In The Supermarket Checkout Line: A Novice Cult Recruiter And A Divorcé Who Very Nearly Manages To Bottle Up His Bitterness Toward His Ex-Wife
by Jason Roeder | Issue 55
Recruiter: I see you’ve got a pizza-for-one in your cart. Wanna join a cult?
Divorcé: What?
Recruiter: I’ll buy you a pack of Juicy Fruit.
Divorcé: No thanks.
Recruiter: I’ll give you one of our special glow-in-the-dark Frisbees.
Divorcé: Gimme a break—all right, let’s see it…This isn’t special. It doesn’t even have the name of your cult on it. It just says Wham-O.
Recruiter: That is, at present, the name of our cult. We can’t afford merchandizing, so we adapt to the promotional gift. In the eighties, we were known as the Order of Koosh.
Divorcé: Not interested.
Recruiter: What if I told you who else was in the cult?
Divorcé: I guess I can’t blame you for working the conformity angle.
Recruiter: We’ve got some big-time celebrities: Britney Spears, Dr. Phil, Kobe Bryant, Chelsea Clinton.
Divorcé: I have seen The Usual Suspects. If you’re going to look over my shoulder at the names on the Enquirer, it would be a little less obvious if you didn’t put on reading glasses on and squint.
Recruiter: We’ve got an orientation mixer next week. Maybe you and some friends would like to attend?
Divorcé: I thought your goal was to isolate me from my social-support network.
Recruiter: Yeah, we usually get that rolling after the barbecue. We split you up amongst competing aqua-volleyball teams and let the estrangement fester from there.
Divorcé: Is that effective?
Recruiter: Until someone gets to 25 points, yes.
Divorcé: You know, you haven’t even given me your name. Isn’t that supposed to make me feel more comfortable or something?
Recruiter: I am the one called Nico.
Divorcé: Well, that helped not at all. So, are you, like, Buddhist? I mean, the stuff in your cart: mushrooms, broccoli, zucchini, sprouts.
Recruiter: Yes, we have strict dietary rules—nothing with the letter E. It is the Doomsday Vowel.
Divorcé: “Vegetable†has three Es in it.
Recruiter: Look, do you want to join or not?
Divorcé: You still haven’t given me a single coherent reason to do so.
Recruiter: You like orgies? Cause we got ’em. Mostly women, too, I might add.
Divorcé: Oh really?
Recruiter: By gender percentage, it breaks down 45, 30, 15, 5, 3, 2.
Divorcé: I see.
Recruiter: Look, I hate to say this, but your personality-test results were a little startling.
Divorcé: I didn’t take any test.
Recruiter: I’m skipping ahead in the script, all right? Just join, already. Wait, wait, I’ve got something in my backpack for you. Ah, here it is. Inject this.
Divorcé: Excuse me?
Recruiter: Let me getcha a tourniquet.
Divorcé: Um, just curious, do you have a job or anything?
Recruiter: Jobs are for mindless thralls of the Judeo-Christian establishment or for people who can do things. We roll SUVs over cliffs then sue Chevy, Goodyear, and the estate of Sir Isaac Newton. We also have a tape of prank calls for sale.
Divorcé: Funny, I do too. Well, look, I’m sorry, but I can’t say you’ve convinced me.
Recruiter: Then can I do just one quickie alteration to your frontal lobe? Not here, of course. I’ve got my pliers in the glove compartment.
Divorcé: Will that make you stop talking to me?
Recruiter: No, but when I’m done, you’ll be a much better listener. And drooler.
Divorcé: Okay, then. It’ll serve that fucking lying whore right.