So, I was at the grocery checkout, yesterday. And I hesitated to go through the express line even though I only had a couple things. The female, Bizzarro version of myself was working the register. I’m annoyed by this Bizzarro version of myself. Some Jungian conflict of seeing the shadow of myself, I guess. She’s sassy and always thinks she’s being funny and entertaining when, maybe—she isn’t. And, to be honest, we’d quarreled over produce a couple months back.
So, when she saw I had purchased some beer and asked to see my ID, a voice piped up inside, “Don’t do it! Create a scene! Show this girl what’s what.”
Why would she ask to see my ID? I’d been in there many times before and, come on, could I really be 21? I’m in my thirties for Pete’s sake. There was a guy waiting behind me, but I wanted to say to bizzarro grocery checkout-girl, “I’m not gonna show my ID; see? ‘Cause I remember about the apples; see? That’s right; I remember all the fuss you made about them organic apples I bought two months ago and I know you remember me and I know you know who I am and that I’m old enough to drink.”
This girl—so smug, trying to hold back something she knew about apples that I didn’t, but I had urged her: I says, “Go on and tell what it is you know about these apples.” Apparently, there’s no such thing as organic apples because an apple tree doesn’t exactly grow in one season, so the question of whether herbicides or pesticides are needed on twenty year old trees is supposedly moot. Bizzarro girl proposes: all organic apple stickers are mere window dressing and I—Normal me—by extension, am some gullible, bourgeoisie pawn, chasing the latest craze. But—something you may not know, Professor Appleseed: I… do not buy apples based upon the stickers stuck to them. No. I use my eyes—peepers!—and my hands, as any shrewd produce shopper should. Now who is more discerning? NOW WHO IS MORE DISCERNING!
You see, there aren’t many pleasures in life. And there aren’t many fruits that I enjoy, even though the moisture retained in fruits makes them such an important part of a diet. (Stop looking for references.) So, of course, it’s important that I get the correct apple nutrition. The taste, the texture, the sweetness, the juice, the skin. Apples are delicious and my taste for bananas had already been spoiled by the fruit fly—sure, I tried putting the bananas in the freezer. The timing is so crucial and then when they are removed and even after that course, soggy blackened peel is removed and you say to yourself, “This soggy, cold thing in my mouth isn’t so terribly bad,” there is still the memory of what it was packaged in. So apples were all I had. Apples! And she had tried to take that from me. Oh, I remember you, girl. I remember you. The Apple Policeman. You may not remember me, but when a woman stands in the way of a man’s apples, she makes an impression.