I was in a 7-Eleven on 23rd Street in Manhattan, when a postman walked in.
“I’ll take those two enchiladas up there in the case,” he told the clerk behind the counter.
“Sir, they’re chicken,” the clerk replied.
“Yeah, I don’t care what they are,” he said. “I told you I want them. Now come on.”
The clerk walked to the heating rack, took the enchiladas out, and put them on the counter.
“That will be $3.50.”
“$3.50??” the postman shot back. “No, no, no. It says two for $3.”
The clerk just stood there staring at the postman.
“What’s the problem?” asked another clerk, sensing something was amiss.
“He says these are two for $3,” the clerk replied.
The postman was agitated. Huffing, he walked over to the display to double-check. The second clerk followed him.
“There,” he said, pointing at the sign. The clerk looked. That was indeed what the sign said.
“That means by New York State Law, you have to give me them for $3,” he continued.
The clerk didn’t seem familiar with this law, nor was I. He rang the enchiladas up again. The postman handed him three $1 bills.
“Thanks sir, but that will be $3.24,” the clerk said.
“What the hell? I thought we just went through this.”
“Sir, there is tax,” said the clerk.
“Tax? What the fuck? Ain’t supposed to be no tax on this shit,” the postman shot back.
“Sir, there is always tax,” the clerk replied.
Before the words were even out of his mouth, the postman was throwing up his arms.
“You know what — I’ll take care of this,” he said.
He walked back over to the heating rack, took out his phone and snapped a picture of the sign — “2 for $3!!!”
“I’m reporting your ass,” he said. “And I don’t want this stuff anymore — give me my money back.”
The clerk handed him his three dollars.
“Sorry,” said the clerk.
“You goddamn right — sorry,” said the postman, turning and walking towards the door.
“I didn’t want no chicken anyway!!”