one or two really big ones, but what was to come at CVS was a trip I’d never figured on taking.
“So, how do we do this?” I asked as we walked tentatively into the superstore of medicine and hygiene. We at least knew enough to keep moving. Perpetual motion is the way not to look suspicious when you feel guilty for not doing anything. Once you stop and stare, the security cameras all train on you, the shoplifting beepers start screeching, the Simon and Garfunkel tape stops humming over the PA, interrupted by the manager’s voice bellowing your name over and over for everybody to hear, and the girl behind the counter starts dialing up your mother.
They think you’re looking for condoms.
I went right to browsing the endless magazine and paperback aisle. They had about two million titles, divided into categories. Women’s magazines, men’s magazines, teen, fashion, sports... paperback best-sellers, romance, John Grisham.
“Everything in the store falls into a category,” Mike said. “There’s a category for you too. We just have to find it.”
I stopped flipping through Travel & Leisure. “Well sure, let’s just look for the Ass aisle.”
“Or you could ask someone.”
I tossed the magazine in disgust. “I will not. Gimme a break here, will you? I’m embarrassed enough that you even know. I’m not asking any stranger for help.”
“Then do your funny walk around the store a couple of times and let them figure it out for themselves. They are professionals. They’ll get it.”
See that? That is the problem. Mike was just playing, and in fact I wished I had said that line. But instead of laughing, I just got worse. It was stupid, really, and entirely my own fault, but I could not get past this. These people had seen it all, and probably nobody cared what my problem was any more than they cared about the lady with the wart on her finger or the guy with the tickly cough. So it shouldn’t have mattered.
But of course it did. This was just one of life’s little jokes, a problem that for no good reason is funnier than other problems. And I like a joke as much as the next person— more than the next person, unless the next person is my mother—but there is a large difference between making a joke and being one.
I walked up and down and up and down the aisles without picking up one item that might help relieve my distress. I couldn’t even bring myself to give it an honest effort. I grabbed a tin of Band-Aids from aisle five, which would hardly be the best solution; a box of Kleenex from six, for all the crying I’d likely do if I didn’t get real help; some cold medicine; and a shower cap.
All the time, I must have been doing The Walk. Because as I stood reading all the ingredients in Tylenol Flu Formula, a large red-faced obese man in a baseball cap and farmer jeans crept up on me with a sad smile and a familiar ridiculous sidestep.
I was afraid. I stood frozen.
“Aisle one, friend,” was all the kind stranger said before padding away.
My god, there it was. My community.
Mikie, you ask? My good and lifelong friend? Trailing behind me, keeping just enough distance to allow me to maneuver in relative privacy, but close enough to rush in and help if I got in over my head with the hemorrhoid crowd.
But things got serious when we went to dark and mysterious aisle one. There was no fun in aisle one. Sad faces, puffy faces. I was the only shopper in the region without a hat. We all pretended we were there for something else—sure, grab some Pepto, or have yourself a plantar wart foot pad shaped like a tiny life preserver—but those things were decoys. We knew why we were there.
I wished they wouldn’t make eye contact.
When I finally reached my destination, there were three packages that seemed to address my problem. Two of them actually had the words “Burning” and “Itching” written in acid red there on the cover, which I thought was nice of them.
Some time must have passed, because
“So, how do we do this?” I asked as we walked tentatively into the superstore of medicine and hygiene. We at least knew enough to keep moving. Perpetual motion is the way not to look suspicious when you feel guilty for not doing anything. Once you stop and stare, the security cameras all train on you, the shoplifting beepers start screeching, the Simon and Garfunkel tape stops humming over the PA, interrupted by the manager’s voice bellowing your name over and over for everybody to hear, and the girl behind the counter starts dialing up your mother.
They think you’re looking for condoms.
I went right to browsing the endless magazine and paperback aisle. They had about two million titles, divided into categories. Women’s magazines, men’s magazines, teen, fashion, sports... paperback best-sellers, romance, John Grisham.
“Everything in the store falls into a category,” Mike said. “There’s a category for you too. We just have to find it.”
I stopped flipping through Travel & Leisure. “Well sure, let’s just look for the Ass aisle.”
“Or you could ask someone.”
I tossed the magazine in disgust. “I will not. Gimme a break here, will you? I’m embarrassed enough that you even know. I’m not asking any stranger for help.”
“Then do your funny walk around the store a couple of times and let them figure it out for themselves. They are professionals. They’ll get it.”
See that? That is the problem. Mike was just playing, and in fact I wished I had said that line. But instead of laughing, I just got worse. It was stupid, really, and entirely my own fault, but I could not get past this. These people had seen it all, and probably nobody cared what my problem was any more than they cared about the lady with the wart on her finger or the guy with the tickly cough. So it shouldn’t have mattered.
But of course it did. This was just one of life’s little jokes, a problem that for no good reason is funnier than other problems. And I like a joke as much as the next person— more than the next person, unless the next person is my mother—but there is a large difference between making a joke and being one.
I walked up and down and up and down the aisles without picking up one item that might help relieve my distress. I couldn’t even bring myself to give it an honest effort. I grabbed a tin of Band-Aids from aisle five, which would hardly be the best solution; a box of Kleenex from six, for all the crying I’d likely do if I didn’t get real help; some cold medicine; and a shower cap.
All the time, I must have been doing The Walk. Because as I stood reading all the ingredients in Tylenol Flu Formula, a large red-faced obese man in a baseball cap and farmer jeans crept up on me with a sad smile and a familiar ridiculous sidestep.
I was afraid. I stood frozen.
“Aisle one, friend,” was all the kind stranger said before padding away.
My god, there it was. My community.
Mikie, you ask? My good and lifelong friend? Trailing behind me, keeping just enough distance to allow me to maneuver in relative privacy, but close enough to rush in and help if I got in over my head with the hemorrhoid crowd.
But things got serious when we went to dark and mysterious aisle one. There was no fun in aisle one. Sad faces, puffy faces. I was the only shopper in the region without a hat. We all pretended we were there for something else—sure, grab some Pepto, or have yourself a plantar wart foot pad shaped like a tiny life preserver—but those things were decoys. We knew why we were there.
I wished they wouldn’t make eye contact.
When I finally reached my destination, there were three packages that seemed to address my problem. Two of them actually had the words “Burning” and “Itching” written in acid red there on the cover, which I thought was nice of them.
Some time must have passed, because
Similar Books
