Now and then, I make a run to Big Lots to check the price of dog treats. Dog treats are way overpriced in most places, owing to the fact that people — not me, but too many people — will pay $11.99 for Fido’s chicken-flavored rawhides or mint-infused dental chews and somehow not feel indignant and ripped off.
Anyway, I discovered that Big Lots sometimes has good deals on name-brand treats, so last week, I made one of my periodic trips to the Big Lots in Gainesville.
Approaching the entrance, I noticed a man ahead of me whose attire was especially incongruous and eccentric.
He wore a rastacap, but he was by no stretch the Rastafarian type; he was an elderly white guy who looked to be in his 60s, although he was tall and skinny, which might fit the pattern.
Based on his wispy sideburns, the rastacap was unlikely to be concealing dreadlocks. The cap, I assumed, was a fashion statement.
Well, fashion is the wrong word to use here. In addition to the rastacap, he wore dandelion yellow sweatpants, a blue Adidas hoodie, and red and white running shoes, all of it — cap included — faded and well worn.
Now, everyone has a story, and I know I’m being judgmental here, but personally, I am rather fastidious with regard to my attire. I dress casually, but neatly, and I aspire to a coordinated, tasteful ensemble. That’s just how I roll.
For example, when I wear brown pants, I wear a brown belt, and I choose socks and a shirt of colors harmonious with brown.
When I wear blue or black pants, I select a black belt, plus socks and shirt of complementary colors. (Defined as hues on opposite sides of the color wheel. Look it up.)
Rasta Man’s attire, conversely, was a kaleidoscope of random bits — a jarring and frankly offensive stylistic nightmare. Maybe he dressed in the dark that day. Or while stoned. Or both.
He arrived at the store entrance about 20 feet ahead of me, abruptly stopped, took out his cell phone, and dialed. Best to make that call before you go inside and lose the signal, right?
I heard loud ringing, which indicated he was on speakerphone. A female voice answered and said something unintelligible.
The man tapped on the keypad again, then held the phone aloft, a foot from his right ear. He cocked his ear toward the phone and paused in anticipation.
“Your balance,” said a mechanical female voice from the phone, “is ZERO dollars and FIVE cents.”
Hmmm. Five cents in the bank might explain the condition of his clothing.
Rasta Man pocketed the phone and proceeded into Big Lots.
Undoubtedly to make a cash purchase.
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