The War on Drugs

I had razor blades on my list during my visit to the supermarket yesterday. I no longer shave every day. It’s one of the great joys of retirement. But each week there are occasions when I want to appear clean shaven, except for the white goatee. And for the shave I obviously need razor blades.

I collected my groceries and then went looking for the razor blades. Couldn’t find them. I found the razors but no blades. Finally, I spied, yes I did, a small sign that said the razor blades were available at the Service Desk. Huh. Why? I knew you had to go there to get the antihistamines when you had a cold. That had to do with drug abuse somehow. But razor blades?

I looked over at the Service Desk and saw that there were just two guys in the line. How long could it take? Well, not unlike the Post Office, practically forever.

One guy was cashing his pay check. Muslim terrorists would not have been more thoroughly interrogated. He produced all the paperwork. Then he needed several checks cut to pay his bills. Then he wanted $77 worth of lottery tickets. Right, $77! Some of this one, some of that one. The lady behind the counter called for help as our line surged past the front door.

The second lady appeared quickly and began helping the second guy. Believe it or not, he had checks but was paying certain bills with them at the Service Desk. What was he saving? The cost of three stamps? For spending half an hour in line? What was he, Russian or something?

Finally, the first guy shuffled off clutching his lottery tickets and the vain hope he was a big winner. I asked for my razor blades. The lady demanded I pay for them at the Service Desk. I thought she was kidding. What is the problem with razor blades, I asked?

She told me that they are stolen with regularity and sold for half price in poorer neighborhoods by, you guessed it, drug addicts looking for cash for a fix. So all of us will have to stand in line so we can get a clean shave and fight the war on drugs.

I finally left the store and headed to the Post Office. You guessed it. The first guy in line from the store was there ahead of me and mailing out his bill payments one at a time and arguing about every postage stamp with the clerk. I went home and decided to grow a beard!