Embry and I have always been city people, and I have what could be described as a “woke” superiority complex regarding the suburbs. I admit that this sounds like a snobbish prejudice and fess up to being the kind of person MAGAs can’t stand. You can blame my master’s studies at the UNC City Planning School for some of this, but part of it is admittedly old fashioned snobbery. Well, at Collington we now live in the suburbs. You wouldn’t know it because the beautiful campus is surrounded by a forest, preventing any view of suburban living. But when leaving the security gate at Collington you find you are in the middle of it—attractively designed homes but also very close to a gigantic shopping center with several big box stores.

Including a Costco.

Costco is only a five minute’s drive away. Now, I have never spent a dime at Costco and have only been in one of these massive stores two or three times. I remember being impressed by the tons of merchandise people were purchasing. You see people walking out of the store with 25 rolls of toilet paper, ten packages of 12 ounce water bottles, 30 rolls of paper towels, piles of other stuff that often require more than one huge grocery cart. Not for me. But if you know Embry, she is always looking for a bargain and the prices at Costco are cheap. She can’t help it. It is in her Calvinist, Presbyterian DNA. So, Embry joined Costco and has shopped there a few times. When I pointed out that we really didn’t need so many of this or that, she agreed but confessed that she couldn’t resist the low prices.

This week Embry went to Costco and ordered a huge birthday cake for a special occasion on Sunday at All Souls Episcopal Church—our rector’s birthday. The cake was to be a surprise and the centerpiece of what surely would be a splendid show of appreciation for the great job Mother Sara is doing. Saturday the cake was ready to be picked up; and since Embry had plans to go to a concert with friends, she asked me to pick up the cake at Costco’s and bring it to the church late in the day so that she could prepare for the surprise party on Sunday. I drove Embry to the Metro station only about 1.5 miles away and headed to Costco. The huge parking lot was jammed with cars, but I eventually found a space and joined a line of eager shoppers chomping at the bit to get in. Embry had given me her Costco card, which I scanned into a device at the door and headed toward the bakery. Before I could take more than a step or two, a tiny, older woman wearing a Costco red apron stepped in front of me and said, “I am sorry, but you can’t enter the building. This is your wife’s card.”

I replied that I understood that it was my wife’s card and that I was picking up a huge cake that she had ordered because she had a conflict. She needed the cake Saturday afternoon and had no way of getting to Costco, so I was helping her. I then took a step in the direction of the bakery about a half mile away at the back of the store.

The clerk stepped in front of me again.

“Oh, no you aren’t. This is your wife’s card, not yours. She has to be here. You can’t get in without her being with you unless you have your own card.”

“Excuse me,” I replied in a bewildered tone, “My wife has spent a fortune on this cake for a surprise birthday party and I have to bring it to her today. She is not available to pick it up, so I am helping her. You are telling me I am not even allowed to enter the store?”

The line behind me was starting to get edgy. One person shouted, “Stand aside, let us in! You are holding up the line!” Some big guy shouted, “Move it, old man!”

The Costco clerk guarding the gate asked me to move aside and allowed the eager shoppers to start scanning their Costco cards as they charged off into the vast space packed with people pushing carts loaded with food and merchandise. I explained to her the situation—that I had hardly ever been to a Costco store and did not know the rules and repeated the reason I was there.

With a sympathetic look, she replied, “Sorry, sir, no exceptions. I would like to help you, but these are the rules.”

“Just so I understand,” I replied in a disgusted voice, “No one is allowed to even enter a Costco store if they have not purchased a Costco card, and if you are a spouse of a card holder, that does not make any difference?”

“Exactly. No exceptions for any reason.”

When I demanded to see her supervisor, she shrugged her shoulders and shuffled off, cautioning, “Do not try to leave this spot. You could be in for real trouble.”

She asked another Costco lady in a red apron to take her place as guardian of the gate and returned a few minutes later with her supervisor, another woman, slightly younger. I told her my sad story and how desperate I was. She scowled, looked me over, sighed, shook her head in disgust, and allowed me to enter the store with the parting words, “Never, never try to do this again!”

I thanked her, grabbed one of the huge shopping carts and charged off toward the other end of the store, weaving through the isles packed with people pushing carts overflowing with bundles of toilet paper and other merchandise, passed by the counter selling pianos, the section selling giant TVs, some  so big I concluded  they would have to be hung on the side of a barn, giant bins of vegetables, some guy doing magic tricks in a section selling child’s toys, and finally reached the bakery. I told the clerk I was picking up a cake for “Howell” and observed a dozen or so carts stacked with giant birthday cakes waiting to be picked up, all looking exactly alike. Eventually she found the one marked “Howell” and off I charged with the cake to the checkout counter. There were a least a dozen people ahead of me in line with carts stacked high with merchandise, so I headed to the self-checkout area where there were few people and one young man standing around wearing a red apron. When I asked him for help, he asked for my Costco card.

“I am sorry,” he replied, staring at the card, “You can’t buy this cake. Your wife has to buy it. The card is in her name.”

“Pardon me,” I replied, “I have already been through this drill, and they finally let me in the store and now you are telling me that you won’t let me buy the cake and take it home?  The cake cost a fortune, and this is money going to Costco. The cake has a name on it that no one else can use. Are these people nuts? I have to have the cake today. There is no other option. This is for a surprise birthday party.”

I considered feigning a heart attack.

There was a long pause as the young man looked me over. When he realized I was at the point of tears, he looked over his shoulder to see if any Costco employee was watching. “Don’t tell anyone I helped you, ok? I will be in real trouble.”

I handed him my credit card, which was a Master Card, because earlier in the week I had gotten a call from my bank that someone was using my card number to buy questionable, expensive gifts online and had to cancel the card.

“I am sorry. Costco only takes Visa cards. You will have to return the cake.”

I told myself that this could not be happening.

I frantically pulled out my wallet and pulled out all my cards, desperately thumbing through them and pulled out a bank debit card, which miraculously had a Visa marking on it.

“Will this work?” I asked, holding my breath.

He scrutinized the card then nodded, put the card through and wished me a good day, warning me not to try a stunt like this again.

“Don’t worry,” I replied.

Only in America, I thought.