robbery assault and battery

From the time he was discharged from military service at the end of World War II until the day he entered a hospital to have that pain in his stomach checked on — only to die ten days later, my father worked. And he worked and worked and worked.

The day after he arrived home from his assigned duty of keeping the world safe from Nazis, my father walked into a Penn Fruit supermarket in his West Philadelphia neighborhood and asked for a job. With absolutely no experience and zero prior interest, my father became an apprentice meat cutter. He trained with a seasoned butcher every day. He learned the ins and outs of hacking up a full side of beef into saleable cuts that would entice Mrs. "Shopping For My Family" consumer. He caught on fast and soon became very adept at his new — and now chosen — career. He became a reliable meat cutter and after a few years, he was named manager of the meat department. Over the course of his tenure at Penn Fruit, his acknowledged skills were the source of various transfers within the supermarket chain. His know-how was called upon to raise the production — and the profits — of a slagging meat department in lesser-performing stores. He'd train the staff on how to cut meat efficiently and for optimum resale. He'd stay at a particular store until the department could run as though he was in charge... and then he'd be transferred to another store where he could "work his meat-cutting magic."

After many years of working within the supermarket business, my father was promoted to store manager. He was able to apply his understanding of maintaining a profitable meat department to an entire store and all of its various other departments. Once again, the company saw my father's prowess in turning a profit that they continued to send him in to underperforming stores to turn things around. 

Some of the stores my father worked in were in some pretty rough neighborhoods. A supermarket was a regular target for armed robberies in broad daylight. Many of the stores in which my father worked were robbed. Several times. One store was situated across the street from the known headquarters of a local motorcycle gang. That store was robbed — on average — once a month. However, as many times as my father's store was robbed, it was always on my father's day off. Not once was he ever in a store when it was held up. Each time, the robbers dealt with my father's assistant manager or the head cashier. My father always seemed to be elsewhere. He'd get a call — after the incident — from the store while we were in Atlantic City or even just lounging around the house. He'd interrupt his day off and drive down to the store or to the police station. But he really had little to offer, as he never experienced the actual robbery.

Penn Fruit eventually closed its doors and ceased operations. My father took a job with Penn Fruit's rival Pantry Pride, who, after almost a decade, also went out of business. In that time, though, several Pantry Pride stores were robbed — also always on my father's day off.

Later in his life, my father took jobs in independent grocery stores. He never had difficulty finding a job because skilled meat cutters are a dying breed. Stores were only too happy to hire someone with so many years of experience regardless of their age. 

In the late 1980s, my father was working in a family-owned supermarket in West Philadelphia, just a few blocks from where he began his career. My father was busy cutting meat at the rear of the store where the meat department was located. Little did he know that two men brandishing handguns burst into the cash room near the store's entrance and demanded everything. The store was owned by a family man in his forties and the man's father, who was quite the entrepreneur. He owned a lot of properties in West Philly and was responsible for bringing a thriving business district to the area. He was a hard worker and a proud self-made businessman... and he'd be goddamned if he was going to allow a couple of punks to rob him of his hard-earned income. Guns or no guns, the father — unarmed himself — lunged at one of the gunmen. The robber pulled the trigger and shot the father square in the chest. He fell backwards into an office chair as the panicked robbers fled with what they had gathered up to that point — which was a couple of bags of cash, mostly ones, fives and tens.

One of the gunmen ran out the front door. The other headed towards the back of the store. The first door he found on his proposed escape route was the cooler for the meat department where my father was busily cutting and wrapping the day's offerings. The gunman breached the heavy plastic sheets that kept the cold in and startled my father. He pointed the gun in my father's direction and loudly demanded, "Which way is out?" My father could not speak. He just pointed in the direction of a metal door that led to the alley behind the store. The gunman left and headed to the metal door. He opened it and found himself in the alley... where two police officers were waiting for him. Meanwhile, the first robber who ran out the front door holding a bag of money in one hand and a gun in the other was also met by a Philadelphia patrol car who just happened to be driving down West 60th Street and turned on to Cedar Avenue. Both gunmen were arrested.

This was the first time in six decades that my father was in a supermarket that was robbed. He was questioned by police, looking for his account of the events of that day. My father gave his honest answer. (This was a rarity, as my father was a longtime, habitual liar.) He told the police he was very sorry that he was unable to describe the robber, despite the fact that he stood just a few feet away when he burst into the meat department. My father explained that all he saw was the gun. A gun he described as being as big as a cannon — the barrel as long as a pool cue. He said the gun practically took up the whole room. He went on to say the only thought in his head was that he would never see his family again. The police politely thanked him for what little help he could offer. He was not questioned again and was not asked to appear as a witness in the subsequent court trial.

My father worked in two more supermarkets after leaving the one that was robbed. Considering that my father loved to fabricate stories and embellish upon actual events, he never spoke about that robbery ever again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I can no longer shop happily

I am never, ever, ever setting foot in the fucking Giant Supermarket in Huntingdon Valley for as long as I shall live! Dammit!

I live within a convenient driving distance to five supermarkets. I have no loyalty to any of them, because — on some level — there is something I don't like about each one of them. I do most of my supermarket shopping at a Walmart SuperCenter that is a further driving distance than the five nearby supermarkets. But, the prices at Walmart are so ridiculously cheap that I cannot justify going to one of the closer stores when I know I can get the same groceries at as much as half the price on some items. Yeah, I know. Walmart treats their employees like shit and they allegedly have questionable business practices, but who doesn't get treated like shit by their employers? Besides, if I can get a 20 ounce bottle of mustard for 98 cents, I honestly don't care if Walmart kicks their help in the balls when they arrive at work. As the great philosopher/cartoon character Super Chicken once said: "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

There's an Aldi near my house. At first I didn't like Aldi. I likened it to shopping in the Twilight Zone, based on their store-branded products so closely mimicking the package designs of national brands. But over time, I have come around to Aldi. They have great produce. Their prices are cheap and their own products — despite their TV prop package designs — are comparable in quality to national brands. The problem with Aldi is they don't carry everything. It is impossible to do a full, old-fashioned shopping trip at Aldi because of their limited variety on a number of products.

Also close by is a Shop Rite, an Acme (part of the Albertsons family of stores) and a Giant (a subsidiary of the multi-national retail conglomerate Ahold Delhaize, not to be confused with the Giant Eagle Mid-West supermarket chain). Shop Rite is a last resort for me, as I always find the place poorly lit, poorly stocked and dirty. They do have pretty good store-brand coleslaw, but that's not enough of an enticement for me. The Acme, which is the closest to my house, is expensive and filled with employees who would rather be anywhere else in the world except in that store. Also, they have this uncanny knack to stop carrying a product that I discover and like on a random visit. It never fails. It's as though they have a list and check off the box that says "Josh Pincus likes this. Do Not Order."

The Giant is the worst and, as I began this blog, I have made my last trip to Giant ever. Mrs. Pincus and I decided to have hot dogs for dinner tonight. A typical summer meal, mine would be of the vegetarian variety and hers would be from the good, God-fearing folks at Hebrew National. We had picked up a bag of chips from Walmart on a previous supermarket run, but had failed to grab a couple of cans of baked beans. And, as you know, Mrs. P cannot be expected to eat hot dogs without the accompaniment of baked beans. That would be like eating peanut butter without jelly or pizza without pineapple. (Oh lighten up! It was a joke!) We like Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans. We just do. We both grew up eating them and we are very used to their taste. Sure, over the years, we have buckled to store brands on some grocery staples, but we will not yield in some cases — and Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is one of those cases. Besides, Heinz is a popular brand and readily available. I happily volunteered to go out in the morning to grab a few cans of baked beans before the start of the afternoon Phillies game. I decided that Giant would be my choice of store this time.

I actually dread going to Giant. I cannot remember a time that I went to Giant and completely filled my shopping order. They are always out of something or they don't carry something or I can't find something after looking in the most logical places. I find their staff to be plentiful, although less than helpful. They usually answer questions like "Where would I find Rice Krispies?" with "Did you check the cereal aisle?" I have often left Giant with bags full of groceries only to head directly to another supermarket to pick up those few items that Giant did not have. And there are always — always —items that Giant does not have.

I drove over to Giant, parked and went into the store. I quickly scanned the signs that hang above each aisle that list the items that could be found within. The one that read "canned vegetables" was the one I wanted. I passed peas and corn and string beans and a range of exotic offerings until I arrived at a small section stocked with baked beans. The shelves were filled with every conceivable flavor of Bush's Baked Beans. There was Original, which contains bacon and, if Mrs. Pincus is partial to Hebrew National hot dogs... well, you do the dietary math. There were other flavors of Bush's Baked Beans — Garlic, Homestyle, Slow-Cooked, Fast-Cooked, Medium-Cooked, Sweet Heat, Brown Sugar, Maple, Country Style, Boston Style and about a hundred other flavors occupying every single shelf. Near the bottom of the section, Campbell's Pork & Beans and Hanover managed to muscle in and grab a sliver of shelf space along side a few rows of Giant's own brand.

But no Heinz. No where. There wasn't even a shelf tag alerting me that I was too late to get a can. There was no room at the inn for Heinz. It was as though the Heinz brand didn't exist on the Giant Supermarket astral plane. I stared at those shelves for a good, long time. I even walked up and down the aisle, thinking maybe — just maybe — Giant relegated Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans to their own special section. But that was a pipe dream. Giant seemed to be mocking me. As far as Giant was concerned, I could get the fuck out of their store and pound Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans up my ass in the process. By this time I was fuming. I reluctantly snapped a can (a small can) of Bush's Vegetarian Baked Beans off the shelf and made my way to the checkout area.

My father-in-law's favorite pastime — beside studying the Torah — is leisurely strolling the aisles of Giant the way most people visit an art museum. He peruses the shelves slowly and meticulously, as though he is viewing and appreciating works by Picasso and Renoir. I can't understand his obsession with Giant, but he seems to be there nearly every day. I suppose Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is never on his shopping list.

So, Giant is off my list. I'm done! Finished! Through! One down. Four to go.

UPDATE: Shop Rite does not carry Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans either. Uh-oh.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ignoreland

When Mrs. Pincus and I first got married, we were out shopping in a local mall. As we exited a store and were strolling in the common area, I saw a familiar face coming up on us. I pointed the fellow out to my wife and said, "See that guy? I went to high school with him." Mrs. P smiled and asked, "Are you going to say 'hello' to him?" I turned to her and, with furrowed brow, replied, "No! I never liked him in high school." We continued walking. My former classmate-in-question walked right by us and I didn't even glance in his direction. It was right then and there that I fully discovered my superpower.

I can ignore anyone.

With very little effort, I can pretend as though any person, at any given time, is totally invisible. This has included (but not limited to) family members, co-workers, salespeople, solicitors, homeless, those people — toting a clipboard or iPad — who stop you on the street for "a moment of your time" and strangers in the car next to me trying to get my attention. I can look right at someone and at the same time look right through them as though they weren't even there. 

Just a few hours ago, I went to the supermarket. I parked, got out of my car and started towards the store, when I received an alert on my phone. I stopped and fished around in my pocket for my phone. I extracted the phone from my pocket and saw it was just a notification that someone "liked" a recent post of mine on Instagram. I put the phone back in my pocket and continued into the store. Inside, I grabbed a shopping cart and reached for the shopping list I had compiled before I left the house.

It wasn't in the pocket I swore I had put it in. It wasn't in any of my pockets. I checked them all and I checked them all again. Dammit! It must have fallen out when I grabbed my phone. I pushed the shopping cart I had selected over to one side and began to retrace my steps to find my shopping list. This was very important, because without that list, I couldn't remember a single item I came for. That is why I made a list. 

I turned, making my way to the front doors. Right then, in walked my sister-in-law and my niece — right through the door that would be my exit. My sister-in-law has been the bane of my family's existence since she began dating my brother-in-law over twenty years ago. By this point, I should be calling her my ex-sister-in-law, except my brother-in-law is too goddamn lazy to divorce her. They have been separated for years. My brother-in-law has been living on my in-law's den sofa for the past four years. He moved into their house right around the time we were made aware of COVID-19 and a pending pandemic. My brother-in-law quarantined at his parent's house and never left. His estranged wife... well, I don't know where she was living, and frankly, I don't care. All I know is: I haven't seen her in almost four years and here she was — going shopping at the same time and place that I chose.

When my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were married and cohabitating, I could very easily sit at the same dining room table at my in-law's house and not speak a word to her. I don't believe I have spoken a word or even acknowledged her presence in a dozen or so years. That's right... years.

And now, here she was, not five feet away from me. Suddenly, my superpower engaged. Just like Clark Kent whipping off his glasses and tearing the buttons off another dress shirt, my eyes focused somewhere out in the parking lot. I walked right past them and continued my quest for my misplaced shopping list.

Sure enough, I spotted the folded list right where I expected to find it. It was laying on the ground in the spot where I had earlier checked my phone. I picked the paper up and, with it firmly held in my fist, I went back into the store. 

My first stop would be the produce section, where I would find bananas, the first item on my list. In my peripheral vision, I could see my sister-in-law lingering near the display of bananas. I decided to make bananas the last item on my list. Instead, and going against my regular shopping procedure, I made almond milk the next item I would get. I headed towards the dairy section at the rear of the store. My list would be filled backwards. When all of the items I needed sat safely in my cart, I grabbed that bunch of bananas and stealthily worked my way to self-checkout. I scanned, paid and was out of that store in just under twenty minutes.

And I never crossed paths with my sister-in-law again.

Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? My ass! How about a useful power, Superman? You know you really don't want to talk to Batman ever again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gimme a head with hair

On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their natural form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.

I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.

Then I heard the man behind me say.... something.

In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell who someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations — complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures — with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and not addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.

He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."

Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.

It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.

So, no matter what the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is no way that he — or anyone — genuinely "likes my hair"... at least not at this juncture of my life.

Or.... maybe.... maybe... he really liked my hair.

After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "You... have a good day!," with emphasis on "you."

When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

feels like the first time

I keep finding him... or maybe he keeps finding me.

Perhaps you have encountered him, too.

You are in your car, waiting to enter a parking lot for a concert or a baseball game or some other large event that draws thousands of commuters to a parking facility provided by the venue to store your vehicle for a few hours. You've done this dozens of times. You drive up, pay the attendant who tosses some sort of official voucher on your dashboard and you pull away, off to seek a suitable spot to safely leave your car while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. Your interaction with the parking lot attendant — usually a young man or woman working their way through college or responsibly earning a few bucks to get their parents off their backs — is minimal, sometimes even wordless, unless you are the friendly type who greets everyone with  a rhetorical "Hey, how you doin' today?" (Unsurprisingly, I am not one of those.) But, invariably, I usually get in the entrance line behind that guy who is experiencing the "public parking lot adventure" for the very first time. It never fails! The queue line comes to a screeching and unnecessary halt while that guy in front of me begins a long and involved dialogue with the hapless (and usually disinterested) attendant. From my car-length vantage point, I can see this guy's hands expressively gesturing through his open driver's side window, I can't see a face, just the hand. And that hand is waving around as though performing an interpretive dance. Just when you think that this conversation will end, it continues. Way too long. "What," I think to myself (sometimes out loud), "could this guy possibly be asking or saying or explaining or complaining about? Pay your overpriced parking fee, you get your little ticket and you go!" But, no! It is obviously that guy's first time at a parking lot.

I know some people use them every day (sometimes several times a day), but I have not had the need to access an ATM in some time. As a matter of fact, it is so infrequent that I use an ATM, I have to seriously think about my password on each occasion. However, every time I have had the need to have some banking transactions via the convenience of an ATM, that guy is once again in front of me in line. He was issued his card and left, by the bank, to his own devices. No explanation was offered. No instructional pamphlet to read or video to watch. To be honest, how much teaching is really needed? ATMs are pretty intuitive. There is only one slot that could accommodate your card. The numerical buttons are nice and big. Hopefully, you have selected a fairly easy-to-remember four-digit access code and hopefully you have not forgotten what it is. The entire transaction should take just a few minutes (unless the machine keeps your card, which it has been known to do). Even then, after a few open-palm "bangs" on the ATM faceplate, your real beef is with the malevolent forces within the bank itself. But, that guy is having his first rendezvous with an ATM... and it is not going well. From a comfortable and socially-acceptable, privacy-aware distance, you can see that that guy has pressed waaay too many buttons after inserting his card. He appears to have canceled his transaction, only to start again, by inserting his card and, again, pressing double the amount of buttons this time around. He looks as though he is typing a report on a typewriter as opposed to merely entering a four digit number. As your patience wanes, that guy has begun the process of accessing the ATM no less that ten times. In between the fifth and sixth attempts, he turns around and, with mournful puppy-dog eyes, silently requests your help - only to shrug and return to the procedure. It is obviously that guy's first time at an ATM and here I am.... once again.

Recently, my wife and I accompanied her young cousin to his very first Major League Baseball game. As the game made its way to the late innings, Mrs. P thought it would be a nice idea to get him one of those "My First Baseball Game" certificates that all MLB stadiums offer. It's a cool memento and it's totally free, which is very nice in these days of six-dollar hot dogs and eighteen-dollar beers. A little research on the stadium's website revealed that the certificates are readily available at the Fan Services window which is located a short walk from  our seats. We hopped up at the bottom of the seventh inning, excused ourselves and made our way through the concourse to our destination. Navigating through the wandering crowd, we spotted the "Fan Services" sign jutting out from a wall just ahead. There was a woman at the window when we arrived. She must have been that guy's spouse. Keeping a respectful distance from her, we could see that she was waving her arms and gesturing to the poor young lady on the receiving side of the window. Mrs. That Guy went on and on and on, flailing her arms, stomping her feet and tapping the window to make her point. "What," I thought to myself, "could have possibly happened to this woman to warrant such an animated display? I don't believe she was pitching for the home team when back-to-back home runs were given up. I'm sure the manager didn't bench her for not running out an an infield hit. Eventually, she concluded her rant. The young lady behind the counter made a phone call and soon handed that woman something that made everything all better. Perhaps this was her first baseball game and her expectations were not satisfactorily met. And we were there to witness it.

Everything from self check-out at the supermarket to the simple operation of an automatic door to a traffic signal turning from red to green... I have been lucky enough to get a first-hand, eyewitness view of that guy's first time for everything. We always find each other. Most of the time, though, he's first.

Interestingly, when he is not first and I manage to get a seat in front of him, say at the movies or a concert or sporting event), he lets me know he is there. 

How?

He kicks my seat through the whole event.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you better shop around

Since the beginning of the global pandemic, our shopping habits and procedures have changed considerably. Going to buy groceries used to be a regular occurrence for the Pincuses (Pinci?) and sometimes, Mrs. P and I would find ourselves at the supermarket a few times during any given week. Now, we (and by "we," I of course mean my wife) go to pick up our groceries from a list compiled online. Our pre-picked, pre-bagged, pre-paid grocery order is delivered by a masked employee right to the cargo area of our SUV. Simple. Convenient. Annoyance free.

Yeah. Right.

There ain't nothing that is annoyance free, especially in a world occupied by humans. Humans always seem to ruin a perfectly good plan, either by saying something inappropriate or stupid or both. Or by doing something that blatantly goes against the policy of the company for whom they enjoy employment. Or they don't do something they should be doing. Or any combination of the above.

Our first choice for groceries is Walmart, the mighty global retail giant that stocks nearly everything. Their prices on most items are so ridiculously low, it makes one wonder how they can sell things so cheaply and why other stores sell the identical item for much more money. Oh... I know the reason! It's because, in order to take advantage of the great prices, you are forced to go to Walmart. Our weekly trips to Walmart started off great. After the first couple of weeks, their ranking dropped from "great" to "pretty good," as the accuracy decreased and product substitution increased. Soon, Walmart's status was at a solid "okay," with the foreseeable potential of dropping further. Right now, thirty-plus weeks into this shitshow, Walmart is holding steady at "adequate." Lately, our orders have been missing items, requiring a return trip. Once, they forgot an entire bag of groceries. We had to go back to the store, well after their curbside pick-up hours had ended for the day. We had difficulty finding someone — anyone — who would venture into the now-closed grocery department to retrieve our errant bag. Now, for subsequent orders, we have begun to perform an inventory before we leave the parking lot.

We have also frequented Target for grocery pick up. Target, while still a discount store, is a noticeable step above Walmart. In the pre-COVID-19 days, when we still went in to stores, Target was always cleaner and more orderly than Walmart. And their customer base was well-versed in the art of tucking in a shirt. These days, Target seems to have a better, more-efficient handle on the "curbside pick-up" procedure. Walmart requires customers to book and secure a time slot in which to arrive. Target will happily accept your online order and merely asks for the time you will be in their parking lot (in a newly-delineated area installed since the pandemic began). When you arrive, you log into their website, enter the space number in which you are parked and within a minute or two, a friendly red-and-beige clad employee will appear with your order — sometimes including a free sample product along with the requested items. (Once, we got a fruit rollup. Another time, we got a small box of Cap'n Crunch!) But, even Target isn't perfect. Just this week, Target experienced its first Achilles' heel. As part of our order, I asked for two bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo. (Yes, that's what I wash my delicate scalp with, you got a problem with that?) According to the website, it was available, but we were only permitted to place 'one" in our virtual shopping cart. Just before our selected pick-up time, we were informed, via email, that the shampoo was unavailable. "Really?" I exclaimed, to no one in particular, "There's not a single bottle of baby shampoo in that entire store?" No one in particular remained silent. My wife and I headed over to our nearby Target. We parked and notified the store that we were there to accept our order. However, the option to enter your parking spot was unavailable. Someone was required to actually go into the store. Mrs. Pincus donned her mask and gloves, a practice that has become second nature at this point in time, and grudgingly set off for the front entrance. A few minutes later, she returned, holding a plastic Target shopping bag. While at the "pick up" area, she asked about the shampoo, explaining its alleged unavailability. The employee shook her head and said that baby shampoo is with baby items, not health and beauty. Another employee was sent out on a mission and returned with three bottles of the shampoo. I have a hard time understanding how just one person in Target holds the secret as to the location of baby shampoo... and it's not the person filling the online orders. Is Target slipping? Oh, say it isn't so!

There's one more place that Mrs. P goes for groceries, but visits have been reduced to approximately once per month. I'm talking about BJ's Wholesale Club. BJ's Wholesale, if you are not familiar, is like Costco and Sam's Club, selling common grocery items in quantiles far too big for the average family to fully consume before some of it spoils. They also stock giant-size containers of things that you would normally purchase one of in a lifetime — like nutmeg. Does anyone who doesn't operate a ski lodge need a hundred and twelve ounces of nutmeg? Mrs. Pincus has graciously been doing the shopping for her parents, as well as for us. So an infrequent stop at BJ's Wholesale can be beneficial for stocking up on large containers of orange juice or cereal or other items that we know we'll use in a reasonable amount of time (no... not nutmeg). On my wife's most recent trip to BJ's Wholesale, her purchases were actually pretty modest. A bunch of bananas, a couple of heads of lettuce, a case of Polar seltzer for our son and a couple of big bags of Hallowe'en candy that may or may not be distributed — the jury is still out. When Mrs. P began placing her items on the conveyor belt at the check out, the cashier felt that it was fully within her rights to comment on my wife's purchases. "Boy, you sure have a big order," she announced. 

Now, if you've ever been to a BJ's Wholesale (or Costco or Sam's Club), I'm sure you've seen folks dragging flatbed carts behind them laden to overflowing with cases and cases of various commodities like soda, bottled water, bulk packages of potato chips, giant glass jars of pickles or jalapeno peppers. Sometimes, you'll see people guiding several overstocked carts through the aisles — as though they are replenishing the staples of a small convenience store or sandwich shop. As a matter of fact, some of these people are doing just that. Independent businessmen and women come to BJ's Wholesale often — a few times a week sometimes — to buy what they need to help keep their businesses running. Believe me, they are buying way more that eight bananas and a gallon of orange juice. Heck, there were people in the checkout line with triple the order size as Mrs. Pincus's. Why this cashier chose to marvel at a few bunches of produce and a few bags of candy is beyond me.

Oh, we will get through this dark pall that is hanging over us. COVID-19, I mean. Stupidity we're stuck with.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's what you get for being polite

I have a question. What is the correct amount of times one needs to say "excuse me, please" to get the person blocking you to move? One? Two? Six? Is it a trick question, because, oftentimes that person never moves.

Since my wife and I started eating salads for dinner — almost exclusively — about a year ago, I find myself in the supermarket several times a week. I go often to replenish basic fresh salad ingredients — tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots. You know, stuff that doesn't have a very long shelf life. My supermarket trips don't last very long, as I make a beeline to the produce section, pick up what I need and scoot. Sometimes, my "scooting" is not as quick as I'd prefer. Thanks to the arrogance of other shoppers.

This afternoon (Sunday) I left my house fairly early (for a Sunday) to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy. Then, I headed over to the supermarket to grab a few salad items that needed restocking in our refrigerator. In less than five minutes, I had everything I came for in my cart (except for scallions, which a clerk told me: "we are having a hard time ordering." I didn't believe him, as his explanation had that "I'm making this up 'cause I couldn't be bothered to find out" tone) and made my way to the self-checkout. I wasn't about to waste my precious time while a bored cashier examined and commented on every one of my purchases. 

One by one, I scanned each of my items, entering produce codes manually when requested. I bagged my purchases and then slid my credit card into the scanner, removing it when prompted. I loaded my bags back into my cart and prepared to make my exit from the store.

However...

As I was checking out my items, I spotted something in my peripheral vision. A man with a full shopping cart moved into position at the checkout station next to me — approaching from the wrong side — thereby avoiding the customer queue line. Since I only had ten or so items and I scanned them with efficiency and I finished long before my new colleague did. But, my fellow shopper had his cart positioned in such a way that it did not allow me access to leave.  I frowned.

I offered a friendly (well, friendly for me) "excuse me, please." I like to think that, although I am often accused of being a "curmudgeon," I am polite. I am not an instigator. I avoid conflict as much as I can. But, I will speak up if I believe I am right. And, in this case, I was right. This guy was blocking my exit with no regard for anyone but himself. His cart was crooked in the aisle and it was inconsiderate. My "excuse me" was met with absolutely no reaction. None. He made no attempt to move his cart an inch. I frowned again.

"Excuse me, please." I repeated myself, something I don't like to do, especially if I am being totally ignored. Again, this man continued adjust and survey the items in his cart, selecting and scanning. He was doing everything except changing the position of his cart. I thought for a moment. "How many more 'excuse me's will it take until this guy finally acknowledges another human being in his world?" (Unfortunately, I have run into this rude, self-absorbed behavior before. From adults, no less.)

So here we are at an impasse. He entered the self-checkout area from the exit side. He was blocking the aisle with his cart parked across the access lane. And my repeated pleas of "excuse me" were falling upon deaf ears. I repeated my "excuse me" again, this time sans "please." A customer at the terminal across from my rude shopping neighbor pulled his cart closer to afford me some room to slip by. I nodded to the other customer and sarcastically (and loudly) "thanked" the fellow next to me as I pushed my cart past him. He looked up with a scowl, as though I was disturbing him.

I suppose, in his world, I was.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stand in the place where you are

My wife and I find ourselves in the supermarket quite regularly. We eat a lot of salad and fresh vegetables, so we must keep replenishing our stock. That stuff doesn't have a long shelf life and, honestly, the salads we make are pretty big. 

We live in close proximity to several large supermarkets, each one equally convenient, however not as equal in the products that they carry. The one that is closest to us – Acme, a subsidiary of the Albertson's grocery chain – does not carry bagged, shredded red cabbage. I love red cabbage in my salad and the amount that is included in the pre-bagged “Classic Salad” mixes (as offered by Dole and Fresh Express) is not sufficient to satisfy me. Acme is also lacking in other products, such as low-fat salad dressing. (I know. I know. I am very particular about my salads.) So, more often, Mrs. P and I find ourselves in the produce section of our local Giant supermarket. (Giant is the name, not a commentary on its size. It is no bigger that any other supermarket near us.) 

Giant has a beautiful produce section, with offerings that Acme never carries (including bagged, shredded red cabbage). Until a recent remodel rectified the situation, the Giant store was poorly laid out, with aisles running perpendicular to other aisles. There were aisles that did not run the entire depth of the store,  and aisles that ran part way across the store, making shopping a tedious and exhausting task, forcing the poor disoriented shopper (me) into feeling like a lab mouse caught in an impossible maze experiment. Well, they straightened out and simplified the floor plan, plus they introduced “Marty.” Marty is a robot that roams the aisles of Giant. That's right – a robot. Marty is a sleek gray plastic piece of equipment standing 6-and-a-half feet tall and outfitted with scanners and – inexplicably – a large set of googly eyes. Marty's mission is to identify spills and obstacles that may impede on a shopper's in-store experience. Marty glides almost silently through the store, moving slowly enough so as not to startle the elderly shoppers and to enable the curious to snap a quick selfie. Marty has been programmed to not bump into carts or shelving and nor will it block the aisles. 

Although that problem at Giant has not been fully resolved. 

One of the reasons I don't care to shop at Giant is an on-going phenomena among a large percentage of their clientele. It's a phenomena I have been subject to on nearly every visit to the store. It seems every single time I go to Giant, someone is blocking every single aisle. I have never encountered this at any other supermarket besides Giant. There always seems to be someone standing in the dead center of any given aisle with their shopping cart strategically positioned so no one can scoot around them on either side. This shopper is usually rifling through a fat cardboard folder of coupons or craning their neck in confusion while considering a display of products on a top shelf ten feet away. The other infuriating scenario is when folks saunter to the end of an aisle and stop. Just stop and ponder. Ponder which way to turn. Ponder what items are still remaining on their shopping list. Ponder which items they missed in the aisle that they almost exited. Ponder the speed at which the Earth rotates as it makes its way around the sun. Who knows what they are pondering. I just know they are not pondering getting out of the way. That one they got all figured out. 

On my most recent visit to Giant, I left my wife at the deli counter to peruse the various cold prepared salads. I told her I was just going to hop over to a far aisle and grab a jar of sliced roasted red peppers (another favorite salad topping of mine) and I'd be back in a second. On what should have been a ten second quest, I was held up no less that five times by shoppers standing at a dead halt at the end or middle of an aisle for no discernible reason. People just stopping dead in their tracks, as though they were trapped in quick-drying cement. These people have no regard for other shoppers around them. Other shoppers who don't lead a life of leisure that allows for a casual stop-and-start stroll though a bustling market. There are people who don't want to make a trip to the market like a trip to a museum. A lot of people want to get what they need and get on their way. That is the beauty of self-serve markets and the concept that brought them into existence in the first place. You want to stop and think about your next supermarket purchase? That's fine. Just do it off to the side and have a little consideration for someone who doesn't share your (and The Eagles') philosophy of “Take It Easy.” 

When I finally returned with my jar of roasted red peppers, I related my tale of woe to Mrs. Pincus as we made our way up to the check-out area. As you would expect, I prefer the self check-out lanes – except when I get behind someone with an issue or a problem or something they didn't mean to purchase. This time, though, we were lucky and it was smooth sailing. We quickly scanned our items, bagged them and paid. I gathered up our bags and we started for the exit. 

Only to be blocked by an emergency meeting of the Old Man Giant Door Blockers Union Local 101. I believe it is usually held RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE ONLY STORE EXIT! 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

rude boy

After work, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. I have a love/hate relationship with Walmart. I love their prices on groceries. However, I hate going to Walmart. Nearly every Walmart I have visited is exactly the same. Scummy, dirty, inconsistently stocked and filled with the absolute dregs of society — both shoppers and employees. I've been to a lot of different Walmarts and it's uncanny how you see the same people in all of them. (The first Walmart I was ever in was in St. Catherines in Ontario. Who knew there were scummy Canadians?) Everyone in Walmart looks as though they'd rather be somewhere else ...and I can't say I blame them. But their prices on groceries are so unbelievably low that I feel silly shopping anywhere else. (Last week, I bought a package of eight hamburger roils for 67 cents. Now, come on!)

There's a Walmart just a few blocks from my job and I stop there often on my way home from work. I usually prepare a list of items I need before I enter the store to make sure I am in and out in ten minutes or less....and I usually am. Today, my list consisted of just three items — milk, a loaf of bread, and butter. This should take under five minutes. 

Today's selections

I pulled into the parking lot and drove up towards the building to find a parking space. I saw a prime spot right next to the row of reserved handicapped spaces. As I flicked my turn signal and began to swing my car into the space, I saw a man pushing a shopping cart in my direction. He was a tall thin man, probably in his mid-seventies. He was one of those guys that has a permanent scowl on his face, as though he is coming to the end of a life that done him wrong time and time again. His mouth was curved into a frown that betrayed years of disdain and contempt. He tightly gripped the handle of the cart with thin bony fingers, but he also may have been using it for support under the weight of that enormous chip on his shoulder. As I slowly guided my car into the space, he frowned harder, made a sweeping gesture with his arm towards the front of my car and mouthed some words that I could not make out. I threw the shift lever into "PARK," pulled up my parking brake, unlatched my seat belt and slowly opened my door... just enough to get out but not so wide as to bump the adjacent car.... which I would soon understand to be the older man's vehicle.

The man stopped briefly right in front of my car, right by the pylons holding the "handicapped" designation signs, and then he pushed his cart to the passenger side of my car and grumbled something under his breath. I managed to get "didn't leave me no room" before he trailed off. He was about a foot away from me and the situation was becoming crystal clear. I dared park next to his car in his parking lot. My selfish act of parking was now forcing him to put his two small bags of purchases in his car by way of the door on the other side. He was tense and fuming.

I looked at my parked car. I was well within the yellow guide lines painted on the asphalt. I was not crooked nor did I overshoot the front of the designated space. I may not have stopped my car equidistant from either side of the space, but I was absolutely within the boundaries. Absolutely.

I spoke up — something I don't normally do. "I can move my car.," I offered, but I followed that proposal with a stern, "You don't have to be rude." 

The old man frowned even harder. "You're the one being rude!," he spat and he pointed in the direction of my car, "Parking like that!"

I raised my voice a bit."I said I'd move my car. All you had to do was ask!" I climbed back into my car, started the engine and backed up into a space on the other side of the parking aisle. This took all of two seconds. I repeated the standard series of "parking the car" formalities and headed to the store. The old man watched me park and exit my car. As I passed him, he managed to choke out a strained "Thank you," but I wasn't convinced. 

I did my shopping (five minutes worth, like I figured) and returned to my car. Considering how slowly the old man moved, I was surprised that he was gone from the lot. But as I approached my car, I saw something under my wiper blade. I gulped and thought the old man left me some kind of nasty note. As I drew closer, I saw every car around mine had the same thing shoved under their windshield wipers. It was an announcement for a restaurant opening in the area. I was relieved.

A lot a people have misunderstood me. I have been pegged as angry and sullen — even a curmudgeon. I am not. I am actually a pretty nice guy. I hold doors open for people. I gladly allow people to enter traffic from a parking lot or an adjacent lane. I say "please" and "thank you" and I do my best to be courteous and polite. I am not aggressive... until crossed. I am a reactor, not an instigator.

But, I'll be damned if being nice doesn't get tougher and tougher every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I won't back down

This is a story of resilience, tenacity and resourcefulness. And, if you're not careful, you may even learn something.

First, the learning part of this story. As spring tries to emerge from a winter that just doesn't want to loosen its icy grip, Passover, the harbinger of the vernal equinox and the Jewish holiday that commemorates.... er...Pharaoh and Moses and plagues and letting my people go... concluded just last week. In preparation for Passover, my family has always observed  and practiced the traditional rituals associated with the holiday. Over the years, we have become more lenient and relaxed in some areas, but Mrs Pincus remains firm on cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom, ditching everything in the refrigerator and restocking it with food that is certified "Kosher for Passover." For those who are not familiar with the "rules" of Passover, or keeping kosher, besides the basics of "no pork, no shellfish and no mixing meat with dairy" which apply all year long, Passover foods are like starting fresh. They are prepared and are kept clear of non-Passover foods. Plus, depending on your family's specific, sub-ethnic heritage (now, it gets really gets complicated), some foods — like corn, peanuts and rice — are strictly forbidden during the eight day observance. To make things more confusing, some foods are "Kosher for Passover" all the time and their packaging is so labeled.. (Yeah, it took me a while for the concept to "click," for me, too.)

In the week or so prior to the first day of Passover, my wife makes a trip to a supermarket about thirty minutes from our home. Sure, most supermarkets in urban areas stock an aisle with big boxes of matzoh, glass jars of gefilte fish and matzoh ball soup and a few shelves of Passover baking mixes that are just terrible enough to make one vow to just refrain from consuming any Passover cake the next year. The Shop Rite that Mrs P goes to has a rather large and varied selection of Passover foods not available in the average "let's accommodate the Jews for a week" section of our local Acme Market. The temporary Passover department is adjacent to the extensive Kosher section that opened to cater to a pocket of ultra-Orthodox Jews that reside nearby. Among the regular stock of kosher groceries is a packaged meat and cold cut display, many of which is clearly labeled "Kosher for Passover and Year Round Use." Bingo! That's the stuff! Mrs. P scooped up several packages of pastrami, corned beef and salami — all to be enjoyed by her and her meat-eating parents. I am a vegetarian. She filled her shopping cart with other Passover-certified items and headed to the checkout  lane. When she got home, and began to unpack her purchases, she noticed that one package of corned beef was not vacuum-sealed, its contents a pale, sickly beige. It looked small and drawn as it sat awkwardly in its unnerving ballooned package. Mrs. Pincus frowned. She shuffled through the many plastic grocery store bags and located the receipt, making a mental note to return the meat after the holiday was over.

Well, Passover finally ended. I think it may have even run a few days longer than usual. Anyway, after Mrs. Pincus got the kitchen back in order, she threw the suspect corned beef in a bag, grabbed the receipt and we headed out to the Greater Northeast, a misnomer that has attached itself to the far northern tip of the Philadelphia city limits, not far from where I grew up.

We parked and with determined steps, Mrs P bee-lined straight for the Customer Service desk. She presented the receipt and the debilitated package. She pleaded her case to the disinterested young man on the other side of the counter. Suddenly, he seemed to focus on the "Kosher for Passover" legend on the label. Immediately and without listening to another word from my wife, he grabbed a nearby phone and paged a manager. Within seconds, a gentleman in shirtsleeves and a necktie appeared at our side. He interrupted Mrs. P's explanation with a very rehearsed "We are not taking returns on Passover merchandise." And then he grinned a shit-eating grin. Mrs. P furrowed her brow and took it from the top. She patiently (and I mean with the patience of Job) explained that this corned beef, as well as other items, are labeled "Kosher for Passover" all the time. Items that this very store sells all year long. Items that this store stocks at this very moment. The necktied manager with the shit-eating grin nodded and said, "I understand, but we are not taking any returns on Passover items." He continued grinning. Clearly, he did not understand.

Mrs. Pincus began again. Slowly and carefully, she repeated her points. Mr. Manager had obviously lost interest, but stood with his head lolling to one side and pretended to listen. This time, he allowed her to finish before repeating his mantra about not accepting returns on blah blah blah blah blah. Mrs. Pincus was beginning to get a bit tense, much in the way one would get debating important issues with a turnip. I stood a few feet away from the building confrontation, but when my wife mentioned — again — other items bearing the "Kosher for Passover" designation all year round, I took it upon myself to run over to the Kosher deli section and bring back a current package of the same corned beef brand we were returning. And I did just that.

I gave the freshly-picked package to my wife and she waved it in the managers direct, pointing out the words "Kosher for Passover" emblazoned on the label. "My husband just got this from your shelf. If I bought this and returned it tomorrow, you wouldn't accept it?," she asked. With his familiar robotic inflection, he repeated, "We are not taking returns on Passover merchandise." This time, he added that we were welcome to come back tomorrow and speak to the store manager. The store manager? Who the fuck was this guy the whole time. Mrs. P squinted at his name badge. Oh, the assistant manager. "but he won't take the return either.," the assistant added.

"Look," Mrs. Pincus growled thorough clenched teeth, "I am not leaving until I get a refund or a store credit or something." And she meant it. I've known her for 35 years. Oh, she meant it alright. The manager... I mean assistant manager sighed and reluctantly picked a store gift card off a rack. "Okay," he said, "I'll give the amount on a gift card, but I am going to get in so much trouble for this." He loaded the card with the refund amount. Seven dollars and ninety-nine cents. That's right. The assistant manager quarreled and quibbled and disputed over less than eight bucks. Speaking of misnomers, that "Customer Service" sign hanging over our heads was a blatant one.

The next day, my wife called the store to speak to the actual manager. He was receptive, respectful and attentive. First, he apologized profusely for the behavior of his staff. Then he expressed his appreciation of the explanation and said he would be enlightening his staff with this new information about the labeling of Kosher foods.

Guess who'll be the recipient of his first lesson?

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