Monday, December 10, 2012

Decembeaver

Duval, 1862, day after Decembeaver
A few weeks ago the wife said we needed several plastic items from China that would break in three weeks, so she sent me to the local Super Wal-Fart. In a strange way, I enjoy the outings. They have become like expeditions into the unknown, making me feel like Indiana Jones inside the Temple of Doom or possibly the Cleveland Browns in the end zone.

I strolled through the aisles gathering my booty and trying to avoid whining kids seeping snot from their disgusting faces. I approached the checkout line where a cashier stood wearing the revered blue vest behind a credit card screen crawling with bacteria. I smiled and began to load my items on to the conveyer belt where they stuck to the Gatorade residue left from days gone by. The cashier smiled and gave me a nod while I marveled at the dark, luxurious mustache.

“You dig that, huh?” asked the cashier.

I felt a bit awkward and tried not to stare but knew I couldn’t ignore the question for long.

“It’s full,” I replied. “Thick.”

The cashier smiled as she placed my items into the blue plastic bags that would surely split as soon as I walked past the Salvation Army creep, but before I could reach my car in parking lot row ZZZZ9999. She winked from behind eye makeup applied as a tribute to the Lone Ranger’s mask.

“Damn straight. It’s Movember. You grow one of these so you don’t get no cancer,” she said, pointing to the furry caterpillar underneath her nose.

The guy in line behind me snickered and then buried his head in an iPhone. He pretended not to overhear the conversation, ignoring the spectacle like a Wal-Fart greeter on a Black Friday morning. I hesitated. I had heard of Movember and just assumed it was a gender-specific event. I swallowed my words and waited to see where this was headed.

“My cousin told me about it,” she continued. “They gots another in December to help stop the cancers.”

“Really,” I said. “Cancer, great cause. That’s noble of you. What’s the one next month called?”

“Decembeaver,” she said while thrusting a hip at me. “You don’t trim the bush for the whole month, let it go wild. If you come back after Christmas, honey, I’ll show you my Kris Kringle.”

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