Passive Aggression vrs Retired Evil in a Bad Rug

It was an eternity I spent in that check out line. The line to the front of the Walmart pharmacy did not move a fraction all afternoon as my daylight burned without me outside the store. I had meant only to breeze in, five minutes tops, and pick up this months prescriptions. I had planned ahead. Done my math. Called in my much needed scripts after making sure the proper funds in my checking account. With a four digets to the left of my decimal point in place, I was good to go. But the hangers came in groups of 24, and the charity garage sale could use a bunch of them, along with the cleaning and storage supplies that tempted me on the way in, and the socks that both my boys were in dire need of. So there I stood, juggling my heavy load and growing roots into the hard tile beneath me as the infomercials played on. That is when I encountered evil incarnate herself.

Disguised as a pug dog in a bad wig, she bullied her way in front of me, using her cart like a demolition derby vehicle. Maybe it was the bouffant flaming red wig, teased to Jesus, that blocked her peripheral vision, or the dazzleing gleam from the fistfull of rocks that adorned her hands, that kept her from seeing me there, waiting only somewhat patiently by now. "Eithel!", she exclaims after wedging her empty cart directly in front of me, where she is able to pat the woman now standing at the counter on her back. That old hound of hell, jowls waggin, laments endlessly to Eithel, the difficulties of her life as she rests her more than ample sagging bosom onto her barren cart. She is now a human road block in support hose. With only time to kill. Mine. Eithel, polite lady that she is, has a hard time getting away from this walking poke in the eye, but finally does and breaks free. Not needing her battering cart, Lucifer, or Lucy as I have now come to think of her, shoves it off, to bounce off me and coast to rest at the end on the isle were the expensive Nicorest is shelved within the pharmists sight to distract tobacco jonesing shoplifters.

Lucy is a regular here. The poor counter girl reconizes her, and before she knows what she is asking, inquires after Lucy's welfare. Lucy is grouchy. Lucy is in a thither. Lucy is going out of town, to her sisters deluxe condo in Palm Springs, and needs her meads. Stupid slow counter girl has filled all her meds. Too many scrips, bumbling incompetent counter girl that she is. Brainless little know nothing has to count out only 21 days of each drug waiting. Not the full amount. She is to call the good doctor who wrote these prescriptions, as Lucy waits and huffs and drums the counter. She must call the insurance company also because there is no way possible that the price could be that high. Five dollars is five dollars, is five dollars, don't you know?

Fighting back my growls of rage at this ominous granny, I yearn to drop my ungainly load into her unused cart, as my knuckles now drag on the floor from the weight. But I resist dropping hangers, anyway.

When she is done barraging the teary counter girl, she spins, still grumbling, and rolling her eyes, to reclaim her cart from where she had abandoned it, forcing me to clumsily side step her cart so she can squeeze it past me and the end of the isle, saving herself any inconvenience of walking around me and down the longer route to the stores entrance. I know she just prefers to see me dance. I supply her a moving target as she runs over my foot after bruising my thigh during her dramatic exit.

It is with a smile that I make out my check for my drugs when I hear the store security alarms going off. On my way out, I spot Lucy and she is madder than a wet hornet at the indignity of being stopped by the store police for trying to leave the store with unpaid for nicorest in her cart. Yeah, plenty of smoke already where you are going back to there Lucky. No need for that. It is my turn to pretend not to see her standing there as I walk past.