It was surprising - actually, authentically surprising.
In retrospect?
It’s more surprising that a fool like me would be surprised by human folly on one of the busiest shopping days of the year.
She had moved on to prey on another man.
Clad in pyjama pants this lady was certainly not one of means. Whether cultural, intellectual or financial capital, her poverty was clear. Her teeth when they appeared were yellowed by smoke. She wore puffy, filthy clothes and her hair looked as though it were cut by a drunken storytelling dwarf with a chainsaw while shooting rapids in an inflatable boat.
Her visuals were merely my first clue of her lack of means.
The second?
The smells.
She was the kind of combination of tobacco and cat piss that tells me that she likely gets visits from her worker.
She followed me through three isles at Home Depot. Each time I stopped?
She stopped and looked over my shoulder or attempted to see past me.
That was a bit of an eyebrow lifter - not necessarily surprising behaviour on the busiest shopping day of the year. It was unusual though - to have a lady like her looking over my shoulder in Home Depot. That’s the kind of thing I’d expect at Payless shoes, or Walmart or MAYBE Marks Work Warehouse on a bad day.
I wasn’t being paranoid. She most certainly was following me.
How else would one account of the route she took through the store? Was it merely coincidental that she was looking at wire strippers, tool bags, screw drivers, specialty plumbing wrenches and bits for drilling through tile? And all in the same chaotic order that I took?
Maybe she was starting a handyman business - who knows. What she was doing there was none of my business other than the fact that she was consistently standing too close to my business end.
And?
If any of you have been reading for a while now, you’ll all know that I don’t tolerate or include people with a small bubble of personal space. I do not accept this kind of diversity of spatial understanding.
With my intolerance in mind, I go to the stores armed.
No.
No knives, guns or other things to mame or harm.
No.
I am allergic to milk and products that contain milk or milk derivatives.
I eat cheese.
And just a little bit of cheese?
That’s just enough to give me a steady supply of farts that can be discharged on demand.
Even better?
There’s something just juicy enough about these dense clouds of gas that provides them with a quality all their own. They are consistent in their sound, length and odor.
After just a bit of cheese, my arse is more reliable and deadly than an m-16.
fffffffbbbbbbbbblllllllaaaaaaaaaapppp!
I was looking at sandpaper when I’d finally had enough. I let lose a few rounds then waited. She stepped closer, pretending to reach for a paint scraper. With her head lowered all I had to do was pivot then crank out a good one and she’d be flattened.
As quick as Saint Nick going up the chimney, I dropped a cheese bomb down my flue. The impact was immediate. The intentional close standing shopper fled.
That’s when I saw him.
He was red faced and looking at screws and drywall anchors.
She was standing right behind him, smelling like cigarettes, cat piss and now, my cheesy goodness.
I wanted to help him.
So I approached and asked:
Hey buddy, are you allergic to milk?
Merry Christmas everyone.
Be like Gene Roddenberry and give someone the gift of their own personal space this year.