Hello?

Hello?

I'd like to pay for my slurpee, please.

Hello?

Geez, there are about four of you behind the counter there, and maybe two more in the mythical "back." I realize that Julianne may indeed be dating a -- oh, how did you and your co-worker put it? -- total skeez, and I am quite sure that she's gonna be sorry, babeee SO sorry, but the thing is:

I'd like to pay for my slurpee, please.

And, you know, just to show I'm not totally insensitive, I completely understand the need to rub lotion into your hands when the mood hits. I mean, you've been handling money all day, cleaning up 7-11 detritus, eating Cheez Puffs -- your hands can get mighty dry. And you can't open up the register immediately after moisturizing! That would spoil the effect! But, see, my problem, and I realize that it is indeed MINE, is that:

I'd like to pay for my slurpee, please.

And the other thing is, when you've finally gotten a chance to pull yourself away from the conversation (and by the way, I'm not sure I agree that you should dye your hair purple -- Mindee might just be trying to sabotage your chances with Shaun, you know, plus she's got quite a pile of Nehi Grape soda cans back there so it could have gotten to her brain) -- I'd just love it if you could let me know you see me. I mean, the thing is, you see slurpees all the time, you work here, you know what they cost. But me? I'm just in here on my husband's whim, getting him the cherry slurpee he suddenly craved. I can't have slurpees, the dentist said. So I don't know what they cost. When you ring the price up and just wait, I have to guess. I can't see your side of the register.

I'm a responsible citizen. I don't eat from the Pic-A-Mix. I don't taste every slurpee flavor and dump cups in the garbage. I don't squeeze the pre-made deli sandwiches. This is all I want:

I'd like to pay for my slurpee, please.

So, please, give me two minutes of your undivided attention. I realize they pay you shit, but they do pay you. Say hello, please. Tell me how much this thing costs. Give me change and maybe, god forbid, recommend that I have a nice night. Because, and I'm not guaranteeing anything, but you know when 7-11's get held up? You know when someone comes in and points a gun at the clerk? You guys all automatically assume you're being robbed. You ALWAYS give the guy with the gun a lot of attention. Maybe the guy had actually been standing there for a half hour while you talked on the phone to Robbie, and he got fed up. So, next time that happens, take a look at the counter before you empty out the register. It could be that he just wants to pay for his slurpee.

Patiently,

Debi

P.S. Please forward this letter to the clerk at McDonald's, the clerk at Dunkin Donuts, the clerk at the post office, and everyone down at the Department of Motor Vehicles.