Forging through the freak show of decrepit power-walkers and horny skateboarding preteens, I’m diligent to avoid eye contact with any of these human disasters on my way through the mall to the Apple Store. Today is a waking nightmare for me; despite the perpetual aroma of empty calories, I can’t stand being in this crowded materialistic mecca. Yet my hands were tied today; I had no other options and needed my laptop fixed posthaste due to my crippling addiction to Cake Farts. So, despite being obnoxiously cheap and horribly misanthropic, I press on, braving the consumer swarms while preparing my wallet to lose its innocence.
Much like Old Country Buffet, I understand how the Apple Store works and yet I still hate going. I’d already made my appointment and I check in with some kid with dreadlocks and a conventional name that’d been butchered by extra consonants. Already turned off by his uncurbed enthusiasm, I tell Alixzahndurr I’ll just wait over in the corner and that he can leave me alone until it’s my turn.
Alixzahndurr abides and buzzes off. Seconds later, Apple Store Rookie (1) bumbles past. His eyes are ripe with fear and his face is contorted into pure frustration as if he’s just lost a grandchild in a major airport. I can tell his heart’s racing; he’s struggling to understand why this place doesn’t work like literally every other store he’s ever been in. Five steps later and he’s resorted to pleading for help from anyone wearing blue—not Apple Store employees, mind you, just two guys sporting denim shirts.
I could help the novice out, but it’s just so much easier to not. Besides I’d become fully engrossed with watching three twelve-year-olds muck up the Facebook profile of some random who forgot to logout from one of the table models. These kids are hysterically-ruthless Facebook Saboteurs (2). This isn’t their first rodeo, their veteran status corroborating their gratuitous use of the word “guzzling.” Religious, sexual, cinematic, no preference is left unchanged and I can’t help but laugh; I’m all too pleased that the phrase “taint-tickling predator” has carved out a spot for itself within the lexicon of America’s youth.
Just when I thought this couldn’t get more fun, Incredibly Old Couple (3) starts yammering into the face of some hapless employee. Frankly, it’s mostly the husband; the wife seems content to smile and nod. To her, this gizmo is just another thing that they’ll never understand, like the cable box, Obamacare, or their grandson’s lifestyle choice. The old man continues on. It’s become an awful game of Twenty Questions, every question having nothing to do with the previous one and each being preempted by a pre-ramble about the price of tomatoes, NCIS, or the couple’s jointly-shared email address.
The technologically-challenged geriatrics keep droning on and mind drifts to a father and his Blatantly Lying Child (4). Just from the few words I overhear, I can tell the kid is on his third of fourth rehearsed retelling of an overly-complex, fabricated yarn about exactly how his iPhone sustained water damage. There’s a lot of gesturing; I’m presuming he’s asserting that the damage happened through soup-kitchen volunteer work, rescuing a cat out of tree during a thunderstorm, or something entirely holy-water related. The dad, meanwhile, stares off into the distance, completely aware of the lie. Dad, too, was nineteen once and knows this expensive mistake was undoubtedly the result of binge drinking and, more than likely, unintended urine.
Alixzahndurr finally calls my name. Genius Bar Guy says it’ll be an hour for the computer. Time to go nap in my car and dream about Cake Farts until then.