One of these things does not Belong

I’ve been some places this weekend.

Places that I don’t belong.

You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’s the truth.

I had lots of things to do this week before I started my week of hell:  2 charity events that I’ve somehow in charge of—although I have great people helping me, I still feel the pressure, 2 doctors appointments, new carpet coming early the week after so everything has to be done this week, and about 6 meetings.

And yet, this weekend, I find myself in two places on consecutive days where I’m surrounded by people who are clearly not planning to do anything this week or next.

To be fair, Saturday wasn’t as bad as Sunday.  On Saturday there were some professionals mixed in with the crazies.  Saturday was Walmart day.  I confess I do some grocery shopping at Walmart.  Some of the things they sell are way more expensive than other places, but for average stuff, they’re good—dog biscuits, kitty litter, toilet paper (the cat is a neat freak and wants to wipe after). 

I was in a contemplative mood when I was in Walmart on Saturday afternoon.  Most people I know were probably out working in their yards, getting the last of the fall work done or watching college football.  These were the people who weren’t.

There are some Walmart trends that I’m not real comfortable with. 

First, what’s with all the people wearing fuzzy pajama pants?  Saw one girl wearing fuzzy pink Miss Kitty pants and a big parka.  It really wasn’t that cold.

There was a heavyset guy in baggy cotton shorts, a t-shirt advertising a Flock of Seagulls concert, and a satin top hat—he was looking for clown shoes around the Halloween costumes.  A lot of people were at the costume section, going through those costumes like someone had hidden gold bullion in the piles of witches and evil clowns and vampires and Lady Gaga meat suits.  But of course, we’re talking about people who wouldn’t know what gold bullion is—the smartest of the bunch might assume it’s used to make soup.  The Walmart employees stood around the outskirts of the carnage watching the carrion feed.  Pieces of costumes flew up from the pile periodically.  Marlin Perkins stood off to the side filming.  (If you get that joke, you’ve just dated yourself).

As I tried to maneuver my cart around the place towards the dog treats I realized I hadn’t used the conveniently placed sanitizer sheets on the handle.  Good thing there were three used ones in my cart.  I wondered vaguely why they were stained brown.  I abandoned my cart between the baby clothes and the car seats.

As I made my way to the dog treats, I developed an itch.  But because of the whole sanitizer thing, I refused to touch my face.  I decided that maybe I should go to the restroom to wash my hands.

I walked to the bathrooms, which are ironically in the rear of the store.  My way in was blocked by a woman in one of those motorized carts.  She was a huge woman.  HUGE!  I’m not even sure how she managed to get into the thing.  I’m not sure how the motor managed to make the wheels move…they were practically flat.  I thought those carts were supposed to be the old and disabled.  I tried to go around.

The woman moved forward for the block.  The motor of the scooter thing groaned with effort.

I gave up.  Better just to get out as quickly as possible.  It was clear were social mores at work that I did not understand.  I tried to leave the little lobby area by the restrooms and layaway.

In the doorway, a big man in a scooter sat talking to a woman with a cart.  Neither of them looked at me.  The guy had a stringy dirty pony tail down his back—probably to give potential cardiac surgeons an idea where his spine was…the thinning greasy tail pointed at it between folds of flesh.

I cleared my throat.

They didn’t look up.

I was pinned, trapped between scooters.  There was a moment of panic.  A claustrophobic feeling of flesh closing in on me.  I’ve never wished for a blue light special to draw away the wolves more in my life.  Then, as my life started to flash before my eyes, I saw an opening.  The woman with the cart moved to go after a dirty kid who was running around the hunting section with a crossbow.

I made my move and looked down the aisle towards the dog treats.  There was another scooter.

They were swarming.

I weaved down the yarn aisle, fooling them.

I came out at bedding, made a left and grabbed the dog treats.  Kept moving, found kitty litter, then backtracked to checkout.

Where a restless scooter guy was in front of me, moving back and forth, torturing the motor—it screamed with each effort to move.  With him was a big woman who managed to move on her own two flip-flopped feet.  She wore a tent with a hole in the middle, no bra.  The tent was made of thin pink material, showing each horizontal roll, and two vertical lumps lying out on the bloated gut like raw bread loaf dough left out to rise.  She was itching her nose with a dirt encrusted finger, there was hair hanging out of her nose, there was a booger on those hairs, clinging there waiting for rescue.

So that was Saturday and why I ended my shopping trip crying at the sanitizer dispenser.  For those of you who saw me at Walmart on Saturday.  Thanks for stopping to make sure I was okay and for not mentioning anything about it on Facebook.

So, on Sunday, I worked in the yard all day.  I got dirty and sweaty and muddy.  I raked, mowed, and planted about fifty bulbs for next spring—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and crocuses for those who care.  I don’t normally keep pop in the fridge.  But, I had a turkey in the oven and a good dinner for one planned so after I took a shower and changed into clean clothes, I decided I could hop in the car and grab something at the convenience store down the street.

I’ve never been in that store on a weekend.  I’ve never been there, apparently on a sunny afternoon that’s about the perfect temperature.

Because that’s the temperature that brings people out of their apartments and across the field to the store.  Think of a scene in a zombie move where the zombies are staggering across an open field toward the protagonist; now, replace the zombies with people who are alive but haven’t showered in days so they smell like zombies.  I parked the car.

I grabbed my purse and my Droid phone that I saved up for, that I use as a house phone and a business phone and a scheduler and a planner.  There’s an ice bin on the sidewalk before the door.  It’s chained with a thick chain and a huge industrial type padlock—kind of reminds a person of a medieval dungeon except there were people in those dungeons, not ice bins.

A guy with no teeth and one hand holds the door open for me.  He steps back and waves me in with a stump covered in open sores which I know are needle tracks because I’ve researched what they look like while I write.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says in a voice that is gravelly and soft and phlegmy all at the same time.  His eyes are leering at my chest.  I move into the store.  There are two teens in there, huddling over the donuts rubbing their hands together.  Their clothes are dirty.  There’s a sickly sweet smell pulsing off of them that’s mixed with the skunky smell of recently smoked weed—I’ve researched that too.

The pop is at the back of the store.  There’s a guy at the back of the store.  Bald.  Flip flops with dirty feet and long yellow toenails.  Cotton shorts with—no underwear, it was obvious, I didn’t look that close—and a blue t-shirt with stains all over it and a dribble of mustard over the bizarre bulge of his belly that really looked like he might be pregnant with one of those exercise balls.  He’s buying 40oz Schlitz Malt Liquor bottles from the cooler section near the sprite that I want.  I have to wait.  He shuffles off after he manages to get two bottles out.  His flipflops make hissing noises on the dirty linoleum.  His toenails tap, tap, tap away.

I get my 7-up.  I hurry up to the counter to pay.  Flip-flop exercise ball guy is there in front of me.  In front of him is a guy who’s buying lottery tickets with pennies.

The teens have chosen chocolate donuts.  They’re now standing behind me eyeing my phone with a kind of lust that makes me wish I’d left the phone in the car or at least had 9-1-1 punched in ready to call.

The guy is still buying his lottery tickets.

Flip-flop-give-the-man-a-pedicure guy is trying to make eye contact.

The clerk has a gap in his teeth, top and bottom missing, giving him a little box there in the middle of his face which has a tongue flickering behind it in the darkness.  He breathes through his mouth.  His breath whistles as it moves through the gap.

The lottery guy has finally made out his $3.  He smiles triumphantly at the clerk.  He scratches himself.  I hear things scurry away from the friction.

“You want the kicker with that?” the clerk asks.

I almost scream.  “NO! He doesn’t want the fucking kicker?  He can’t even afford the stupid ticket.  Maybe he should apply the $3 to his water bill and get his water turned back on so he can shower.  Maybe all these people can pool their money and get one shower going…somewhere.”  But I press my lips together and wait.

Shuffle, shuffle, tap, tap.  The guy puts his bottles on the counter.

“Is that it?” the clerk whistles.

“Yep, I’m a Schlitz man.”  He looks at me and grins.  He has no teeth.  He gives a laugh.  His cheeks puff out.

I try not to stare.

The guy pays.  And says.  “Guess I’ll shack out my chances with one of those tickets as well,” he says, lisping and slurring without teeth.  His cheeks puff out and deflate with each word.  He looks at me again and shrugs.  “You never know.”  He laughs again.  He rubs his shirt where the mustard stain is, smearing it like a windshield wiper versus bird shit on a car window.

He doesn’t move when he’s done.

The clerk looks at him.

“Can I get a sack for this? Gots to walk across the grass back to my place.” Puff.  Deflate. Puff. Deflate.

“Sure,” whistles the clerk.  He double bags the Schlitz.

Shuffle. Tap.  Shuffle. Tap.

I move into place, feeling the teens standing behind me eying my phone.  I put the Sprite on the counter.  I open my purse.  I pay with a twenty.

The clerk hesitates a second.  “Anything else?” he says between whistling breathy pants.

I shake my head.  I get change.

“Do you need a bag for that?” he asks.

I shake my head again.  “I’m good.”

He nods as if that explains everything.

The teens invade the counter before I can grab the pop.  I have to reach around them.  The smell of stale sweat and pot makes my eyes water.

They look at me as if I’m somehow violating them.

I hurry out the door, nearly collide with a huge man who looks like he’s been pumping iron for 40 straight days while shooting up with steroids.  He’s got a tattoo across his forehead.  It says “Batman.”

I hurry to my car and lock all the doors.

I don’t want to judge.  I really can’t help it.  One of these things don’t belong and it’s me.