If Season 6 of The Golden Girls has been on loop in my DVD player since 6:00 last night, does that make me gay? I feel like it might. I've been resting out the end of a little cold, and have put myself on house arrest this weekend to recover. The Girls have done a fantastic job keeping me amused, but after 24 hours straight, my voice has dropped 3 octaves, my hair is going grey, and I've begun to sprout shoulder pads. I'm turning into Bea Arthur. So I decided earlier to skip over to my local Blockbuster (as I haven't been keeping up with my Netflix) and spice things up a bit. I grabbed a couple of DVDs I had yet to return and made my way.
After surveying the store thoroughly 9 times for something that might lift my spirits, I made my selections and headed to the checkout counter. Waiting for me there in all her glory was Tiffany, a heavyset African American woman, much larger and more intimidating than her name tag suggested. In keeping with the tradition of Blockbuster employees everywhere, Tiffany made it crystal clear from the start of our relationship that she hated her life, and she was not too thrilled about mine either. She savagely slammed down the enormous turkey leg she'd been enjoying and snatched the movies from my trembling grip. She scanned my card, and immediately there was trouble. "You have a balance of $12 on this account", she spit. "Why's that, Tiff?", I asked, rubbing bits of turkey from my eyes.
Blockbuster proudly advertises its elimination of late fees. Taking their place, however, are restocking fees, reshipping fees, Workman's Compensation fees, awarded to any Blockbuster employee who endured physical or emotional distress as a result of your negligence, and a suggested donation to the Screen Actors' Guild. Yay no late fees! I agreed to accept the charges, but Tiffany was still not having me. She was not done yet. I started to ask, but she raised her finger toward my mouth, silencing me with her diamond-studded acrylic and allowing her to scan my long and sordid Blockbuster history, which had apparently just popped up on her computer. I could tell something was terribly wrong from the loud sirens going off and flashing red glow glaring from the screen, illuminating the horrified expression on her face. "What is it now?", I begged. She told me that at some time in 1912, I rented The Color Purple, and it had not yet been returned, and until such time as I surrender the DVD, pay the original retail cost (along with the 17 non-late fees), or present her with a signed note from Oprah Winfrey, excusing my tardiness, I am dead to Blockbuster - I will never rent videos in this town again. By this point, there was an angry mob of people in line behind me all hating me as much as Tiffany, who I'm sure just wanted to get back to her turkey, and was absolutely wondering what the hell business my gay white ass had with The Color Purple in the first place. I was mortified, but made a feeble attempt at arguing with her (cuz I really don't have the damn thing). But the silence from the other end of the counter let me know I didn't stand a chance. I dropped the movies and fled the store.
My fever had returned.
So now I'm back where I started, sick and movieless. At least the Emmy's are on tonight and have been entertaining me. Once they're over though, I guess it's back to Sunny Miami I'll fly for more with the damn Golden Girls. Thank you, Tiffany. Thank you for being a friend.