So, the elderly gentleman came riding down the allergy medication aisle at a normal speed in his Hoveround. It wasn’t exactly a Hoveround. It was one of those riding contraptions that stores make available to people who need assistance walking.
He wore an army fatigue jacket and scraggly beared. The man stopped short of having a head on collision with my buggy, looked at me inquisitively and asked, “Whey you from?”
Thinking that he recognized the name on my t-shirt (I was wearing gear from my publishing company, Kenely Books, named after my mom and dad) I smiled and without hesitation answered “Sumter, South Carolina.”
He then apologized for a pile of spit that had formed in the corner of his mouth, wiped that pile of spit with the back of his hand, and continued with a heavy tongue, “…you ever heard of Hendersonville…….North Carolina?”
I told him no then attempted to end the conversation because a strong smell of Crown Royal, Hennessey or some other alcoholic beverage began to creep inside my nostrils.
As I crept my buggy forward he looked at me longingly and hummed “Ummmm Hmmmmmm!” (The way you’d celebrate a perfectly cooked piece of steak that you had just swallowed.)
I furrowed my brow and gave him a strong side eye.
He continued looking at me then repeated “Ummmmmm Hmmmmmmm!” I waved good bye as he turned and swerved down the aisle at an incredible speed.
The man was drunk. And I was amused…..also a little concerned. I alerted an employee that I thought the man to be intoxicated but she didn’t seem alarmed.
I shrugged my shoulders with merriment and finished my shopping, fearful that I’d turn down an aisle and have a collision with the drunk patron.
The moral of the story: Old, drunk men love me!Pin It