Vondarrien

You’d think that a 31-year-old adult male wouldn’t get excited about stuff found at the dollar store.

But sadly, I do.

On my way to visit my grandparents, I stopped by their local dollar store to pick up some candles and incense (they help me relax).

I hit the jackpot soon thereafter.
They had those bottles of scented oil that you put the sticks in—that make the whole room smell good.

They sell those in the dollar store now? I couldn’t believe it!
’Cause they’re usually kinda expensive.

Nice.

I’d put one in the bathroom to mask odors that linger after unspeakable atrocities are committed in there.

One in the bedroom. The kitchen.

A worker approached me while I was deciding what scents (jasmine, fresh linen, etc) I wanted.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?”

I told dude I was good and continued what I was doing.

It was odd, I thought. Why’d he approach me—out of nowhere—and ask if I needed help? He walked past the white lady I was chatting with earlier to get to me. He didn’t ask if she needed help. Maybe he thought I was tryin’ to steal. But I’m usually only harassed at Target. Plus he was a brotha. My complexion. Skinny. With colored contacts that made his eyes a light-brown, hazel-ish color.

Later I walked the isles to see what else I may “need” (I don’t really “need” any of that stuff, but since it’s only a dollar…). I passed the one-dollar pregnancy tests, which always amuse me (somehow, if I had to buy a test that could alter my life forever—I’d want it to cost more than a dollar).

A few minutes later the same dude ran up on me again.
Said he had a question. And walked down an empty aisle—I guess he wanted me to follow.

I knew exactly what was goin’ down, ’cause I’ve been down this road too many times not to know the deal. I should’ve just ignored him and checked the hell out. But for some inexplicable reason—I played along.

Cautiously.

He stopped toward the end of the aisle, looked me in the eye, and said…“Never mind.” And walked away.

Disaster averted, I thought.

But minutes later, guess who was waiting for me at the checkout isle?

Dammit!

There were two lines.
One with the light-eyed weirdo.
One without.

Naturally I chose the line he wasn’t in. Even though it was much longer.

“I can help you over here, sir.”

Son of a bytch!

At this point, yet another critical decision had to be made. I could A) ignore his punk ass and stay in the longer line, or B) get in his line and check out now. After a few tense moments, I decided on B. ’Cause he wasn’t actually ringing stuff up. He was just supervising ol’ girl who was.

But as soon as I went over he sent her on break—so he could ring me up himself.

NOOOOOOO!

I tried not to make eye contact.
It was awkward.

He rang me up. Bagged my stuff.

But before I could leave, dude slid me a folded-up receipt.

I opened it slightly…I saw a phone number.

Stripped of any remaining dignity, I took my bags and made the humiliating walk of shame out of the store.

I read the rest of the note when I got in the car:

“Caleb. 708-XXX-XXXX. Call me ASAP!”

Dude didn’t want me to call when I got a chance.
Or at my earliest convenience.
Nah, he wanted me to call As Soon As Possible.

Guess I can’t go back there no more.

Too bad, ’cause I really like those oil and stick things.