Commentary: People Who SHOULD Get Swine Flu

OK, so.

The other day I was doing the usual at work--sighing, slightly frowning, and "greeting" customers with a melancholy and relatively rote "hihowareyoutoday." You see, I rarely gaze beyond the screen, especially that day. The truth is that I genuinely don't care to connect with anyone that buys things from our store, except for the woman who wears fabulous wedges and sun hats on the regular. She came in that day. As we spoke, we discussed Swine Flu and how awful it was, and how she actually knew someone who had it. And then I thought about people who I wouldn't want to ever have it, and then I got to the more fun part. People who, really, I wouldn't mind not ever seeing again. People who could potentially contract swine flu, and I wouldn't necessarily lose any sleep over. Obviously, the list was quite lengthy. To constrain my sampling group a bit more, I decided to confine it to the regulars. And so, my "Top 5: People Who Should Get Swine Flu (but not necessarily die, just never come back to the store)" are as follows:


1. Mr. Dunaway and Old Bag Mom.

I despise them. He comes in with his hideous scourge of the underworld mother at least twice a day, every day. He always wears the same grey Thornton's shirt. His eyes are beady and close together like a mole, except he is far less endearing in that he is not hairy and cuddly. He is bald. The hair he does have barely covers the sides of his knotted head, and is dull and greasy. And suffice it to say, his beer gut that protrudes over his brown highwaters (and black belt, mind you) is not in my schema of "cuddly" things.

He used to sub at my high school and middle school. I'm going to be cynical here (surprise) and say that there is nothing more pathetic than an overly enthusiastic substitute teacher. The bottom line is that you aren't good enough to be hired full time, and the kids have even less respect for you. You aren't first choice, you are a substitute. You are second rate, not even at best. Don't get any big ideas.

Anyway, in middle school, he subbed for my eighth grade social studies class. I hated that class with a passion. My teacher, Mrs. Grow, was a rather husky woman with short hair and a long Meryl Streep-esque nose. When she spoke, spit collected in pools on the sides of her mouth, and when she got really into Alexander Hamilton, like really into him, the spit would do a little dance, bouncing from her upper lip to her lower lip in a rhythmic fashion. But when she talked about Molly Pitcher, it was over. She pursed her lips a la Donald Trump, and the white spit literally dribbled down her jowls. It was disgusting. Even moreso was the fact that her camel toe was available for our daily viewing pleasure thanks to her tapered khakis. Another thing about Mrs. Grow. It really pissed me off the way she ate her string cheese. Quite bovine, she bit into the stick, guzzled some of her Chek soda (remember that?), and then took two more bites. The cheese was gone. It's called string cheese for a reason; you don't bite it, you string it. Fuck.

But I digress. Mr. Dunaway, or Mr. "D" as he wanted us to call him (in hopes of being "cool" to the 13 year olds) tried to teach us about Manifest Destiny. He took one look at the overhead screen Mrs. Grow left us, and then tossed it away. That's right, Mr. D was going rogue. Trying to appeal to us, he said he just wanted us to "discuss" what we thought. No notes, just talking. Like real, live people!

Sullen, cocky, and cool in my hot pink and black Vans, I looked to my friend Elliott. He looked back. We raised our hands. "So, uh, Mr. D....what are your thoughts on Rogaine?" I took out my disposable camera and smacked it on my hand, blinding him with the flash.

The class erupted in laughter. We both knew that's all it took for our "discussion" to turn into free period. Just like that, that sad sap Dunaway lost control of the class, and in the process, his bald forehead turned pink. Elliott and I proceeded to throw coins at him, and joust each other with swords made of Crayola markers. We were gems.

Back to the story. D and Mama D come in everyday, and they eat all of our samples. They'd probably suck the juice off of the plates if they could, too. They're nothing more than scavengers. Sometimes she'll buy two sticks of celery, and then complain about paying thirty cents. She is the one who says that she could buy a car with "these prices." She is the one who asks for over ripe tomatoes, and then complains that they're soft. She is the one who dumps her lint and grime covered pennies on the counter, and then finds a dollar at the last minute, and asks me to give her the 97 pennies back.

I do not deal with these cretins.

2. The Purple Lady

This one is terrible. She comes in, usually on Sundays, at 6:50. She leaves around 7:30. We close at 7:00. She counter shops. She buys purple potatoes, red grapes, plums, and eggplant. And black raspberry chip ice cream. She wears frosted purple lipstick, eyeshadow, and blush. Her nose is beaklike, and her eyes are dark and close together. Her voice is abrasive. Imagine a crow in purple. That's her. Oh, but with cankles. Sometimes she'll buy purple sugar cookies from the deli, and specifically ask me to be gentle with them. I break them regularly, and let me tell you, there is nothing more satisfying than hearing that initial SNAP of the icing. Oh, whoops. You're right, they are fragile! Oh, there aren't any more back there? Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Maybe they would have held up better had you come in before we closed.

3. Mandi

Q:What do Curves and waterparks have in common?
A: Fat, tacky women in spandex.

This is Mandi. With an "i." Mandi is the epitome of tacky. She is a pig with lipstick, in this case frosted lipstick. Mandi wears denim cut-offs year round, and struts about the store in her black tank tops, as does her gut. Her arms swing front to back, and her belly swings from left to right. Sometimes, if we are so lucky, we are able to catch a glimpse of her emerald belly ring. I'm assuming this is her birthstone. Somehow, she seems the type to be really into horoscopes. Maybe it's her tattooed eyeliner a la Amy Winehouse and platinum blonde hair with skunklike roots. Or, you know, what? It could be the acrylic nails. With rhinestones in the center. And the hideous Von Dutch trucker hat she still sports, even though that trend died out several years ago. I guess the good thing about being tacky is that you never have to feel like you have no clothes. To me, it's like filling your wallet with a bunch of ones. You feel nice, like you have a lot of money, but really you can't even buy a frisco melt at Steak and Shake.

Mandi likes to buy smoked ham. How fitting.

4. Cross-eyed Bastard and Equally Incompetent Wife.

Honestly, I had some trepidations about putting them on the list, but now that I think about it, they deserve it. This one comes in at least once a day as well, and also brings in a haggard significant other that should not be allowed to be seen in public. She's so advanced in osteoperosis I wonder why she is even in the States; shouldn't she be in Notre Dame or something? Anyway, she isn't the one that bothers me so much, it's him. As always. He only ever wants blueberries. A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please. But sir, we don't always have pints, and we don't always carry that brand. A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please. Sir, did you not hear what I said? A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please.

This is when I imagine his head turning the shape and size of a blueberry, and then exploding, covering the store in sweet, blueberry mush. Like what should have happened to Violet Beauregard, except this would be much sweeter. Mainly because he is old and has no potential anymore, is wiping out Social Security, and the only thing he is capable of producing is carbon dioxide.

I understand that when you're old you can't hear as well, but by no means does it make it OK to be obstinate. That's my job. When I have to SHOUT THAT THERE AREN'T ANY NATURRIPE BLUEBERRIES RIGHT NOW for the thirtieth time, the problem doesn't lie within me, it lies within you. You know what else should lie within you? A HEARING AID. That's right. You're old, you're wrinkled, you're grey, get over it. Now get the CIC and a better attitude, or get the hell out.

What good will anti-oxidants do him, anyway? From the looks of him and his Quasimodo lookalike wife, that bell should be tolling within the hour.

5. Egyptian woman

She makes the list after a more recent run in. The other day I was PMSing and felt as if my face was a veritable petri dish. No, I wasn't completely broken out, or broken out at all (in addition to Spanish, I'm fluent in hyperbole) but I definitely had some spores going on. Anyway, this Egyptian woman comes in, to my side, to check out. I look up. "You are beautiful," she says.

Paranoid, insecure, and cynical (OK, neurotic), I figure she's making fun of me. I scowl, and mutter "Thanks."

"You are in college or high school," she asks. She's examining me. She's staring into my eyes, I'm nervous. Walls are beginning to close in on me. The lame Fleetwood Mac song on the radio is growing louder and louder and louder until all I can hear is Stevie Nix's obnoxious twang. I think I'm beginning to cross my eyes. I can feel new cultures sprouting on my face as we speak.

"Er, 19, I mean, college." I look to her yukon potatoes and quickly act concerned at their texture. Anything to avoid looking into Nefertiti's gaze.

"You are 19?" she looks at me quizzically. I've been finished with her two item purchase for one minute now.

"Yes," I say.

Her eyes look me over once again, and then she stares. What does she want? I feel weak, and fear that at any minute I will melt and turn into some primordial ooze. "That is shame," she says, "you would have made perfect wife for Ahmose."

And then I turned into Alex Mack. Not really, but I wish. I try to laugh, hoping that she was merely kidding. She continues to stare. "A real shame," she sighs.

I hand her the bag of potatoes and squash. Her gaze lingers. "You know, you look like Jewel. You know her? The singer? Real pretty."

Yeah, homeless girl from Alaska with a snaggletooth. Real cute. At this point, I'm still shocked that she was considering me to be a potential wife of her son whom I'd never met, that I was relatively unphased that she said I looked like the girl who wrote that kitschy classic "Who Will Save Your Soul." Stupidly, I nodded my head.

She leaves, and suddenly it's hot in the store. I go to the cooler and hang out with the Benedictine spread for about ten minutes until I'm no longer in liquid form. One of the worst days of my life.