Lot of loose ends already.
The business in Mystic isn't my son's, but I call it that because it's easier for me. He came aboard in May as 'an agent of change' as he was introduced to the compact (=tiny) staff and he's now the general manager. Must have his talent and his ambition from his mom since his other parent is always so pleased when he gets his work shirt buttoned in the morning and all the buttons and holes line up.
The two folks practically mind-melding at the store were standing three inches (maybe) from the arc of the exit door as it swings outward, hardly impeding anyone except those of us trying to leave the store. A perfect example of 'it's the least I can do' because it really is. Obliviots-they have no interest in the rest of us or attempting to accommodate us. What's theirs is theirs and yours is negotiable. One of them had a small child in one of the sacks/carriers designed for either your back or your front, in this case, her front, with the child face first into her chest. I'm wondering if the baby will have a Paisley phobia when older from such an intense and prolonged encounter but then I looked at the other half of the Dynamic Duo.
Dressed all in black in what (when I was a wee slip of a lad) were called clam diggers, was a rail thin woman with a jogging stroller. You've seen them, a tricycle sort of frame with a tiny passenger compartment shaped like a bullet (says the ad copy; I always think suppository but that's because I'm an a--- never mind me) with a long handle so the stroller doesn't get in way of your stride as you're toning your core (not sure if that's what the kids are calling it these days).
Oh yeah, the infant/baby/small child inside the stroller wasn't any such, but rather, a small dog who looked a little bit like Petey from the Little Rascals. Seriously. Perhaps she thinks the four legs are accessories. Thank goodness they match the rest of the fur. All in all, one of those "And to Think that I saw it on Mulberry Street" moments except we don't have one by that name and I'm not quite done.
Driving home, I'm behind one of those toy trucks (the small ones that hold your breath and little else as near as I can tell) with a giant muffler and the lowered frame so the driver can feel (and hear) every uneven piece of the road. A true street machine, at one with the pavement, Om. And the license plate from out of state, GLADE8OR. Another graduate of Hooked on Phoenix (it was a lot cheaper). At my signal, unleash hell.