I scurried into Walmart this afternoon to look for a small computer desk. Office stores are hard to come by in our small town, and although I don’t usually like the quality of their furniture, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look.
As our computer needs and habits change, we’ve found ourselves relying on the two notebooks much more than the desktop that occupies the large, L-shaped desk in the spare bedroom. Because space is a real commodity in our home, it makes sense to replace it with something smaller. Anyway, that’s another blog post. Back to my story.
So, I’m browsing Walmart’s pitiful selection of fake wood furniture, when I hear a sound that stopped me dead in my tracks.
You knock me off of my feet now, baby! Whoooooooo!
As the bass line to “The Way You Make Me Feel” began blaring throughout the store, I forgot all about furniture and starting looking for the source. Just as I turned the corner, I saw the most beautiful of sights. An oasis of Michael Jackson merchandise in the middle of retail hell. Sparkly Jackson jewelry, t-shirts, handbags, buttons, posters, books, and CD’s lined the shelves.
Resistance was futile.
A few minutes later, I was standing in the checkout lane with my plunder. “Do you love Michael Jackson?” asked the checkout girl as she roughly tugged a hanger from the neck hole in a t-shirt.
“I love Michael Jackson!” I proudly announced. “I have since ’91,” I added to make sure she knew I wasn’t one of those born-again fans who only started liking him again after he died.
She made a little smirk and said, “I don’t like him.” And just like that, the thrill was gone.
As I made my way to the car with my merchandise, I considered what she must have thought of me; a 35-year-old man buying clothing and jewelry adorned with a pop star that she cares nothing about.
Poor girl. She just doesn’t know what she’s missing.