I was the Pied Piper of the Rocket City Goodwill
Yesterday, bratchild and I went to Goodwill. I was driving by and all of a sudden hollered, “I have to buy a shirt to go with the white tux,” and into the parking lot we careened.
I am not overly fond of our Goodwill. It’s over-priced, smells terrible AND they leave stuff sitting outside in the rain forever which may account for the offending odor. I much prefer the Greater Huntsville Humane Society Thrift Store or the one on North Parkway, the name of which always escapes me, but it’s the one where the man laid down behind my car, tried to pretend I ran him over and then starting hitting my window asking for money. I didn’t hit him but even if I had, I never carry cash.
ANYWAYS–so bratchild and I were wandering around the store trying to find a dress shirt to go with the white tux with tails that I purchased at another non-smelly thrift store. I am not a quiet person. I’ve been described as having two volume levels: playground and arena. This will play a role in the following events.
Bratchild: What are we looking for? (She knows it’s best to keep me focused.)
Me: A men’s dress shirt. White or black, plain. Hmmm, I don’t really know what size but he’s super skinny so it probably doesn’t matter much. I don’t want to spend much since it won’t really be seen as he’s wearing it with that white tux, top hat and a sequined bow tie.
This is when the first Goodwill shopper looked at me with crazed curiosity in his eyes and fell in line behind my seductive shopping song.
Me: I mean, really, he’s just a skeleton. Does it really matter what he wears? He’s just going to be there for people to look at. No, that shirt won’t work. It has a stain and I don’t want to go to the trouble of washing it before I force it on him.
A Goodwill employee joined in the parade…
Me: Do we even have to buy him a men’s shirt? Maybe we could just stick him in a ladies shirt? He is super little and won’t know the difference. It’s not like he knows better. And I don’t really care if he likes it or not.
At this point, FOUR people were following from afar like a slow-moving zombie horde.
Me: (as we walk by the shoes) I didn’t even think about shoes? Does he even have feet? I would think he does but since he’s going to be wired to a chair or mounted to a post somehow, I don’t think the size matters. Since he’s missing his ribs, is he missing feet as well? If he has feet, we can just shove something on him. Though I would like to figure out a way to have him hold a tray of drinks or something. Anything he wears will be an improvement on the tattered prison garb he’s currently sporting. Though we may have to scrape the kerchief bit off his head–they must have glued that on him.
At this point in time, I noticed the crowd we had amassed and I started giggling uncontrollably. I replayed my statements in my head and came to the realization that these people probably thought I was pulling an Angelina Jolie and was adopting some child from a third world country that I was going to dress up and have stand on the veranda of my plantation home in his tux greeting guests and passing out Bounce sheets from a beribboned basket. I imagine they all had cell phones at the ready to dial DHR, Homeland Security, the TSA or anyone else they could think of…
Now that I was envisioning myself as a psychotic Pied Piper, we decided to leave. The best part? The Goodwill gang will never know I was shopping for him: