Charming Encounters at the System Bolaget

Another anecdote from the internet's worst blogger. To encourage myself, I will write in smaller doses, like dipping my toe into the water. Today, I dropped by the system bolaget (state-owned liquor company) to buy three cans of beer. I took time picking out a variety of cheap beers whose liquor per kronor count was desirable (yes, this is an apparently Swedish way to calculate things). Having picked out three tall cans that shimmered beneath the fluorescent light, I proceeded to a really long line-up filled with old men. It was that time of the afternoon on Friday where the promise of a sunshiny weekend (and the certainty of ridiculously short opening hours for saturdays) provoke white men between the ages of 40-55 to go nutty and pack  baskets with 24 individual cans of the SAME beer. 


And here was I, bright eyed and twenty years of age, with my three cans tucked under one arm and my Ontario drivers licence in my other hand. I eagerly placed  my beers on the conveyor-belt-contraption (is there even a word for it?) behind those of a bespectacled pensioner who was quick to reach for the divider and quarantine my own purchases from his. At long last, it was my turn.  


The man working the cash looked friendly but worn down, having performed the same gestures and uttered the same requests for hours on end by now. While he swiped through my beers, I extended my ID out to be examined, preparing myself for the impending scrutiny. I still hold my breath during this process, ready for the request of "a second piece please" or " could you tell me your birthday please?"  This time around, the cashier took an exceptionally long time staring down my card. Mentally, I got in the zone for combat. "September 27th 1990! " I would roar into the stale air of the mall, and "you need a second piece of photo ID? Take my passport! My student ID! My copy card!" 


Just when I thought he was about to pitch the card at me in disgust, something happened. A little smile in his eyes, as he reached behind him to retrieve---and I shit you not about this part--a little tin of MINTS. He handed back my ID with the mints and nonchalantly told me that the total came to 41 Crowns. 


"What is this?" I asked, reading the top of the tin in vain: " Tack för att du vissar leg!" (google translate delightfully translates as "thank you for the leg!"). 


"It's for handing your ID to me without asking, " he explains as he places the cash into the till, "you're under 25. It's a reward that you get sometimes." And then he playfully wiggles his finger at me "sometimes, but now always!"


I left the mall on some sort of natural high, thinking to myself "yes, Sweden has got it. That is exactly what one should do. Mints! I have mints!"  To complete the moment, a truck full of male highschool graduates passed me, wearing their customary sailor hats and --in spirit of the excellent weather and being ridiculously fit--were shirtless and covered in beer. In a way, I felt as though they were cheering for me as they danced around to electric pop. For me and my socialist mints.