Massachusetts

A couple nights ago I went down to the local Kwik-E-Mart to stock up. After a quick round of the store I dump everything at the checkout and, remembering my butane lighter was skunked, I pull a Bic from the lighter display on the countertop.

"Need to see some ID," The clerk said robotically.

Before I get on with this short tale, let's talk a little about Massachusetts. We massholes have long prided our state as The Beacon of All That is Liberal, being pro-gay marriage, pro-choice, anti-war, etc, etc. We are so liberal we don't consider the word Liberal to be PC enough--only "Progressive" will do, its sameness of meaning notwithstanding. OK, OK, we're really not that liberal. Beneath the veneer of politically correct baby-killing runs a strain of conservatism older than the country itself.

"ID...for what?"

"You must be at least 18 to buy alcohol- and tobacco-related products." The clerk said, just now looking up at me. I am 21, but I could have been 40 and he would have asked for ID.

Under the fluff, Massachusetts has been conservative for the last 350+ years. It all goes back to the first British outcasts who washed up like so much sea junk on Plymouth's shore, the Puritans. These bastards were balls-out committed to the death of fun: no music, no bright colors, no nothing. Fortunately for the world, a colony of joyless retards can survive for only so long in the New England wilderness before they either change their retarded ways or kill one another. (A little of both occurred, say historians.) Remarkably, though, their legacy lives on. The pilgrim's war on fun has survived the last three centuries, stuck to the pages of Mass lawbooks like the dry ejaculate it is. It still exists today as Blue Laws, that last-minute obstacle to Sunday night benders. It has also leaked into marijuana legislation, making the Bay State one of the last places you want to get caught for possession (up to $500 fine and 6 months jail for first offense.)

"Are you talking about the lighter?"

He was and I already knew it, but I felt the need to probe him for some sign of humanity. No luck:

"You must be at least 18 to buy alcohol- and tobacco-related products." (Yeah, verbatim.)

Being 21, my ego rummages for a wisecrack of some kind. Like "I'm only gonna light weed, though. Still need my ID?" But it doesn't feel right. I don't feel like joking. What fucking country is this that I have to identify myself to buy a fucking lighter. For the first time I take a real look at this guy: fat, bald, glasses, and looking back at me like I'm a teen stealing cigarettes. At this point I'm already fishing my pocket for a license, but my fingers stop and give way to an awkward silence.

Tzick. Tzick. For reasons unknown, I've lit the joint in my pocket and brought it to my mouth. He says nothing while I inhale, and he says nothing when I put the Bic down and tell him I won't need it. Then I walk out the door with the milk and the eggs and the understanding that I probably shouldn't ever go back to that particular Kwik-E-Mart. And I probably should have paid.