Nothing captures the true spirit of Black Friday more than standing in your local grocery store at 8 pm with a shopping cart over-flowing with redeemable cans and bottles. I admit that my mood was already dampened as I had tried and failed to return used oil at the nearby automotive store but reached it just as the establishment locked its doors for the evening. So here I found myself, trying to be a good citizen and follow all the government-imposed regulations for protecting my environment but feeling less the pride that accompanies active citizenship and more the humiliation associated with being handed a wheel of welfare cheese.
Another family, obviously feeling the same economic-crunch of Black Friday, was desperately thrusting their five cent capsules into the automated machines with the hope of receiving a down payment on a generic hd big-screen tv deal next door. Realizing I was in for a bit of a wait, I released Sydney to do a little shopping, fluffing up my territorial plumage as a man approached, lugging his own garbage bag of goodies. "Back of the line there, Santa," I communicated with fiery eyes. The family finished up, after jamming up one of the coveted plastic bottle machines and I made a valiant effort to show some holiday cheer by waving Santa Cans ahead of me. He was nimble and quick, a grim recycling elf, barely acknowledging my kindness, why did I let him ahead of me, I thought, kicking myself. His final gift to me, as he turned with a jerk, was to jam up another machine and I went completely bizerk.
Sydney arrived in time to witness me in full-fledged temper tantrum. I was making do with the two sporadically functional machines, pausing long enough to make an immature face at a man who stopped to watch me flail myself bodily against the automated mechanism. Finally, all five machines were down; either full or jammed with no one nearby to help so I Godzilla-stomped my way over to the cashiers who cringed in terror. Having been trained not to make eye-contact with crazy people, one of the girls kindly came to my assistance. Sydney and I were soon on our redeemable way, the warped slot machines shooting back more cans than they would accept. "It's my money," I cried out, looking at my cart still 1/3 full of unacceptable cans and bottles. "Why do I feel like I have to beg in order to get what belongs to me in the first place?" Sydney spoke soothingly, "How about I cash in our tickets and you can go warm up in the truck?" I looked around wildly for a nonexistent trash, "And what...take these bottles home with us?" I handed Syd the receipts, grabbed the cart and rattled my way out the doors, crashing into the store's large trash can, knocking its lid off dramatically and unceremoniously dumping over three dollars worth of cans into its depths while cautious customers chose this moment to divert to another entrance, far away from me.
When the coast was clear, Sydney used the cloak of darkness to return to me, clutching our hard-earned five dollars plus a gallon of milk. Battle-worn and weary, I sat, slumped in the truck, defeated and demoralized. But beneath the surface, an ember slowly steamed, my political apathy starting to smoke as I raged against a system that holds my money hostage and then makes me beg for it back. If word of a potential Amy Mosiman bottle boycott got out, Pepsi would be sure to react swiftly and decisively. Or maybe, next time I get in line to redeem my empties, I should bring along a few not-so-empties to make the situation a bit easier to swallow.
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