"And just what do you think you're doing?"  The cashier looked at me with wilting disapproval.
    "Buying a carton of milk and a loaf of bread?"  I ventured.  I don't know how the question mark got in there.
    "You haven't been scheduled," he chided.  "What's your ticket number?"
    "Ah, I see," I said, not seeing.  "You haven't rung them up yet.  If you'll just do that, then there will be a ticket, and you can read it off of that!"
    The cashier shook his head slowly from side to side.  For a moment, he looked just like Miss Culver did back in the 5th grade.  She had asked what 6 times 8 was.  I had said 68.
    "No ticket, eh?  Well, no ticket, no groceries."
    "I don't understand," said I, diving to the heart of the predicament.  "I've never had any trouble getting groceries before.  What 'ticket' are you talking about, anyway?"
    "You haven't been reading your e-mails, have you?" the cashier lectured.  "And now you're delaying the process for everyone else.  What would you have if we let just anyone waltz in whenever they pleased and buy whatever they wanted?"
    "My milk and bread?" I suggested.
    "No!  Chaos!  It would be chaos!  In fact, that's just what it was under the old rules.  Chaos!  Delays!  Conflicts!  No prioritization!  No quality control!  No process!"
    "Look, I don't want to be a bother," I said with the most placating demeanor I could muster.
    "A little late for that, wouldn't you say?" the cashier cut in archly.
    "So, what do I have to do to get my bread and milk?"
    I thought the veins were going to pop out of his temples.  "Why, cut a ticket, of course!"
    "And how do I do that?  Do you have a form here?"
    "No, I don't have a form here!"  The last was said in the age-old, taunting nyah-nyah-ny-nyah-nyah tone of the playground.
    "Ok, so what do I have to do?"  (Pretty patient, I thought.)
    "Cut a Solution ticket."
    "Um, Solution?"
    "Ok, I can see that you don't know anything.  'Solution' is our grocery-management software.  So, first, you have to get Solution installed on your PC.  Don't tell me you don't have a PC!"
    Fortunately, I did.
    "You'll need your boss's approval to get access.  Once you get into Solution, you can fill out the ticket.  It has hundreds of confusing and irrelevant questions."
    "So, I probably don't have to answer every one ..."
    "Of course you do!  What the software doesn't enforce, someone will nitpick manually later.  But don't worry.  All you really have to do is copy someone else's old Solution ticket.  No one really cares about the details, as long as you put something in there.  If anything goes wrong, it's going to be your fault, anyway."
    "So, let's say I have this ticket thing filled out."
    The cashier scowled.  "Then you have to get the 'ticket thing' approved by your boss at least 24 hours in advance of your intended purchase.  Then the ticket needs to be scheduled.  That requires action by one of our official schedulers.  When the ticket is scheduled, a cashier (ahem) can execute it, and you can have your groceries."
    "Well, that seems complicated enough," I said.  "But I'm out of bread and milk now.  Can I get this done any faster?"
    "Certainly," said the cashier reassuringly.  "You just make your ticket a Process Exception.  Then get it approved by your congressional representative."
    "So, it takes an act of Congress ..."
    "You said it, not I."
    "Well, ok.  I suppose I can hold out for 24 hours, or however long it takes to get the software ..."
    I was about to leave.
    "Oh, did I mention the Purchase Exit Review?"  the cashier called at my retreating back.  That got my attention.
    "Excuse me?  What's a Purchase Exit Review?"
    "Your ticket won't be scheduled until you have one," the cashier warned.  "Just go to the Purchase Readiness website to schedule one."
    "I don't get it," I said.
    "You don't get much, do you?  We have to make sure that your purchase is necessary and conforms to standards.  We have PERs on Wednesday mornings in Room 101.  But you'd better hurry.  First come, first served."
    I opened my mouth to speak, but my brain was a total blank.

    I arrived early for my PER.  Shortly after the howling ceased, the door opened, and a haggard, disheveled, and emaciated woman staggered out.  Tears were streaming down her face.
    "So, how did it go?" I asked.
    She stared at me and began screaming incoherently.  I thought I heard something about "marrow-suckers" and "process Nazis," but beyond that, it was a blur.
    And then it was my turn.
    It was a long room, darkened at one end to enhance the computer projections on the wall.  What immediately struck my eye was a donut-shaped table in the center of the room. The table was surrounded by shadowy, antlike figures.
    "Welcome to my web.  I'm Charlotte from Purchase Readiness."  The greeter smiled engagingly.  I was momentarily at a loss for words.
    "It's my little joke," she explained.  "Remember Charlotte's Web?  And our Purchase Readiness software is web-based.  Get it?"
    I just stared.
    "Here, have a piece of candy," she offered.
    "Do I need a ticket?"
    She laughed humorlessly.  I declined the candy.
    "If you would just have a seat in here," Charlotte continued, "We can get on with the process."  She lifted a section of the table, giving access to the donut hole.  For the first time, I noticed that there was a chair in there.  I took the offered seat hesitantly.  It swiveled.  For some reason, that made me nervous.  Then Charlotte smoothly closed off my only path of retreat with an ominous click.
    "I know that you'll want to face each of your tormentors, uh, I mean, 'support staff,' when he or she interrogates you.  So, for your convenience, this table has been equipped with latest in high tech interrogation equipment.  When any of our helpful staff have a question, they just push the button in front of them, and your chair will swing around to face that questioner."
    "Do I get any buttons?" I asked.  She gave me an odd look.
    "What if two people hit their buttons at the same time?"
    Charlotte giggled.  "Oh, yes," she said.  "That is fun!"
    Zip!  I spun to face my first interlocutor.
    "Have you read the Grocery Purchasing Standards?"
    "I wasn't aware that there were any."
    "Well, don't you think you should do your homework before you come in here wasting our time?"
    Zip!
    "Can you prove that you really need these articles?"
    "Um, well, I'm awfully hungry, and they do represent two of the major food groups."
    Zip!
    "Did you say you wanted to buy milk and bread?"
    "Yes, I thought that was clear."
    "The standards say that bread should come before milk.  Bread and milk, not milk and bread."
    "What difference does it make?"
    "It's more efficient if you keep them in alphabetical order."
    Zip!
    "Did you even consider shopping at our day-old store?"
    "I beg your pardon?  What day-old store?"
    "Regulations prohibit you from buying fresh bread if you can obtain day-old."
    "I never heard that regulation.  I didn't know you had a day-old store!"
    Zip!
    "Have you evaluated the advantages of goat's milk?"
    "I think that would be more expensive."
    "Ah, but you haven't done the research, have you?"
    "You don't carry goat's milk!"
    Zip!
    "How about buying in bulk?"
    "Um, considering the present ordeal, that might be a good idea."
    "Of course, you'll have to modify the ticket and get it approved again."
    Zip!
    "Organic?"
    Zip!
    "Bioengineered?"
    Zip!
    "In violation of any treaties?"
    Zip!
    "Approved by the U.S. Department of Agriculture?"
    Zip!
    "The World Health Organization?"
    Zip!
    "The World Trade Organization?"
    Zip!
    "The B'nai Brith?"

    When I came to, I saw Charlotte smiling down on me.
    "Well, this has been a very productive PER," she said.  "I think we have a comprehensive list of action items for you."
    "Action items?" I quavered.  I knew I shouldn't have asked.
    "Yes, these are the things that you must do before we can execute your ticket."  She gestured at the wall.  It was covered with numbered items she had typed into the computer, and which the computer, in turn, had helpfully projected onto the wall.  "There are only 472 of them."
    My gasp would have been more audible, had I not been struggling to restart my heart.
    "That's an awful lot of action items," I squeaked.
    Charlotte laughed reassuringly.  "Oh, other people are responsible for most of them."
    "So, that means I don't have to worry about those?"
    "Of course not!  All you have to do is make sure that all those other people do their parts."
    "Isn't that their job?" I asked foolishly.
    "Yes, it is."
    "So, why do I have to do anything?"
    "Because it's your purchase.  If they don't do their bit, you don't get your groceries.  You're responsible."
    "I don't understand," I whimpered.
    "Here," said Charlotte soothingly.  "Let's go over some of these.  'Investigate day-old bread option.'  You'll have to work with the day-old shop manager on that one.  He has to certify that there is no day-old bread before you can get fresh bread.  'Investigate fresh bread option.'  The bakery manager will have to sign off on that one."
    "What if one thinks I should buy day-old, but the other thinks I should buy fresh?"
    She flopped her hand at me in a pooh-pooh gesture.  "That doesn't happen very often.  It's the goat's milk producers and the cow's milk producers that are always at each other's throats."
    "Yikes!  So, what do I do about that?"
    "Gee, I don't know."  Charlotte looked puzzled for a moment.  "That's why it's your responsibility to work it out.  So, let's see.  Your required approvals include, but are not limited to, the wheat growers, the dairy producers (cattle and goat), bakers, bottlers, wholesalers, retailers, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the EPA, the World Health Organization, the International Monetary Fund, the United Nations, and the Ayatollah Khomeini."
    I started to say, "He's dead," but I thought better of it.  This could be one of the easier ones.

    The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months.  I missed a deadline and had to reschedule my ticket.  Then another.  The missed deadlines and reschedulings multiplied, but at last the day arrived.  I proudly purchased my milk and bread.  Excuse me.  My bread and milk.  I took them home.  I ate.  The bread was stale.  I drank.  The milk was sour.  You might think I was angry, but I wasn't.  How could I be angry, when it was all my own fault?  I had triumphed over myself.  I loved the Process.