I ran across a pretty objectionable older woman at the Target. Very well dressed, hair perfectly coiffed, nose literally up in the air. She was one of those who clearly believed all you had to do is look at her to know she’s better than you, and you’d just take it for granted you exist solely to serve her. She was being rude and imperious as hell to the clerks, a teenage boy and girl. It was obviously getting to the poor kids, but entry-level workers don’t mouth off to customers and keep their jobs. So I shifted into full country boy swamp rat mode and ambled on over to her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
She looks down on me like I’m a bug, like how could I not see she was far too classy and important for the likes of me to be addressing directly. “Yes?” she says. Just ice cold.
“You work here, right? Can you tell me where the headphones are at?”
Direct hit. She vapor locked on the spot; no reply, no response. It almost looked like it made a physical impact; that’s going to haunt her to her grave. But I was more focused on the young clerk’s reactions. I have no connection to them or to the store; they got a measure of justice, and they can’t catch any flak at all for it. All they gotta do is not laugh…
This first appeared in The Havok Journal on December 11, 2020.
Bama has been a rodeo cowboy, a professional stuntman, and, for 39 years and counting, a bouncer at various biker bars and redneck rat cage juke joints through the Deep South. He makes cool stuff as Crimson Tied Paragear, using knots his Army Ranger Scoutmaster taught him at Boy Scout summer camp deep in the Okinawan boonies back in 1972.