I usually get my six packs at Emily’s, a little bar with attached six pack shop only two blocks from my house that is always staffed by a nice Asian boy with a peach fuzz mustache who is probably older than 16, but who I would believe is in high school.
The bar itself never seems open. There appear to be cardboard boxes on the bar itself, although the sign is always lit, the lights are on, and it advertises chicken wings. You enter the six pack shop through a separate door and there is a glass wall between the patron and the beer coolers and there are also some miscellanies for sale up by the register including Chinese ginseng and beef jerky.
Last time I went in, he asked “Can I see your ID, babe?”
I assumed that I had misunderstood that last syllable; that it had gotten muddled in his what I think is a Chinese accent, so my attention glossed over it. I paid, he handed my change, said, “Here you go, babe.”
This evening, the clerk-of-indeterminate-age and I reached the knowing-smile-and-greeting stage and he didn’t ask for ID. I was, however, “babed” again with my change.
My first thought is “Who taught this boy that was ok?” though to be fair, he’s actually learned the language in context and therefore inexplicably *decided* that it was appropriate. Not like my former colleagues who unselfconsciously used the words “negro” and “homo” because no one, including myself, had the energy to explain why that is wrong.