There was a moment right at the start where I wanted to run. Not out of fear, mind you. This was more like the anticipation you get when we meet eyes with someone on the street and you can tell they think they know you and are about to offer that first awkward question. I was the one who offered the question. I’d been roaming the aisles at Walmart for the last 15 minutes, trying to work things out on my own before I had to ask the white-haired man if he could help me. I said excuse me, and he turned to me, somewhat startled. The tag on his shirt read ‘Hector’ but he looked more like a Bob or maybe an Archie. He was clean shaven with small eyes hiding behind ancient folds of skin. He could’ve been sixty or eighty for as much as I understood aging. To me anyone cresting the rim of thirty was was already aging out of my reality.
Not-Archie said, “Hello, may I help you?”
I hesitated before I replied, knowing the question would lead to more, but unable to find another way. “I’m looking for dusting slippers.”
His forehead scrunched up, wrinkles mashing into more wrinkles like spiderweb cracks on a windshield. I smiled politely and waited for an answer. When none came I asked again. He said, “What would you even do with such a thing?”
I thought the answer was obvious.