My Near Death Experience and Some Bad Customer Service

Okay:

I almost died during my vacation.

Seriously.

My daughter and I were driving up Wisconsin Avenue on our way to dance practice. We had just come from seeing Monsters Vs. Aliens in Georgetown. (That’s a whole ‘nother story entirely). So, we’re driving along, minding our business, stopping at red lights and what have you. If I’m being perfectly honest—and why not be?—I was texting my girlfriend. That’s the part I played. Then, I felt something.

I swear to God, it was like my Spidey Sense was tingling or some shit. I literally felt something that told me to look to my left. This prick in a station wagon was getting ready to run me off the road. He was not signaling to make a gradual textbook lane change. This fucker was going to hop on over without even looking to his right.

Then, something told me to look to my right. I shit you not. Seriously, something told me to look. And low and behold, there was an old white lady standing at the bus stop.

I know, right.

So, then, with jungle cat reflexes, I was able to break, swerve and honk with the appropriate speed and degree so as to avoid hitting anything or anyone. Crisis averted!

And all because of my amazing fucking Spider Man non-mutant superhero reflexes.

I looked in my mirror and the prick kinda shrugged his shoulders and winced as if to say, “My bad, bro.”

When I stopped at the next light this lady pulled up next to me and started shaking her head in wild-eyed disapproval. Doesn’t that always happen after you narrowly avoid a car accident? When you get to the light, invariably, another driver who saw the whole thing will pull up next to you and shake their head in wild-eyed disapproval. As if to say, “They’ll let anyone get a license now.”

My heart was about to jump out of my chest. My daughter didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact, she didn’t say a word. She just kept playing her Nintendo DS. I, on the other hand, was both scared to death and terribly impressed with myself. It’s actually not the first time I have acted swiftly to avoid a car accident. Honestly, I’m wondering whether or not I may be gifted in this respect. Am I blessed with a rare innate skill? Maybe it’s the kind of shit the government looks for when they’re screening black op prospects. Maybe I’ve got the foundational skills for becoming, like, a Jason Borne or some shit.

It could happen.

Then, of course, there was this week’s trip to the grocery store. I went to the Safeway on Connecticut Avenue. I typically shop there because of my bourgeois sensibilities. Us uppity niggas often assume we’ll get better service and products on the other side of town. Unfortunately, we’re more often than not proven right. This day was a rare exception.

So, I’ve got all my shit and I’m standing in line waiting to get rung up. The young lady doing the ringing looks “out of place”. Don’t get me wrong. All the cashiers are people of color. But this particular young lady looks sorely “out of place”. You bourgeois niggas know what I mean.

Shorty wasn’t fitting in.

She couldn’t have been a day over 19. As she’s ringing up the guy ahead of me her cell phone rings. I can’t say I was eavesdropping because she apparently didn’t give a shit whether or not anyone was listening.

“Hi daddy,” she said.

Initially I thought—Oh. Her father’s checking up on her. Of course she has to answer the phone. She’s probably retarded or something and working here with some sort of transition program and he just wants to make sure she’s not overwhelmed.

“Yes, daddy,” she went on. “I told you I was going to work, daddy… Mm hm… I’ll be off within an hour, daddy… Okay… Bye, daddy.”

Then it hit me. She wasn’t talking to her father at all. This “chick” was yapping it up with her boyfriend while she was supposed to be ringing people up. I was mortified.

When she hung up her phone she simply said, “Sorry about that. He be getting on my nerves.”

I was speechless. The Head of Household in me wanted to talk to the manager. But the Ex-Hoodlum in me told me to relax. Then she started ringing me up. But when she got to my bag of pears, she paused and looked at me dumbfounded.

“Ill,” she said. “What kind of pears is these? They hard as shit.”

I started to say something. But I was interrupted when a child’s balloon from the next lane over hit her in the head. She turned, gave the child—a small Asian girl in stockings and patent leathers sitting in the cart seat—a dirty look and said, “Excuse you.” Then she smacked the balloon.

It took every ounce of restraint I had in me to remain silent.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why bourgeois niggas move to the other side of town and don’t invest in their own communities. They don’t want to deal with the Uniquas of the world. Plain and simple.

On a brighter note, there’s my new favorite commercial which I’m sure you all have already seen. It’s an acid reflux pill called…wait for it, wait for it…

ACIPHEX.

Isn’t that fucking hilarious? Every time it comes on, I giggle like a little bitch.


I guess I still have some growing up to do, but I think I’ll cross that proverbial bridge when I come to it. Enjoy your week.


Thanks for reading.