Three senior employees of my usual Walgreens have got to be raising an eyebrow to me each time I step in for a miscellaneous whatnot. The highlight of last year's summer was my successful, though temporary, escape from incarceration in Milwaukee Behavioral Health Complex. I had acquired cigarettes through charm and persistence on the ten-mile barefoot walk from the suburbs to Milwaukee's downtown. However, if I were to make it through dawn, I'd need a pack of my own. Luckily, my roommate (who had intercepted me very close to Milwaukee's downtown) and my mother drove me a few blocks to Walgreens, where I could purchase some.
With the money my mother and roommate gave me, I entered a crowded Walgreens. I hadn't a driver's license on me, since it might have seemed obvious I was packing up to leave had I requested my wallet from a nurse before heading outside the ward for a break.
I lay the five dollar bill on the counter and requested No. 27s. Predictably, I was carded. "Keep it." I said, shoved the bill toward the balding cashier and walked out. A similar scene followed, in which I attempted to use a college ID. I was again rejected. The man made ten dollars in tips that night. I'm not quite sure why I threw money at the man. But, if he really thought I was younger than 18 at 25, he must have liked my fresh face and felt a responsibility to preserve it.
Not an hour ago, I entered Walgreens to see the same female cashier, security guard, and manager working as were the night of the preceding. The store had a similar level of bustle, but my mind a lower level of buzzing. Soon, though, I began to hear the lights buzz; the line was held up.
It seemed a man, who looked to be a weathered thirty-two, was being turned away from the purchase of cigarettes. This was not because he did not possess ID, or that his graying hair appeared fake to the manager manning the cash register. It was because his driver's license claimed he was eighteen years of age.
As the smokes-less joker chuckled with his friends outside, the manager very grimly instructed the security guard to 'get right on him--get right up on him next time he comes in.' The security guard nodded and frowned in agreement. I was next in line.
I requested a pack of my usual brand of ready-rolls, and indicated I'd be paying with a debit card. Of course, I was carded. Having had recently misplaced and replaced my driver's license, I was able to display two identical forms of ID for the manager. Once he had read, reread and compared the birthdate information as is adequate for legal verification, I received my pack and a receipt. "I appreciate it," I said.
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