This is me at Wal-Mart. Don’t know about where you live but in this town, the Wal-Mart was straight-out scary. The parking lot, the building, the staff, the customers. Even the little ones in the baby trollers. Scary.
Under a black sportscoat, the old man braced two guns, each armpit warming a barrel. They were loaded, he was not. A high forehead that bespoke whatever. And sunglasses. Indoors. At night. Whenever.
He bore an uncanny resemblance to a younger still buff Schwarzenegger. But he didn’t talk phunny.
Didn’t talk much at all. He wanted to look you in the eyes while his remained shielded. Standard operating procedure.
Like staying the hell away from Wal-Mart to begin with. Old ladies getting rousted outside the pharmacies addicts looking for scripts. Hijacking soccer moms’ vans. With the moms still in them. That was Sunday afternoon right after church.
The parking lot, so vast and grey and hot, always full. Best spots taken by orange-headed females in toreador pants pretending to be disabled and their Shits-Zu is a service dog.
This is not me at you-know-where. This is some other guy.
The old man backed away when he heard the fat guy in the olive-drab t-shirt say, I’ll fart right here if you don’t give me another twenty.