Family Dollar

Back when I was a youngin, I was only permitted to watch 3 channels: CNN, Disney, and PBS. It was on PBS that I first witnessed the wonder that was Bob Ross. I recall the day pretty vividly. I was in 2nd grade. Following a series of unfortunate events that day at school and a trip to the hospital, I went home early. My mother went through that whole psychological routine where she tried in vain to reprogram me into thinking I was wonderful. We didn't need Dr. Phil back then. Eventually, she left to speak to my father on the phone and I popped a squat for some PBS. Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. That day, we visited an optometrist's office and learned how to make eye glasses. This was particularly fascinating to me (moreso than visiting the Crayola factory the day before), as my glasses broke that day. I'll be honest, I was mildly happy about the day's events... plastic frames and coke bottle lenses have a knack for turning any child that wears them into Super Bee. On days like these, one cannot begin to imagine what a friendly neighbor Mr. Rogers could be for a lonely, alienated child, though I suppose it's the same thing that Bob Ross did for the isolated, emotionally vacant adult. Ironically, The Joy of Painting followed Mr. Rogers on PBS in those days... It was during this lithium hour that I had my first exposure happy little trees and dancing little clouds. I was 7 but I was a proud member of Bob Ross's Hypnotized Painter Brigade. ["We tell people sometimes: we're like drug dealers. We come into town and get everybody absolutely addicted to painting. It doesn't take much to get you addicted."] One of the millions of watchers around the world entranced by the only white man with an afro. And it was a serious afro - the kind you usually see on pimps that also have goldfish in the heels of their stacked heel boots and Angela Davis. I hadn't much experience with afros at that point, as any of my parents' friends capable of growing such were not permitted per Navy regulations, but one thing I knew was Epstein from "Welcome Back Kotter" had nothing on this guy. I found myself completely enchanted. It wasn't his afro nor was it the emergence of something he called "happy little clouds." It was his voice... The type of blissful, almost whimsical monotone that could lull a shark into a peaceful repose. Sadly, there was a moment in my already-tainted, suspicious mind that caused me to wonder if Bob wasn't really doing this on purpose. Maybe the whole painting thing was a front; a nefarious cover broadcast to the masses to put them to sleep at a designated time but that was a little too much for my 7-year-old mind to comprehend. I moved on. After five minutes of a little bit of black, a little bit of blue, and a rhythmic dap-dap-dapple of magenta, Bob said, "I feel a happy little cloud coming on, don't you?" I sure did. Eventually though, Bob made an error. His massive house paint brush strayed from the happy little tree and into the Stream of Titanium White. "Oooh, that's a happy accident." No Bob, you fucked that up. Go ahead, pal... let it out. The only happy accidents I could think of were "surprise kids" - also known as the 3/4 of the country's population, conceived when a) the condom broke, b) there was no condom, c) "fluke thing really," or d) "fluke thing really. Your mum just had a baby. I didn't think she could get pregnant again that soon." And though I was a happy accident from option d, I've certainly never had one. I committed right around 42 mistakes before getting out of bed this morning. With hours left in the day, I've run up that total to the near thousands. I'd say I'm primed to shell out a few more. But on that particular day, happy accident stuck with me. "We don't make mistakes here, we just have happy accidents. We want happy, happy paintings. If you want sad things, watch the news. Everything is possible here. This is your little universe." That's right!... it was MY universe. When my mother came back to the room, I told her that the day's events weren't mistakes.. they were happy accidents and only happy accidents can occur in my little universe.

The next day, I entered therapy.

Since it's spring break and I'm not medically cleared to go back to work, so I had these big plans to sleep in until noon or so today. Instead, I found myself roused by the chirps of sunshine from birds outside my window. They were happy birds. Blue birds. I hate birds. I banged on the glass. Momentarily startled, they flew away but then returned, their maddening morning song more potent. I got out of bed and grabbed my python from his tank. Snakes are birds natural enemies. Surely this predator would show them. But when I put him in the window, he curled up in a ball and hid. Bastard. The birds mocked my failure and my rage grew. I tried other methods - throwing water out my window, shouting furiously, making idle threats but then I got an idea. Firecrackers. I lit the fuse, closed the window, and watched the birds scatter to the heavens. Glory be :) But as is typical in my life, the glory was shortlived. I spotted a man on the street that, oddly, looked like Bob Ross. His hair, brown and peppered with grey, looked like a ball of steel wool and he wore a bomber jacket, cargo pants, and what appeared to be brown deck shoes. I don't suppose he put those deck shoes to good use here in the Bend but one never knows. And the birds, so recently full of song and joy, reappeared over the street.. over Bob. They gave chase. Bob ran 20 feet or so before the birds opened fire and caked him in white goo. Oof. Truly unfortunate. I then heard, "I know someone did something to the birds! But that's okay. I'm still happy."

[Fast-forward 8 hours]

I entered Family Dollar for some supplies. Stop laughing. If you want to save money on basic wants like Coke, Cheez-its, and Doritos, go to a dollar store. Sure, you might get SARS, some kind of bacterial attack, or shot but getting overcharged for things you don't need anyway is a bit foolish. I gathered the aforementioned items and got in line. Behind me was a girl around my age that had 4 youngins along for the journey. One little boy had half of his head braided in cornrows... the fate of other half was apparently up for debate. Another had a bandaid stuck to his face and a 3rd opened a pack of Reese's Cups and threw it on the floor just as their "guardian" openly asked if she'd go to jail for hitting them. I felt for her but those kids - they can't help their situation. She should try some discipline... but then the baby sneezed on me. Horrified, I became paralyzed in germophic shock and without hesitation, began holding my breath. 45 seconds past and I looked up to see splattered white. I knew already. It wasn't some near-asphyxiation aftershock. I know my luck... I know how my life works. It was the poop bomb victim from the street; his pants and hair stained by songbird lovedrops. Rodney was his name, or so his tag said. As he rang up my items, Rodney felt the need to emote - "Some psycho set off fireworks and scared these birds." Psycho? "Long story short. It's just an accident." I felt baited. "A happy accident?" He smiled, "Bob Ross dealt a bigger high than drugs... he dealt the power of change... here's $5." I wasn't sure if this bloke was trying to use clever puns or if he was serious but the moment was lost. "I'm sorry but it cost $4.12 and I gave you $10.15." "And I'm giving you $5 change." "The difference from what I gave you and the purchase cost is $6.03." "But I already closed the drawer............. Just let me keep the dollar." Let you keep..this shoddy bastard was trying to rip me off!! I asked him why he couldn't just rip off the Family Dollar. Why must he take MY dollar? "I give you friendly service, you give me a tip. Or a dollar." No, it doesn't work that way! Was it so much trouble for him to scan my 2, 2-liter bottles of Coke and box of Hot & Spicy Cheez-Its? Did that really require hospitality? I've done the whole self-checkout thing at Meijer and frankly, it aint that tough. Item, scan, *boop,* bag. Oooh, taxing. Scanning 3 items and putting them in the bag was activity that warranted a dollar... he was right. Needless to say, we exchanged words and soon enough the manager emerged, looking more like Pat from SNL than any standard variety of male or female. I still don't know what pronouns to use... After quite a bit of argument with manager and Rodney, it was time to count the register. "Looks like we're $1.03 over." Whaddya bloody know?? Who could have fancied such a result? Certainly not I. "Will you take a store credit?" A goddamn store credit? Everything costs a dollar!! Perhaps I should get some bloody Rolos while I'm at the register and take care of that issue for them. Store credit. I won't lie... I lost my cool. But they also admitted defeat and gave in. 30 minute ordeal over $1.03. I fought out of principle - dollar stores should not be shorting you a dollar... and for gratuity no less. Before leaving, I turned to Rodney and said, "Remember those birds?" He stared at me for nearly a minute and said, "You set the fireworks!!" I smiled and shrugged. "Happy accident." He hurled empties as I walked out the door, head held high, $6.03 in hand.

Bob wouldn't be down with this guy's attitude. We may have to kick him out of the cult. The Brigade can't handle uptight schemers like Rodney. Thumbs down.