Written by Guy J Jackson on Monday the 15th of February 2010
Fetterman had been trying to give the same plastic carrier bag away to the last ten customers. Everyone came up with only two or three items they could easily carry without a bag, and so didn't want the bag. They're keen on the preserving the natural world, muttered Fetterman. The bag developed a million lunar wrinkles as it waited to be used and was crumpled by Fetterman's frustrated, equally lunar-wrinkled right hand. Pretty soon it would become undesirable as a bag. Fetterman might even have to take it home his own self. One of these bastards in the line better want the goddamn carrier bag, Fetterman growled. Suddenly an old woman who seemed even older than him arrived with nothing but a pile of cans of beans and Fetterman smiled a wizened smile. He deserved a break, after all, because it gnawed always at Fetterman that one of his great-great-great grandfathers had been justly killed by Indians.
Native Americans, Fetterman corrected himself.
But he deserved it for sure, Fetterman reminded himself. He in fact asked for it.
Maybe genealogy is too involving a hobby for me, Fetterman pondered.
"Could I have a paper bag, thank you?" asked the old woman.