Carded at Age 77

Dear Diary:

As I approached my 80th birthday this Jan. 2, and the celebration soon to be held, I recalled some anecdotal events that, piled atop each other, might make an acceptable speech. I had forgotten about this incident in a local Eighth Avenue supermarket, which took place when I was a mere 77-year-old.

When I stopped at the cashier to pay for a six-pack of beer, I noticed the manager lurking nearby, keeping an eye on the young girl at the register. As a constant customer, I knew she was new at the job. Before ringing up the sale she said:

“I need to see your ID.”
“Why”
“I have to card you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s the rule.”
“That’s crazy. Just look at me.”
A blush swept across her face. “I have to ask.”
At this point the manager strolled over. “She’s right,” he said. “We now card everyone buying alcohol.”

There seemed no point to argue further. I took out my driver’s license and was alowed to pay and take home my six-pack.

Then it finally occurred to me why I was carded: not because I might have been too young to buy beer. I might have been too old.

The next time I went into the supermarket, the rule had been discontinued. There was also a new manager.

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