My Little Walmart Man

A couple of weeks ago, I was cruising through Walmart, because, yes, mother, it IS a race,(commas much?). I was approaching my favorite aisle: Clearance Row, because you never know what sort of treasure is lurking behind the bamboo-scented-gel air fresheners and the weird women's-sized socks that look like baby booties with all sorts of buttons and bows and do-dads and bajangles adhered to them (WHY in the world are those on clearance???). Like I was saying, I was approaching MY aisle at something pretty close to hyper-speed when I almost collided with a little, flannel-clad man in a John Deere baseball cap saddled up on a little scooter and snorting from an oxygen tank, which made me nervous, because I associate oxygen tanks with large explosions.

We executed that little crowded discount store sort of dance during which I narrowly escaped tangling the string from my hoody in the web of his on-board basket. Smiling my most patient and sincere smile, I gave him a flirty self-depreciating "excuse me" and proceeded to extract myself from said pre-tangling. A moment later, I lost myself amidst the heaven of heated hunting boot buddies, stacks of orange wash cloths, george foreman knock offs and bottles of generic salsa suspiciously close to their expiration dates.

After a tad of perusing (no big finds, but there's always next time!) I headed over to the craft department to look at some things for Hayley's graduation party. I was bending over the puff paints, trying to figure out what to get because the world would not be complete without four thousand different kinds, when I had that creepy, pin-prickly feeling. Someone is WATCHING me. I lift my head to scope the store for security cameras, lost children and Velcro friends (the losers I seem to attract and can never get rid of). Nothing. Hhmm. Go back to the puff paint.
Almost at once, the back of my neck feels naked, like right after you get a short haircut and your skin is exposed to the cool air for the first time in months. Slowly, I stand up and try to naturally turn around.

How did I not hear the little scooter approaching? Aren't they usually really loud and annoying? Just my luck, this one was jiffy lubed just that morning. So I give my oxygen-deprived, plaid-shrouded voyeur another smile. This one with the definite brush off eyes I perfected while waitressing at the Albatross in college.

That'lll learn 'em.

Confident I've taken care of everything, I resume my puff paint purchasing. But wait. He no go.
I repeat the entire "go-away" ritual. But wait. He no go.

Uh. Oh. Now what? Can't be rude to the little dude in the amigo. But I want him to GO. Indecisive, I keep looking around like a cornered rabbit. I look at him again. He smiles at me. He's short several teeth.

"I like your pretty red hair," he says, smiling even wider, revealing the empty black hole behind his lips. Hhhm. What now?

I say thank you, drop whatever style and color of puff paint I'm holding into my cart and make a bee-line for the self-checkout.

I'm SORRY. I know this is not nice, but C'MON PEOPLE!

I know I am no beauty queen. However, does this sixty-year-old, oxygen-pumping, scooter-riding, John-Deere-cap-wearing, under-toothed, in-need-of-a-bath- man think I'm attainable?

And you know the worst part? I have to go back to return that stupid puff paint.