Not Just Anyone’s Footstool

Bill and I were out running errands; dropping off stuff at Goodwill that we couldn’t sell in our garage sale the previous weekend, and dumping a dozen old books and paperbacks into the Book Donation bin by the drug store.

We’d finished up at the last stop, which was an estate and consignment store, where we dropped off Bill’s mother’s circa 1940s Homer Laughlin china – all 95 pieces.  She’s been gone now for more than a decade and he’s finally ready to let go of this last remnant of his childhood.  When we were done, we walked across the parking lot to Arby’s and wolfed down roast beef sandwiches and curly fries before heading home.

As we walked back across the parking lot towards our car, a ‘retiree’ in a white Prius came zooming through on his way to the Arby’s drive-through.  He must have been starving because in his haste to get in line, he sped past us and almost ran me over.  As I jumped back, my hand smacked the back of his car.  He apparently stood on his brakes because he came to a screeching stop just as we reached our car, then he quickly backed up, burning even more rubber.  He stopped behind us, got out and starting yelling over the top of his car at me about how it was a violation to hit a moving vehicle.  I looked across our car’s roof at Bill, who just closed his eyes and shook his head, reconciled to the inevitable.

“How about the violation of hitting a pedestrian when they have the right of way!” I yelled.  “How about killing someone because your lunch is more important!  How about being a complete moron?  How about that?”

“Well there is such a thing as common courtesy, you know,” he shouted back.

“Obviously something you know nothing about or you would have stopped to let us finish crossing!  Or you would have been going the speed limit for a parking lot instead of an interstate.  Or you would have learned how to drive for that matter.  Enjoy your lunch, jerk-off!” I hollered as Mr. Prius drove off.  I glared after him as he hung a left into the Arby’s drive-through lane before I got into the car.

“What an ass hole,” I said, sliding into my seat and snapping on my seatbelt.  “These old farts just make me crazy and I’m not going to put up with it anymore.  I promise, I’m not going to be anyone’s footstool!”

“I know you won’t, sweetie,” he said as he started the car.  “Or their doormat either.”

I put my hand to my mouth.  “Oh.  My.  God.  I’m turning into my mother,” I exclaimed.

“No you’re not,” he said, patting my leg reassuringly.  “Your mom would never have reamed that guy a new one.”

“I know, but she wouldn’t have said doormat either.  She would have said ottoman or foot holder or leg thingy instead.”

“Probably,” he agreed, as we backed out of our parking spot.  “But she wouldn’t have said it with as much conviction as you did.”

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