Michael D. Davis

I feel like I know quite a few people. I’ve seen quite a few things. But the things that happen to me, I happen to feel, and I’ve said this before, happen to no one else. If divine destiny is a thing or everything that happens to us is just fate, then somewhere along the way, someone started to screw with me for the fun of it.

This happened at the new dollar store in Tama. I had stopped in a few days prior and seen a clearance sign and happened to pick up a nice DVD for half off. Having scored this deal, I thought I’d get my Ma to go because she loves clearance like a bird loves to relieve itself mid-flight. So, we go, and we look around and around.

I get another DVD, and my Ma fills the cart. I figured she must have found some good marked-down items. I learned later the only thing for her that she found on sale was some paper cups.

Boy, did I hear about this. “Big deals everywhere, he says, we must go, he says. What do I find but paper cups 99 cents.” You get the gist.

Anyways, we were at check out. The dude was scanning the items and throwin’ ’em in the bags; I then took the bags to hold. I did this so we wouldn’t have to push the cart out to the car. I thought I was doin’ good. My Ma pointed out one of the bags had a hole in it.

I looked down. A bag hangin’ from the middle of my arm had a little hole in the bottom. It was just enough for the corner of a package of rice to be peakin’ out. “It’s fine,” I said, “It’s just rice.” This prompted a whole conversation with Ma and the cashier over the greatness of rice and how I am not a fan. I stood there as they did everything but exchange recipes.

Finally, all the items were scanned. I had all the bags except for one. The last bag had only the bread in it. Ma said she’d get that one in a manner that made you assume whole wheat in French meant cinder block.

I started to walk towards the door as Ma finished up at the checkout. I just about hit the door when I heard a FLUMP. The rice had hit the floor.

Before I even turned back to look at the package lonesome on the tile floor, I said, “Son of a &!+(#, ya know you can pick up this stupid %@($in’ rice. I ain’t gonna get it. Over here carryin’ twenty %@($in’ million bag…” I kinda mumbled off there because I turned back to look at my Ma and the rice on the floor when I saw somethin’ else. A kid. This boy, probably not even 10, was standin’ there. He’d picked up the rice and was handin’ it to me. His face was cute and freckled and his eyes were huge like a cartoon.

Now, my little rant was geared towards my Ma, but it seems like this kid, who appeared outta nowhere, thought I was givin’ him a chewin’. Or at least that’s how it appeared. I mean I say, “Pick up the [expletive] rice.” And then there’s this kid with eyes like a puppy dog giving me the rice. I didn’t know what to do. I immediately felt bad. I just said thank you, took the rice, and got outta there as fast as I could.

At the car, I threw the rice in the trunk with a little more gusto than any of the other items. And that’s when it started.

My Ma, with a smile, said, “My lord, chewin’ out random kids at the dollar store, thought I raised ya better than that. That poor child was scared out of his head, practically soiled himself. He just stood there shakin’ holdin’ out the rice to ya. Probably scarred him for life.” We both started laughin’.

First of all, I don’t think this could’ve happened to anyone else. Second, in a family like mine, when something like this happens, you will never hear the end of it. You’ll just have moments of grace between zingers. No one will have mentioned it for 12 hours, 24, or 48.

Then just when you least expect it, someone will say something like, “Hey, ya need to let off some steam; why don’t ya go to the dollar store and chew out a kid? Naw, you’re right; you shouldn’t. Police chief’s probably still lookin’ for ya since ya made that last kid cry.”