Nickel Bags

This is how it went down. Lunch break. I checked my yahoo account. Filenes Basement sent me a 20% off coupon. I figured I needed new underwear and socks cuz I only buy under garment if it’s on sale. Most of the time I wear my drawers until the bootyhole burns a hole in the cotton for fresh air. I printed out the coupon. I planned to take a long lunch cuz my boss was at an offsite meeting. It was a nice day. The sun was on fire rocking sunshades like those raisin commercials. I was in a good mood which meant I was on my third day of sobriety. I took my time. I got to the store and walked around looking at stuff I knew I couldn’t buy. I’ve never been much of a shopper. I see my clothes more as inventory and things that need to be replaced. Menswear is stagnant. You just need something to cover the ass, pair of jeans, slacks, shoes and shirt and just keep replacing that combination in same color scheme.

Ten minutes in the store I got bored and decided to check out. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who had gotten that coupon right before lunch. It was an epidemic. The line was slow. I could hear the impatient breaths but I was cool. I knew I had plenty of time.

Living in the “protest” city, most days I cleverly ignore people behind my dark sunshades. Yet, in lines I can’t help but focus what is around me just in case someone pulls out a gun and start shooting motherfuckers. I want to know who I should grab to shield me.

Funny, a line taking more than five minutes invite stranger’s banal chatter. Their existence suddenly needs affirmation that they are frustrated or late for work. I don’t care. But for some reason I focused on the cashier. I didn’t like her hair. It wasn’t just the kitchen showing but also the clogged up toilet. I wanted to offer her some lye.

As a black person from the front section of the ghetto, I still get nervous about using my credit card. I guess it’s the fear of public rejection. It’s societal. It’s a machine screaming at you, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. I like watching people whose credit cards get rejected. They suddenly have to explain. Sometimes it’s extensive stories about a runaway slave or sex change. Sometimes they become irate and want to argue their broke bank accounts. It’s never pretty. But when it happens to you when you’re black, it’s representative of the entire 12 percent. It’s like the only black kid at an all white school going up to the chalkboard to solve the calculus equation and getting it wrong. Not all blacks are dumb, just that nigga.
So I am standing in line and I’m watching the nappy headed cashier for my own personal reasons. I want to see who she is going to ask for I.D. using a credit card. I remember something stupid nickel bags.

DC has some stupid law that all grocery store bags cost a nickel. I was in a self checkout line and I needed a couple of bags and the machine prompts you for the quantity but you still have to go to some bag handler to get them. The act like they are dealing crack cocaine with their holier than thou attitudes. It’s stupid. So I told the girl I needed two bags and she had the nerve questioned me for ten cents. I had to show her my receipt. It pissed me off cuz I live in a mostly white gentrified neighborhood and I saw her give bags to at least five other whites without a problem. She didn’t interrogate them. And she was a black girl. And I was black. And it was like damn, I can’t even escape being black to other blacks. I was like do I look poor? I am.

Back to reality. So now I’m pissed rehashing memories of discrimination like the annoyance of being followed in a department store. I watch the black guy who is two people in front of me. He looks working class like UPS. He seems harmless and he is buying underwear like me. I watched the three white people in front of him hand the nappy headed girl their credit cards, she wipes and no problem. She doesn’t ask for I.D. The black guy, in his twenties, average looking, it’s his turn. She notices that he is about to use a credit card and she immediately asks him for I.D. He hands it to her and she thoroughly checks it. I watch in disgust. The next white person, again she doesn’t ask for I.D. WTF.

It’s my turn. Before she rings me up I show her my I.D. and work badge. I tell her I forgot to bring my social security card and birth certificate cuz you know we blacks must always have our papers. She looks at me annoyed. I tell her I hope that’s enough for me to pay cash. She rolls her eyes. I give her the cash, demands that she checks the twenty to see if it’s counterfeit because you can’t be too careful with us blacks. I could feel the white guy behind me uneasiness making his testicles retract. She asked me if I am done. I say, those damn grocery store bags that cost a nickel, I’m sure every black person can afford it. Also, you are a racist bitch.