At this typing, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is anxiously waiting for the other obscenely-large clown shoe of Even Steven to drop.
I took The Pony to his bowling league at noon. But first, we made a stop at Save A Lot for my World Famous Chex Mix makings, a stop at Country Mart for the pretzels that Save A Lot was out of, a stop at the gas station chicken convenience store for a treat of Tater Babies (which are nothing special, just potato wedge fries), and a stop at the eighty-cent 44 oz. Diet Coke refill convenience store.
I was on a mission. I was picking up a 44 oz. Diet CHERRY Coke for my mom. She was meeting me at the bowling alley to hand over some items she had picked up for me in The Devil's Playground. She didn't want anything from Save A Lot, but I bought her some honey-roasted peanuts just the same. She loves those things. And I gave her some sweet-and-sour sauce from Farmer H's take-out meal last night. Nothing goes to waste in Hillmomba.
The cherry dispenser was coughing up air, so it took three gasping squirts to make Mom's soda to her specifications. That was small Tater Babies compared to the fact that PotMo was not on the premises. However, the older lady at the counter might have been the one he was cussing about the last time we convened at this convenience store. I set my two styrofoam cups, lovingly rinsed after each usage, on the counter. "I have two refills today."
The older lady stood with her arms crossed. Made no motion toward the register. "You have a nice day."
I looked at her. Raised my left eyebrow? "No!"
"Thank you very much. You have a nice day, too!"
As I was waddling out the door with the two kegs liquid gold, my regular Free Boy popped his head out from behind the second register. "See ya, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom." It's who you know, people. It's who you know.
Even Steven and I were all tallied up, I figured. In exchange for an extra stop looking for pretzels, and a bloggable-at-a-later-date experience at the gas station chicken store, I had received two free sodas. A dollar sixty ain't nothin' to sneeze at, you know.
A few minutes ago, Farmer H invaded my dark basement lair to crow that he had gone to one of his regular indoor flea markets to buy three Christmas gifts for The Pony, and the clerk had only charged him for two. "I got out to the car, and I knew it wasn't enough. It should have been ninety-something dollars. But it was only seventy. I know what she done. She didn't take the tag off that one. I thought about going back in, but if she's too dumb to ring it up right, that's not my fault."
"Well, it was on the credit card. That would have been a big mess to straighten out. But now she's going to have to pay. And it's Christmas. And we can probably afford that twenty dollars way more than a clerk at a flea market. They'll still have to pay the vendor. And it will probably come out of her pay."
"It was the owner's booth. He'll be the one who's mad. But he's the one who hired her."
"Still. She'll have to pay."
"They close at six. I guess I can stop by there tomorrow with the tag, and explain it, and pay for it then."
"Yeah. That should fix it."
I am hoping that she doesn't scam our credit card. You listen to ME, Even Steven. The matter is being remediated. So hold onto that shoe.