An Encounter

I almost didn't notice him.

My eyes were glued to the floor...the shiny linoleum floor routinely waxed and buffed by ServiceMaster...and I refused to acknowledge my own presence there. He, too, had his eyes glued to the floor.

"Honey, what do you think of this?"

I almost didn't answer. Answering would be a sign of defeat. Absolute, utter defeat.

"Umm...looks good."

"Do you think she'll like this?"

"Umm...sure."

He must have sensed the self-loathing in my voice, the small twinge of sad resolution, the hint of embarrassment. He might have looked my way at that point, but I couldn't bring myself to return the glance. Not then. I continued to follow Hot Mom at a distance of about 10-12 feet. I couldn't help myself. She knew the way. Like a scared lamb following the shepherd. Pathetic.

At one point I glanced over to see him looking at the bottom of the large bolts (his wife a good 15 feet to his left). He looked confused. Bewildered. Exasperated. I understood. I looked under the large bolt in front of me. $8.99. I shook my head. What was I supposed to do?

I looked up to see an elderly man coming down the aisle covered in yards of ribbon and colorful swatches with polka dots, paisleys, and toile. The geezer almost looked happy! The geezer's wife hurried up the aisle after him honking like a plump old goose. I didn't like the scene. It hit too close. Way too close.

I glanced over to see him looking at the geezer, too. We both swore under our breaths at the same time. We must have. It was the only thing one could do in that situation. Still we did not acknowledge each other.

I turned away and searched for a television in the corner playing some kind of UFC match. Nothing. I would have given anything for a remote control and a bag of Doritos. Anything!

"Honey, would you go ask the lady at the counter where the poplin and the gingham are?"

"What?"

"The poplin and the gingham. Go ask the lady where they are!"

I nodded. I trudged. I approached the lady behind the counter. She glared down at me from behind her 1973 beehive hairdo (a la Alice from the Brady Bunch).

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, where are the poplar and the gingerbread?"

"The what?"

"The poplar and the gingerbread?"

I got nothing. A disgusted guffaw might have escaped her twisted lips, but my eyes were again glued to the linoleum.

He approached at that very moment. He leaned against the counter just off to my right, his eyes glued to a spot on the counter, and waited.

Disgusted with my inquiry, the B-52 wannabe turned her attention to the newcomer.

"Can I help you?"

The way she said "you" made me feel like a defunct first-grader in detention.

"Yeah," he began. "Where can I find some Muslims?"

No response. Nothing.

I glanced over at the man adjacent to me on the counter.

He nodded. I nodded back. We both looked down at the counter.

Two straight guys at a fabric store at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Friday.