There is a supermarket chain store spread across these great United States of ours, dotting cities and towns in the South and Midwest like pustules on a syphilitic’s privates, called Kroger. Kroger stores are huge, impersonal, and confusing to shop in. For years, I have considered the one in Toco Hills here in Atlanta to be my personal Bermuda Triangle because I have never once been able to shop there without having to backtrack and circle several times before being able to collect the items I required, even if the number of them were only one or two. However, over the years, it has been my misfortune to discover that I detest not just that single store, but every store in the chain.
Besides store layouts that often make me wish I had a flare gun to shoot off in case I get lost, the produce tends toward the flavorless, the meat cooks tough, and they seem to stock every brand of certain items except the ones we like to purchase. The employees are more often than not either rude, oblivious, or stupid. One often gets the sense that Kroger employees see it as a customer service success story if they’ve merely hindered the customer rather than thwarting him or her entirely.
Which brings me to the events of this past weekend.
My dear wife had a simple request. She asked that I buy a bottle of wine so that she might enjoy a glass as we watched TV. Since I was out anyway, buying food for the cats from the pet store, I was more than happy to oblige.
Despite the insistant voice of warning that railed inside my head, I decided that I would try the local Kroger. I did so merely out of parsimony. I knew that there was a fair chance that they would have reasonably priced (read: cheap) Moscato chilling in the refrigerator section. I entered the store and found the chilled wines with unaccustomed ease and quickly spotted a Moscato in one of the high-volume brands for $5.99. I snatched a bottle and made my way to the self checkout.
Once at the checkout, I swiped the bottle and a message popped up that said that I needed to show my ID to the attendant. This is something that I don’t mind. I will gladly show my driver’s license if asked. However, as I march merrily through middle age, I get asked less and less often. This is not an irritant; it is merely proof that I am no longer young. And since I never enjoyed being young, it is more of a comfort than an insult.
However, when I got out my wallet and looked for my driver’s license, I realized that I didn’t have it. (I found it later in the pocket of my swim trunks, another heart attack and story altogether.) I looked at the young lady who was working as the attendant, and said, “I don’t seem to have my license with me.”
She said, “I have to see ID.”
I said, “I’m fifty years old.”
She said, “I can’t do anything about it. I’ll have to call a manager.”
At this point, the entire excursion had already become more trouble than it was worth, however, I waited while she had a short conference with someone on the phone.
After another minute or so had passed, a creature resembling a woman emerged from the door behind which they keep the offices. She had the build of an offensive lineman, and the hairdo of a member of Twisted Sister. She came toward me with her head lowered and loaded with a scowl.
She stopped near me and said, in a tone that suggested that she’d prefer my immediate demise, “What’s the problem, sir?”
I said, “I was trying to buy this bottle of wine, and discovered only when I got here that I don’t have my license. My birthday is 9-27-59.”
She said, “We have to see ID.”
I brushed my gray hair. “I’m obviously over 21.”
She said, “The law says that we have to see ID for every alcohol purchase.”
Seeing that this would lead nowhere, I said, “Fine,” and started for the exit, sans wine.
She said something on the order of “I haven’t finished explaining this yet, sir.”
I said something on the order of “What difference does it make?”
She said something that indicated that I was missing out on a lecture I sorely needed, and I left, unredeemed.
I went home, somewhere between a tizzy and a lather, and went straight to the Internet. I found the relevant piece of Georgia law, and it goes like this:
In any case where a reasonable or prudent person could reasonably be in doubt as to whether or not the person to whom an alcoholic beverage is to be sold or otherwise furnished is actually 21 years of age or older, it shall be the duty of the person selling or otherwise furnishing such alcoholic beverage to request to see and to be furnished with proper identification as provided for in subsection (d) of this Code section in order to verify the age of such person; and the failure to make such request and verification in any case where the person to whom the alcoholic beverage is sold or otherwise furnished is less than 21 years of age may be considered by the trier of fact in determining whether the person selling or otherwise furnishing such alcoholic beverage did so knowingly. (Emphasis mine.) O.C.G.A. § 3-3-23 ¶ (h) (2008)
There. They are not required by law to pretend that they have no senses, no judgment, no idea of what human beings look like. They are not required to be ignoramuses and automatons. Should a 90 year-old man dodder in to buy a beer, they needn’t harass him for ID. Should their own grandmother stop by for a wine cooler, there’s no need to wrestle her to the floor while demanding proof that she’s over 21. And should a 50-year-old man who, regardless of his beauty and charm, will never be confused for being 18 again
come in to purchase a bottle of wine for his dear wife, there is no need to hassle him.
Once I got home and was able to verify that I had been treated in a moronic fashion, I remembered where I must have left my license and retrieved it. I then went back out, first with the intention of inserting my license up the nose of that manager, but finally, more coolly, deciding to go to a liquor store instead. There, I was able to get something for my wife
and something for me. I spent much more than I would have at Kroger, but got quality goods with excellent customer service. Everyone was polite and helpful. No one asked to see my ID.
The Jameson’s was opened and accompanied by a Bass Ale.
It took me a long time to get to be fifty. I’m not a child nor an adolescent. And I shouldn’t be treated like either simply because of some martinet’s wrongheaded interpretation of the law. And that’s why I hate Kroger.
