Embarrassment is incredibly painful. I
wonder how expensive it will be to move to Montana and have plastic surgeons
give me a whole new identity? After my recent blunder, that’s the only viable
option.
It started out so innocently. On a
Saturday morning, I went to a local big box store to buy a replacement
showerhead. The store was very crowded. The checkout lines were huge. The place
was a bustling beehive of frenetic activity.
And that’s when, out of shear
frustration, I did the unthinkable. I still can’t believe I did it, but at that
moment, not thinking clearly, I actually —
Hey, wait a minute. You’re anticipating
what I’m about to say, aren’t you? You think I’m going to admit that I
shoplifted the showerhead because I didn’t want to wait in line, and then got
caught red-handed sneaking out of the store, and had to endure the shame of
being arrested and see my name in the police blotter section of the newspaper,
aren’t you? Ha! I only WISH
that’s what happened.
What really occurred is far more embarrassing.
Out of frustration, I walked up to a store employee and said, “Excuse me,
ma’am. Where can I find the replacement showerheads?”
The startled woman stared at me in
disbelief. After a long pause, she slowly backed away. When she caught sight of
a fellow employee, she quickly waved her over, and said, “Shirley! What am I
supposed to do? A customer asked me for the location of an item.”
“Well, Marge,” the other employee
laughed, “Just tell the customer where she can find it, of course.”
“You don’t understand,” Marge said as
Shirley came into view. “The customer is, is a MAN!”
Shirley stopped in her tracks. The two
employees stood frozen like a pair of blue smock-clad deer, standing in the
center of the road staring at oncoming headlights. Finally, Shirley spoke.
“They, uh, they never prepared us for this at the training seminars. I’ve never
had a, a man ask for help before.”
By now a crowd had gathered, not unlike
curious rubberneckers trying to get a glimpse of a terrible car wreck. I
noticed that some of the onlookers were men. Their faces were twisted with
looks of pure disgust and loathing. I heard one guy mutter, “What a loser.
Jerks like him give all men a bad name.”
Another man added, “Yeah, we come here
knowing we’ll have to wander the aisles for two or three hours before we find
what we want. Who does he think he is, anyway?” He then held his hand in front
of his young son’s face and said, “Don’t look, Tommy. You’re too young to be
expose to something like this.”
I tried to defend myself. “But I did
wander around, for over half-an-hour. I just want a stupid showerhead.”
In reply, jeers and shouts rose up from
the crowd. They pressed in closer to me, approaching from all sides. I think I
saw some pitchforks and torches.
Just then a tall white-haired security
guard waded through the crowd. “OK, break it up!” he shouted. “Nothing to see
here! Move along!” As the mob dispersed, the guard said, “What’s the problem?”
Shirley spoke up. “He, he asked Marge
for help finding an item.”
The guard’s shoulders slumped. He looked
at me and shook his head slowly. “You’d think working Homicide for 30 years
would prepare you for anything,” he said sadly. He grabbed my arm and said,
“C’mon, I’ll escort you to your car for your own safety.”
As I drove home, I wondered which would
annoy my wife more, the fact that I never found a replacement showerhead, or our
impending move to Montana.
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