The Crazies Get In, the Crazies Get Out, Next They'll Play Pinochle On My Snout

I would have sworn the full moon was tonight. But it's not. Don't bother checking. August 10 is the next lunar bloating. You'd never have guessed that if you experienced the morning I had. My weirdo magnet was obviously operating on a full charge. Let me share my angst with you. I'm a giver like that. I will present three vignettes in reverse chronological order, by descending comfort level.

The Yardy Pooper.
I parked T-Hoe down at the end of The Voice of the Village to get a 44 oz. beverage. First I busied myself with recording my Walmart purchase in my check register. We'll get to the reason for that momentarily. Remember, these tales are in reverse chronological order, like that Seinfeld episode everybody hates where the gang ends up at a wedding in India, but actually starts out there.

A lady walked past T-Hoe from the gas pumps, across the parking lot, up over the sidewalk, onto a grassy area about the size of half a basketball court. She had a sweet little Sheltie on a leash. She proceeded to let her Sheltie do her business on that grass. Not out at the end by the sidewalk where there's extra parking, but up against the building. Where the staff squats to smoke in the shade during break time.

Seriously! Why do people assume any grassy area is a dog toilet? This swatch of lawn is more suited to let toddlers run off some energy during long highway trips. Not for dogs to leave their excrement. That lady could just have easily, MORE easily, in fact, led her little dog to the state-maintained right-of-way between the pumps and the road. The area where I saw a big fat rat dashing across the street. There's a ditch by it. The doggie doodoo could wash down in there if we ever have some rain.

The Sideswiper.
On our way to The Voice of the Village, right beside the concrete plant that makes giant thick beams which hold up bridge decks, I heard a siren approaching from behind. I pulled over to the right and stopped. Much like one would do for a funeral, you know. Except this area has no shoulders. The road goes right up against the sidewalk, then a fence. In my rearview mirror, and my driver's side mirror, I saw a black truck bearing down on me at a rapid rate. Blue lights flashed on the dash. That means volunteer fireman around these parts. Not red for police or ambulance or the actual fire rescue squad. This guy was headed for the firehouse.

I understand that speed is of the essence. I also understand that if there is no traffic in the oncoming lane, with a clear view for a quarter of a mile, and with an empty parking lot on the other side of that oncoming lane...there is no need for a vehicle to come within inches of my T-Hoe while passing me. The whole oncoming lane was available. No need to nearly strip me of my one good door-mirror just to show off. He did the same thing to the car in front of me. Came near to scraping it. All for naught. Surely it would have been faster to race up the other lane, much like passing a car on a divided highway, rather than carefully control the trajectory to skim past cars that were stationary, allowing quick passage.

Unfortunately, I am familiar with those who like to play fireman, and understand the self-importance and the shoulder-chip that goes along with carrying that radio. Like a physician's creed should be first, do no harm...a fireman's creed should be first, do not cause an accident going to an accident.

The 'Christopher-Walken-Crazy' Man.
My nerves were still on high alert when the volunteer fireman swooped in for a near-kill. I had just pulled onto the road after cutting through by the dead-mouse-smelling post office, having gone past the lake, headed home from the weekly Walmart trip. Walmart is not a safe haven for man nor beast nor Val nor Pony these days.

We came out through the exit door, you know, the one most people walk into and shoulder you out of the way, pushing our cart full of purchases. I handed The Pony the keys so he could push the clicker and open the back hatch while I wheeled the cart up to it. We were fortunate this morning, my friends, to find a spot a mere three spaces up the row. There was handicapped, a red van, and us. But when we came out, a silver sedan had taken the van's place. More on that later.

A white Yukon had let us across the people-walk with our cart. As we rolled up to T-Hoe's rear, that Yukon followed. It stopped. And stayed. Obviously waiting for our spot. It was, after all, the first weekend of the month. Busy time for Walmart, parking places at a premium. Obviously, White Yukon had never seen The Pony unload a cart before. I hope the power windows worked, for the driver to unfurl the long white beard she would grow while waiting for the spot.

The Pony took the cart to the rack, and I got in. Normally, I fish the receipt out of my pocket, put my debit card back in the checkbook, write the amount of purchase in the checkbook register, and douse The Pony and my own hands with Germ-X. Then we are ready to start up T-Hoe and hit the road. Today, however, I had White Yukon waiting. I turned on the ignition. Looked over my shoulder. And saw a couple of people walking past. T-Hoe's beeper went off. I waited until they were clear.

Then another guy crossed the people-walk and strode alongside White Yukon. He glared! At White Yukon! He was not a Ward-Cleaver-looking guy. He was creepy. Dark hair, combed back, a little below earlobe length, probably late 40s, wearing a black leather jacket. Let the record show that the temperature was 85 degrees. I waited for him to cross behind me, but he came in between. He fiddled around with the door of the silver sedan.

Let's remember that T-Hoe was running. I was getting a crick in my neck looking over my shoulder. I said to The Pony, "Well, if this doofus ever gets out of the way, we'll go." I do not like to back my large SUV out of a parking space with a person standing between me and the next car. Even though I had already folded in my passenger-side non-mirror when I parked, to allow people easier access to walk between cars. Because, I think we've established, I'm a giver. As I looked over my shoulder, waiting to make my escape, Crazy Man looked in. Also let the record show that there is no way he could have heard me call him a doofus. This was not a case where The Pony says to me later, "Um. You know your windows were down, right?" Uh uh. They were up, sealed tighter than a drum, with the air conditioner blasting, and T-Hoe and White Yukon both idling.

Crazy Man opened the door of his silver sedan. He put his Walmart bag in. Sat down behind the wheel. Closed the door. THEN GOT OUT! HE TAPPED ON T-HOE'S BACK PASSENGER WINDOW! Yeah, um...NO! No way was I rolling down that window! The Pony and I both refused to look at him. I faced the front. I saw The Pony tuck his chin down to look at his laptop. We waited. Finally, Crazy Man opened up his silver sedan door again, and got in.

He might have been an esteemed church deacon running into Walmart to buy PoliGrip for old widow-women parishioners. But to me, he looked like a psycho perv bent on revenge because I had the nerve not to squish him between our autos. Oh. And because I dared to utter a private comment inside the confines of my private vehicle that there is no way he could have heard, and could have only lip-read if he had superhuman vision through my tinted windows. Maybe he was mad because White Yukon was behind his car, blocking him from backing out. Any fool could clearly see that I had that White Yukon waiting for my spot, with my car running, and I was just waiting for a clear path to back up.

WTF? I have no clue what his intentions were.

Val refuses to be on the local evening news as another parking lot statistic.