Mexican’t Believe This

, , , , , | Working | November 12, 2017

(I grew up in New Mexico, but go to college in Louisiana. This exchange happens during my senior year. Sadly, I have had similar exchanges, but none are as bad as this. This particular chain of local stores sells their hard liquors from behind their customer service counter. The cashier I’m dealing with appears to be in her mid-thirties.)

Me: “Excuse me, do you have any [liquor #1]?”

Cashier: “Yes, and it’s even on sale right now for $2 off!”

Me: “Awesome, I’m glad I found some here! I’ll take one, and one of the small bottles of [liquor #2].”

Cashier: “All right, I just need to see your ID.”

Me: “No problem!” *hands her my New Mexico driver’s license*

Cashier: *looks at license for a minute* “I need to see your passport, too.”

(I am taken aback. I don’t even own a passport, since I haven’t traveled outside of the US.)

Me: “What do you mean?”

Cashier: “Sorry, but I can’t accept this.”

Me: “What? Why not?” *keep in mind, I’m of age*

Cashier: “We only accept passports, Louisiana state IDs, or licenses from the United States.”

Me: “Um, New Mexico is a state.”

Cashier: *in a rather condescending tone* “Uh, no, it’s not.”

Me: “Um, yes, it is.”

Cashier: *sounded irritated*No, it’s not. We had someone in here from there the other day and we needed to see his passport!”

(After spending sometime trying to convince her that New Mexico is, in fact, a part of the United States, and has been since 1912, she starts to get rather nasty with me. I request a manager. She rolls her eyes but eventually pages one, warning me that he is just going to tell me the same thing.)

Manager: “Hello, miss. What seems to be the problem?”

Cashier: *waving my license at the manager* “She’s refusing to show an ID or passport, and she wants to buy alcohol!”

Me: “Uh, no, I showed her my ID, but she doesn’t believe that New Mexico is a state.”

Cashier: “Because it’s not!”

Manager: “Um, [Cashier], it is a state.”

(Amazingly, the cashier starts arguing with him about it, too! After a few more minutes of back and forth, the manager sends the cashier away with the promise of a “talk” later. She leaves with a huff and a death glare at me.)

Manager: “Sorry about that. I’ll get your alcohol.”

(He checks the birthdate on my ID, hands it back, and rings my alcohol through.)

Me: *I’m pretty annoyed, but I also have to laugh at the entire situation* “Well, I’ll definitely have an interesting story to tell at the party tonight!”

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