On Sunday we went to The Home Depot. A suicide mission on a
nice day, early in the year, combat shopping. Just getting into the parking lot
was almost impossible. The entry sends you right past the front of the Garden
Center, scene of some of the most vicious shopping of the season.
To make matters worse they take the opportunity provided by
the increased automotive traffic to add big orange rolling racks filled with
flowers to the front of the store. These run from the wall all the way to the
driveway. To move from one to the other to look at the explosion of colorful
plants you need to walk on the driveway. Of course, the driveway is filled with
cars either trying to get in, or dying to escape.
It seems to be impossible to just walk up to a rack and think
“I like the orange one with the big petals. I am buying that one.” No, it is a
decision that takes hours and a lot of moving from rack to rack regardless of
the potential for being run over. It requires a lot of hands on examination, a
painful comparative process and minute inspection on a molecular level. People
will look at two identical flowers for minutes, turning them, tilting them,
every angle and view covered. It is the “plant whisperer.” What do they see? I
am always impressed by the thoroughness, as long as I am not driving.
This year they went one better and added a row of blue
rolling racks covered with potted vegetables to the entry way. Which turned the
opening into a narrow funnel where impatient gardeners and home improvers rush
to get in before someone can stop to look at the fennel plant.
We stopped to buy a cucumber plant. I like cucumbers, but
even if I hated them, even if I were allergic to them, even if I was
religiously opposed to cucumbers we would plant one, because they are so much
fun. They are like predatory plants, they send out vines that wrap around
things, you would swear they are on the attack.
We were on one side of this narrow pass, a little boy, maybe
10 years old stopped to look at something on the other side. It was on the
bottom of the blue, rusty, rolling shelf.
Crossing the drive in front of the narrow, cramped entrance
was a man, pushing a cart. He was
oblivious to traffic, and pushed his way across without even a glance left or right. It was a cart designed to hold lumber, and lots of
it. Heavy duty, with six wheels, and three upright tubes that curved and
crossed the platform to hold the piles of wood, keeping them separate and on
the cart, it was a cart to be reckoned with. It did everything well, except maneuver.
 |
| I hate that door!!! |
This cart only held one door, and a frame. The Man pushing
it was mad. His face set in concrete lines of barely controlled fury. I don’t
know if he bought the wrong door, or if it was defective, or it was too hard to
install, but clearly the door was the object of his rage. And he was not
slowing or stopping for anybody. He came barreling in through the narrow,
tunnel like entrance, eyes straight ahead. I thought he was going to smash the
little boy kneeling to look at the plants.
Fortunately the boy moved, just in time to avoid the angry
man bearing down on him with the heavy cart, holding the innocent, white door.
Unfortunately, for the man, and the door, the line at the “customer
service” was long, and he stood there fuming, tapping his foot, and glaring at
the people in front of him. His hand wadded up a fistful of his dusty white
t-shirt, right at the waist line, causing the University of Hard Rock Café logo
to stretch and distort, and look slightly obscene.
I started to move down the display of tape measures, hammers
and power drills, hoping to be able to last until the man with the offensive,
infuriating door got to the front. Then I would have some answers. Why was he
so angry about the door? Was it a Mother’s Day gift gone bad?
But, my wife didn’t want to know, and she grabbed a handful
of my shirt, and drug me off to fight the crowds, and make our way to the back…
To be continued…
