Part III

My last trip for fish water was pretty uneventful. O.C. was on duty and in the process of setting my merchandise on the counter, I caught her just staring at me and that kind of weirded me out. She had to take a deep breath before launching into the scanning of my one gallon 11 times. It scanned smoothly until number 10, then I had to wait a few uncomfortable moments while she passed the scanner repeatedly over the gallon. I always feel a bit guilty, as if any glitches are providential validation of her original conviction that each gallon should be scanned separately.

Tonight, however, as I was entering the store, I noted with some consternation that one lady -- probably in her 60s -- was wearing Longhorn pajamas. They caught my attention (and increased my discomfort) because they looked a bit like my Longhorn pajamas. I don't want to own pajamas that somebody who would wear them to the store also owns.

Anyway, she saw me glance at her and didn't seem pleased, so I hurried on. I grabbed my 11 gallons as fast as I could and got in line. A benign few moments passed until I noticed something: the lady in front of me was also wearing pajamas. Hers were red, silk pajamas with a Japanese looking print. I stood, unobserved, and studied her, contemplating the fact that two different people who weren't even together had both come shopping in their pajamas.

Then the cash register, which doesn't seem to operate like any other cash register in the rest of the world, went haywire and wouldn't accept her check. So I had wait for several more minutes while the cashier scanned and rescanned and then for no apparent reason was able to suddenly put the check through.

I glanced once more at the red-pajama lady as she exited the store, and that's when I noticed that she was also wearing red houseslippers. They matched perfectly. Either she wasn't trying at all to pass off her pajamas as an outfit, or, by wearing matching slippers, she was. I don't know.

Just as I was checking out, a customer asked for the bathroom keys. (I wasn't aware the Dollar Store had a bathroom, and I can't fathom lingering there long enough to need it.) The cashier handed her an object that the keys were fastened to, like in gas stations. Peripherally, I saw that it was not the typical wooden block, and it registered with me what it was just as the customer said, "Oh -- a fly-swatter." Yes, the keys were fastened to a pink fly-swatter. Whether it is also used to swat flies remains a mystery.

I quickly left, making it into my truck just as somebody's stringy-haired, tattooed brother or husband (or both) had fixed a hard stare on me.

I am thinking I might wear my Longhorn pajamas from now on only to the Dollar Store