Apparently, I look like a cop. And not even a real cop.
I look like a Walmart cop.
I didn't know I looked like a Walmart cop until one Saturday this past December, when I was shopping at a Wally World in Grand Rapids. I was trying to find some art supplies for my granddaughter, Rosie, ones she didn't already own. Not an easy task, since, when it comes to art, she already has supplies to rival the entire city of Florence during the Renaissance.
Carefully examining the various boxes of chalk, poster paints and sculpting materials, I didn't even notice the woman perusing the shelves just to my left. It wasn't until I realized she was staring at me that I really became aware of her.
Now, as you may already know, Wally World has a reputation for attracting customers who sometimes make questionable fashion choices. The woman beside me was doing nothing to diminish this stereotype. I won't go into a full description here; let's just say there are folks who should avoid hot pink yoga pants.
There was a lot of perilously stretched fabric there and it contrasted badly with her snake tattoo and neon blue hairdo.
But I'm not exactly a willowy fashionista myself. Who am I to judge?
I smiled, raised my eyebrows and nodded in what I felt to be a friendly, one-Wally-World–customer-to-another manner. She glared at me briefly, and then stalked off past the Play-Doh and around the end of the aisle.
I sometimes have that effect on women, so I didn't take it personally.
I went back to checking out the art supplies. A few minutes later, my search took me around the end of the aisle where Ms. Pink Yoga Pants waited. She glared at me again; I pretended not to notice.
She started to walk away, then stopped. She turned to face me.
(At this point in the narrative, I will substitute the number "9" for any profanity that may have occurred, in deference to my more delicate and refined readers.)
Yoga Pants ran a hand through her blue frizz and sighed dramatically. "Listen, 999999, whyn't you just stop 9999999 following me all over this 9999999 store!"
"What?" I said.
"I know you're a 9999999 cop!" she shouted. Other customers were starting to stare. "Just 9999 off! I ain't shoplifting 9999! 9999999 cop!"
I was taken by surprise and it showed. "Um, no," I said. "I'm not. I'm just shopping for my granddaughter, and—"
"9999 you are!" she said. "You're a 9999999 store cop!"
"I'm really not," I said. "I'm just—"
"9999 you!" she yelled. "Get out of my 9999999 face!"
Other shoppers were no longer even pretending not to gawk. This was the discount version of cage fighting and they weren't going to miss it.
I'm not a patient man under the best of circumstances (ask anyone) and my already minuscule reserves were drying up.
"Look lady," I said. She started to cut me off again. I took two fast steps in her direction and raised my voice to match her own. "Listen! If I were with store security, would I call you a 9999999 9999 for brains? Or a 9999 of a 9999999 with a 99999 for a 9999999 who could do the world a major favor by taking a flying 999999 off a 9999 in 99999999 you 999999999 99999999999999 999999999999999999 999 99 99999999999!!!?" I added a few gestures that translate, roughly, to the number 9.
It was not my proudest moment. But I won't deny it felt sooooooooo good!
Her face morphed into a round "O" of shock. Then she stomped off, yelling over her shoulder that she intended to report me to store security.
There's never a cop around when you need one, I guess.
mtaylor325@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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