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FIRST PLACE
P.I.N.
By Fred Venturini
Patoka, Illinois
Ted Craver was sixty years old, a Vietnam
veteran, and perhaps the first senior citizen to be
gazing at the rap albums in a Sam Goody store after
eight o’clock.
He’d been browsing for a good half hour, his
reading glasses perched on his pocked nose, a yellow
sticky note in his right hand. His wife’s handwriting
was clear and legible: “M & M. The Marshal
Mathers LP. Jimmy says its rap.”
Begging off any help from the clerks, Ted figured he
could easily find the CD and escape before the situation
became unbearable. It already felt as strange as it
looked—he felt the eyes upon him from both the
two members of the staff and the pack of teenagers
who were flipping through the posters. The kids had
rainbow hair, pants big enough for a weight loss infomercial,
and cast whispery snickers that even his failing hearing
could pick up. He knew that more than a few were caused
when he held up albums, squinting to identify them
as large black men drenched in diamonds flashed their
gold teeth on the cover.
The first delay was caused by Ted gazing at the DVD
area, and he browsed for several minutes, only realizing
when he picked up “The Mothman Prophecies” that
he was looking at movies. Casually making his way to
the CD area, Ted had looked up and down the “M” section
and there wasn’t one sign of any rapper named
M & M.
One of the clerks walked by, his pitch-black hair intentionally
gel-fried to stick up as far as possible. He wore a
seashell necklace and carpenter jeans, his face spackled
with acne. An ID card hung from his neck, bearing a
photo and the name Jason.
“
Closing in a few minutes sir. You sure there isn’t
anything I can help you with?”
Ted figured he’d looked stupid long enough. “I
think so . . . stopped in to pick up a CD for my grandkid,
but I can’t seem to find it. M & M ring a
bell?”
Jason gave a chuckle. “Rings all kinds of bells.
He’s pretty hot right now, but he doesn’t
spell his name like the candy. It’s right over
here in the . . . . E’s.” His fingers danced
over the CDs like piano keys until he located the correct
one. “Here you go.”
Ted took the album from him and examined it through
his glasses.
“
Eminem. You don’t say. You’re telling me
people can’t even spell their initials right
nowadays?”
“
Guess not. I can get you right over here.”
Clutching the album, Ted shuffled over the register,
just in time to see the pack of teens depart—the
final customers in the store. They laughed all the
way out. Ted just knew it was at his expense.
“
Do you have a replay card sir?”
Ted stared at him, dumbfounded. “All’s
I got is this card.” He put his FNB debit card
on the counter.
“
A replay card earns you points and gift certificates
when you use it, and when you sign up, it automatically
saves you five bucks. So right now, you’re total
is 18.43, but if you fill out the replay form, you
save the five bucks, so it’s a pretty good deal.”
“
Hopefully, that card’ll do. It’s past my
bedtime you know.”
“
So you don’t want it?”
“
Yeah.”
“
Ummm. . . . yeah you want it or yeah you don’t
want it?”
“
I don’t want it,” Ted said, tapping his
foot. He wanted to leave in the worst way.
Jason picked up the debit card and slid it through
the scanner. They waited in complete silence as the
register dialed out.
“
OK sir, you just need to put your PIN number in here.” Jason
pointed to a numeric pad that Ted hadn’t noticed
before.
“
Hmmm . . .” Ted surveyed the pad, eyes narrowed
in concentration. He had no idea what his PIN was.
Carmella, his wife, took care of most of the shopping,
and was the only one who had it memorized. He punched
in four random numbers.
“
OK sir . . . says that PIN was no good. You’ll
have to try it again.”
“
Sorry to say it, but I don’t know the number.
I forgot it.”
“
Would you like to pay some other way?”
“
There isn’t any other way. If I try and get cash
from an ATM they lop three bucks that ain’t theirs
right off the top. People don’t take checks anymore
without a blood sample. This is all you people have
let me have, and now I can’t use it without a
number?”
“
It’s a debit card sir. It requires a PIN for
me to process the transaction. Some cards let me process
as credit, but not this one. Sorry.” Jason kept
his eyes on the register, afraid to look. The lack
of eye contact was mutual as Ted looked down at the
counter, palming his wallet, simmering at the thought
of wasting an embarrassing half hour for nothing.
“
OK, you’re into cards. Here’s a card for
you. It’s my ID. It says that my name is Ted
Craver, and that’s the name on that FNB card.
You know it’s me, and I know the money is in
there. It’s thirty minutes for me to drive to
town, and my grandkid’s birthday is tomorrow,
so please, do whatever you have to do. There’s
something you guys can do, isn’t there?”
“
There’s nothing I can do if you don’t have
the PIN.”
“
You can call the bank. I swear the money is in there.”
“
Bank’s closed, and it doesn’t matter if
it were open, we can’t operate the transaction
that way.”
“
OK, let me give my wife a call. I think she knows the
PIN.”
“
That would work . . . but I can’t let you use
the phone. Business use only.”
“
This is business, isn’t it? You’re trying
to help a customer?”
“
Our policy is to refer you to the payphone outside,
and we’re officially closed right now anyway.
Once you leave, I’m required to lockup.”
“
This is ridiculous,” Ted said, his anger gaining
momentum. “I think I need to speak to the manager.”
“
I am the manager,” Jason said. His tone was cold
and spiteful.
“
Old man annoying you, eh?”
“
It’s not like that sir.”
“
It is like that. I’ve gone from fingerprints
to dogtags to signatures and now, even when I give
you my ID and a card that I know is good, you can’t
do nothing? Anything? Is that all I am, all anyone
is, is four numbers? ‘Cause I’m not four
numbers. I’m Ted Craver, and I might not be good
for much, but I darn well know I’m good for eighteen
dollars and forty-three cents.”
“
I can hold the album for you sir. You can come back
tomorrow. That’s about the best I can do for
you. Sorry.”
“
Some managing job your doing. I thought the customer
was always right. You’re the manager . . . makes
me laugh. You manage anything around here? You’re
managing to make me pretty darn angry, that much I’ll
tell you. You ever hear of respect? There’s a
reason this Eminem fellow has the freedom of speech
he does. A reason you can wear fag jewelry and play
doctor with your girlfriends and not worry. That reason
is guys like me, and you won’t let me spend money
I’ve earned on a product in your store? You can’t
make an exception? Heck, write down my name and address
and I’ll pay you next time I come through town.”
“
Listen sir, I’ve been really nice and really
patient with you. I can’t lose my job for breaking
store policy, even if you are a veteran.”
“
Well that’s what I am,” Ted spat. He thought
about saying that Sam Goody just lost a customer, but
figured it was too meaningless and comical to actually
say it. Instead he flipped open his wallet.
“
Look at this . . . Kroger card, discount card, Schnucks
card, Sam’s Club card, Subway card . . . look
what you people do to me! I’m not on a poker
run! All I want to do is buy a thing here or there,
and to do it, I’ve got to give you my life story
so you can fill my mailbox with crap. So I can waste
time. So I can be hassled. I can’t even get my
own money out of my own account without hassle. I’m
smothered with CD, DVD, ATM, PIN, IRS, M&M . .
. the whole alphabet, and I don’t even like Wheel
of Fortune. I’ve had enough. So you can work
out something so I can buy that filthy album or you
can politely ask me to leave.”
“
I’ll go you one better,” Jason said, picking
up the phone. “I’m calling the cops. I’ve
taken enough crap from you old man.”
“
I’ll be that language is against Sam Goody policy,” Ted
said, laughing and waiting.
It was nearly ten when Ted Craver snuck into bed beside
Carmella, waking her. Groggy from sleep, she whispered
to him: “What took you so long dear?”
“
Let’s just say I love Jimmy . . . I had to negotiate
with the police to get that CD.”
“
Goodness! What happened?”
“
I’m tired hon. I’ll tell you in the morning.” Ted
lay beside her, never so happy to be in her company
and in the dark, away from blinking lights and debit
cards. “CD,” he whispered, laughing at
the way it sounded when he said it, as if he’d
muttered a French phrase and was shocked he knew the
meaning.
“
You know Carmella; so many people our age spend their
time trying to figure out when things changed. Well
I know when they changed, now I just have to figure
out how to deal with it.”
“
We’ll figure it out dear.”
Thirty seconds of silence followed. He assumed his
loving wife was already asleep and had ignored his
musing, and began to slip into sleep himself.
“
When? When did things change Teddy?”
“
When the United States of America became the USA,” he
said.
Carmella gave him a chuckle, both understanding and
dismissing him at the same time, falling asleep minutes
later.
Ted stayed awake for close to a half hour, wired with
stress and deep thought. Sleep came like it always
did, and he welcomed it, along with the glorious and
comforting dreams of record players, piggy banks, and
handshakes that meant something.
Copyright (c) 2003 for the
author, all rights reserved. |
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