November 3, 2000

Y’know, I was all ready to sing the praises of the Duane Reade I just went to during lunch, because I had met with an actual semi-intelligent employee behind the counter, and this, as most New York residents know, is a rare and treasured thing indeed. She saw that all I had in my hand was a Diet Pepsi, and she rang it up without having to tear it from my hands. Without, even, swiping it back and forth and back and forth uneventfully in front of the perennially broken scanner. She knew it was 65 cents plus tax. I knew it was 65 cents plus tax. I had out my 65 cents plus tax. We were on the same page.

My interaction with this Duane Reade employee grew stranger still, as, when I told her I didn’t need a bag — are you sitting down? — she. didn’t. give. me. a. bag. I stood agape with joy as she actually. asked. if. I. wanted. a. straw. Duane Reades never have straws. Never. Which is entirely beside the point, because no one at Duane Reade cares what you want, anyway, so if they did have straws, they sure as hell wouldn’t be asking if you’d want one, unless, of course, it was one of their sick little games in which, when you say "Why, yes, I would love a straw, thank you," they smirk evilly and say, "No straw for you!"

But she gave me a straw. And she listened when, as she tried to hand me my receipt first, followed by the change (so okay, I didn’t give her exactly 65 cents plus tax), I implored her to please give me the money first, as the coins always slide off the paper, out of my hand, and end up splayed on the counter, and nobody wants that. Not only did she listen (which, have I made clear, they never do?), but she began to throw away the receipt, which I had resigned myself to taking, even though I was just inches away from the door and had no bags within which to smuggle pounds of candy (which should've been half-price since it’s after Halloween, but it wasn't). Yes, I had the platonic form of a Duane Reade cashier. It was a happy day in Whoville, indeed.

And so I began my exit, Diet Pepsi, straw, and receipt (which she gave me because I unconsciously reached for it) in one hand, Newjack, by Tom Conover, my two-day overdue library book, in the other. As I walked through the security gate, I alerted the guard that I would probably beep. I told him this when I entered the store, as well. Apparently, the barcode on library books sets off the alarm in some stores. Sometimes it happens both when you go in and when you leave. Sometimes it only happens when you leave. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. The security gate, she is a fickle bitch.

So I remind the guy that I might beep because of the book as I walk through and beep. Sorry, I say, stopping and raising my arms to show I’m not hiding any pilfered toiletries. I figure he will appreciate the gesture. I figure wrong. He glares at me and reaches for the book. "This is what you do," he says, holding the book above his head, out of range of the security sensors, and walking angrily though, sans beeps. "This is how you leave." He is seriously pissed that I have tripped the alarm. I look at him incredulously, waiting for him to return my book, and say, "Thank you. Next time I steal something from your store, I will remember to hold it over my head."

He glares at me some more and thrusts the book into my hands. I leave laughing, thinking how I could well have written up that Duane Reade (on 6th Ave somewhere between 43rd & 47th St.) as a mecca of civility and all-around goodness. But no. He had to go and ruin it for the whole class. I have half a mind to go talk to his manager.

And, in a wacky twist of sitcomian fate, he will turn out to be the manager.

This is how you leave, indeed.

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