Lady Dump

Providing customer service was something I was obligated to engage in being that it was my job.  For 5 years I worked at The Home Depot, and for those 5 years my disdain for the general public steadily grew – at times reaching mind numbing levels.  Having held various managerial positions I had the displeasure of witnessing nearly all aspects of the human experience from the tragic to the painfully pathetic.  However nothing could have prepared me for what is now referred to as “The Dump.”

             

Near the end of my employment I was asked to assist a customer with an electrical question regarding exterior lighting control.  Begrudgingly I agreed and soon arrived to offer assistance.  The customer, let’s call her "Lady Dump", was a woman in her early 60’s with snow white hair, facial liver spots and posture that would make a scoliosis patient cringe.  Wearing a sleeveless grey top and orange triangle patterned Bermuda shorts I could not help but notice that Lady Dump had possibly not been exposed to sunlight since before I was born.  I asked what I could help her with, and in a voice that eerily resembled a goat impersonating a frog she explained her lighting predicament.    

           

After hearing Lady Dump drone on about her problem I brought her to the appropriate aisle and selected the item best suited for her situation.  Standing a mere 3 feet from her we played verbal volleyball which consisted of me repeating myself over and over and her agreeing then disagreeing to the same information I had been regurgitating  for the past several minutes.  As in any social interaction a natural pause took place in the conversation, and it is here where my life changed and faith in humanity came to a bitter and screeching halt. 

            

Given that I always tried my best to avoid eye contact with the customers I helped (I found eye contact created a sense of trust and openness I will never have nor care to have with complete strangers) I found myself, per usual, staring at the merchandise’s packaging.  This also gave me a unique view of the floor and Lady Dump’s legs.  As my inattentive gaze settled in on her vitamin D starved knee caps a glob of what resembled dark brown over-beaten mashed potatoes materialized from beneath the hem line of her shorts and began to drool down her leg until it reached the floor with a silent yet audible thud that only I could ever hear.  Time stood still.  Somewhere in the distance a baby cried, and as my mind struggled through what was happening a second glob appeared and snailed its way to the floor joining its mashed potato brother.  The sickening realization of what was occurring gave way to horror – Lady Dump was shitting her pants. 

            

One can only imagine the expression chiseled on my face, probably something along the lines of “Ohmygod Lady!  You’re fucking shitting your pants!” but I’ll never know for sure because as quickly as the defecation occurred the clean-up began.

         
Without either of us saying a word Lady Dump proceeded to select the item I had just explained and with her opposite hand wipe the brown potato trail from her leg, pick up the pile of dung and place it into her Bermuda short’s pocket.  She than inexplicitly shrugged her misshaped shoulders as if to say “So what?” about-faced and marched away - hand and poop in pocket.

            

Later I found out Lady Dump actually paid for the item, the cashier thinking it odd that she never removed her hand from her pocket, and much, much later I found myself slightly envious of the old lady who never gave one shit about sharing two with me.