look again and say

I don’t see the Gain on here. You need to pay for the Gain.

Sir, I paid for it. The guy scanned it and sat it on top of the
grocery bag carousel.

Well, you’re going to have to show me, because it’s not on your receipt.

Ok…I’m thinking…I’ll do that.
I look. I look some more.
I don’t know which code of numbers and letters equals
detergent. I know exactly which douche bag won’t let me leave,
but I cannot for the life of me find the damn Gain.

So, now, in the absence of the word GAIN somewhere on
my receipt that’s better encoded than an Illuminati address book
I’ve got to do the walk of shame and theft to the back of the
express lane and pay for the damn Gain all over again.

Great, now the nosy little ladies at the checkout stand
think the receipt guy’s a hero for catching that smelly, well-dressed
kid before he made off with the Gain!
The rest of the groceries were paid for, but that Gain…

Weighing my options between jail time for beating
Receipt Guy over the head with the detergent box
and waiting in the ungodly long line – again
I decided no judge would convict me, but right as I raise my
righteous hand to deliver supermarket justice, I see it.

It’s there. On the ticket. The Gain.
The Damn Gain!
It’s on the ticket, and it says I paid $10.97 for it!
I shove the ticket in the guy’s face, and revel in the fact
that I – the college graduate with the important job and title –
have beaten the supermarket Receipt Checker Guy.
Score one for humanity.

Then I think how pathetic it is that I’m mentally competing
with the high school drop out who goes to his kid’s
Career Day and tells the class that his occupational goal
is to one day upgrade from a pencil
to a highligher.

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