helena valley iga incident
after an hour in clogged traffic i was so buzzed i pulled into the iga to find relief, but true to their nature, they were playing the most dogshit song of all time: so tell me what i want what i really really want, i'll tell you what i want what i really really want. it was the last thing i wanted to hear. ‘but ben’ you say, ‘the spice girls are divas, in fact, they are queens’. sure, but imagine being a man of rustic temperament. i picked up whatever marked-down deli item was nearest and spedwalked to the counter, but to my disgruntlement, there was no one there. the spice girls were hyperventilating and i knew that if i heard them say ziggy zag um or whatever, i’d have to resort to shoplifting, but lately i am trying to obey the eight precepts, so i pressed the service buzzer hoping theyd come quick, and to my relief, the buzzer paused the song. beautiful silence. 'attendant required' said a brittish woman's voice, but when the announcement finished, the spice girls returned, starting from the start again. sooo tell me what i want-- i pressed the buzzer again. 'attendant required'. the song restarted, sooo tell me wh- i pressed it again. 'attendant req-' i pressed it again, faster and faster until there was just silence on loop. the cashier arrived, clearly annoyed. i could tell she thought i was impatient and entitled, but tell me this: is a bum entitled? is a street urchin entitled? food, shelter and warmth are human rights and so is a peaceful mind. in war, sound is part of the enemy's weapons. the germans, japanese and israelis all put heinous noisemakers on their lowflying planes. the americans are even more devious. in vietnam they played ghost sounds and funeral chants, and in the middle east, they made the good people of afghanistan endure the worst of american comedy music: bloodhound gang, weird al yankovich, eminem and the like. i dont know what iga has against rustics. sure i understand the pitfalls of rockism; there are two sides to every war, but i was born on this side. i can only play my part. i continued to press the buzzer, hiding it from the cashier behind my back while i navigated my wallet with the other hand, but when i tapped my card, it said: transaction declined. what! i smacked the buzzer back onto the counter and used both hands to get out my phone. the shit fucken song started back on, the spice girls carrying on like an absolute pork chop. so tell me what i want what i really really want-- again i smacked the buzzer and was graced with a brief moment of silence before the robot called for attendance again. the cashier looked frazzled. i heard the ruffling of papers from the room beside the counter and when the door slammed open, a big manager stepped out. 'whats wrong' she barked. ‘uhhhh,’ replied the cashier, ‘his cards not working’. the spice girls started arcing up again, modeling assertive communication in an agressive way, and my hands were sweating so much that my fingerprint wouldnt register on the bank app login screen. i smacked the music quiet again and rubbed my hand on the back of my pants. 'calm down' the manager said, 'we're here to help'. there was a small line of people behind me, all watching and frowning. 'sorry,' i said, 'i just really hate this song'. the manager told the cashier to go into the office and change the music, and as i finally got into my account, the spice girls were cut off and replaced by a new song, thrift shop by mackle more. what! when i went to re-press the buzzer, it had been moved rudely out of reach behind the counter and i had to hear the dropkick saying what what what what and the dumbass saying dada dada dada da da. i hated being alive in the early 2010s, and though i look back fonder now, this elon musk style music reminds me that my suicidal discomfort was correct. i was transferring a soft 500 from my savings into my spending, but as the dipshit airhorn kicked in, i decided to transfer the whole hog. several thousand dollars. i never wanted to be fucked over at the iga again. finally when i tapped my card, it worked. i snatched the meat pie in its fogged up sleeve off the counter, which cracked into a mess in its bag. thered be no eating in the car. coming out the doors, my anger overtook me. without knowing what i was doing i drew back my leg like a professional golfer and hammered my boot into the have-a-go newstand, the metal frame skittering across the red bricks and the newspapers splattering across the paving, several loose sheets blowing off into the carpark. when i got to my car, my conscience returned. i walked back and crouched down and picked them all up, but as i returned the news stand to its spot by the doors, i heard the thriftshop chorus again with all its needless swearing. i took the whole stack back out of the newstand and carried them to my car, burning them in the fireplace at home. now my photo is bluetacked behind the IGA counter, but im not even allowed in there to see it.