Smoking You Out

(It’s the day after my eighteenth birthday. I’m out with a friend when I remember I have to go to the ATM, so we stop at a gas station. My friend, who is nineteen, asks me if I’ll grab him a pack of cigarettes and he’ll pay me back later. I agree, and I walk in and get my money from the ATM, then grab a drink and a bag of chips. I approach the counter, ID in hand.)

Me: “Just this and a pack of [Brand].”

Cashier: “ID, please?”

Me: “Of course. Here you are.”

(He examines my ID for a second, looks at his watch, looks at the calendar, and then looks at me before looking at his watch again. He hands me my ID, then puts my drink and chips behind the counter.)

Cashier: “Get out. You can come back next week.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Cashier: “Next week, man.”

Me: “I’m of legal age to buy those.”

Cashier: “Next week.”

Me: “What? No. I’m eighteen; I turned eighteen yesterday.”

Cashier: “Next week, buddy.”

Me: “Okay, well, can I at least buy my chips?”

Cashier: “Next week.”

Me: “But—”

Cashier: “Next week.”

(I walk out, kind of pissed off about the whole situation.)

Friend: “Did you get my smokes?”

Me: “Uh, no. The guy told me to leave.”

Friend: “You showed him your license, right?”

Me: “Yeah, but he just kept saying to come back next week.”

Friend: “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll get them eventually.”

(Same day, different gas station, I bought the cigarettes no problem. I’d stop going to that gas station if it wasn’t the closest to my house.)