Attack of the Crazies

Did you know there is a day specifically put aside for crazy people to jump out of the woodwork and accost people? I didn't either. Apparently, my special day is November 5. I have it circled in red on the calendar.
Luckily for me, my Crazy People Day started just a little bit after noon. I drove to Wal-Mart to buy some blue painter's tape. I know this Wal-Mart. I have probably been to this specific Wal-Mart more than two hundred times. I know almost exactly where everything is. If not exactly, at least the general area. Thus, I confidently strode through the automatic sliding doors, nodded to the greeter, and turned left past the leftover Halloween candy. (Incidentally, the candy was on sale and I . . . Did . . . Not . . . Buy . . . Any. Feel free to applaud now.) I held my cell phone pressed to my ear, jabbing with my friend Mr. Million. I wove through shoppers, sidestepped a run-away bouncy ball, and headed to the paint desk. Just as I was about to turn down the tape/caulk aisle, a woman jumped out in front of me, forcing me to halt.
"Do you need any help in the Hardware section today?" she asked, her voice surprisingly chipper for a Wal-Mart employee.
I held the phone away from my ear and eyed this apparition. She had her long gray hair pulled back in a high pony tail on top of her head. Long, sparkly earrings dangled almost down to her shoulders. A camouflage hunter's jacket hung over a gray T-shirt that was in turn tucked into high-waisted, green khaki pants. She had completed the look with heavy, itchy-looking socks and thick-soled sandals. As a connoisseur of badly mismatched clothing (I was famous in elementary school for my lime green socks, purple corduroy pants, and glow-in-the-dark orange shirt combo) I had absolutely nothing to say to her ensemble. Whatever makes you comfortable, right? However, I did begin to suspect that she was not employed by Wal-Mart.
"I'm, uh, looking for painter's tape," I replied, gesturing with my free hand.
"Oh!" It appeared as though she barely restrained clapping her hands. "I know right where that is. Follow me." She hurried down the aisle, coming to a stop halfway down.
"Just a minute," I told Mr. Million on the phone and followed her because, well, she did seem to know where it was and I had to get there anyway.
"Here it is!" she crowed, then held her hands out about six inches apart and moved down the aisle, framing each product with her hands. "Here's the blue tape, and here's the gray tape, and here's pink tape, and here's green tape, and here's yellow tape, and-"
"Great!" I interrupted and randomly grabbed a blue roll. "This will work fine."
"Okay!" she sang. "Light bulbs are two aisles down!"
And then she skipped - I kid you not, she literally skipped - away and became lost among the vacuum cleaners.
I returned to my conversation, writing her off as an enthusiastic Wal-Mart customer who became giddy at the thought of aiding a fellow customer.
And yet, things always happen in threes.
I will say nothing of the second incident, save that it involved Be-Dazzled clothing, a stuffed mountain lion, and a forty-eight year old man watching me like I had hidden the secret of eternal youth somewhere about my person.
(And, no, I do not know the secret to eternal youth, but I do know the secret to eternal immaturity. Contact me with any questions.)
The third alternatively sane person confronted me as I walked to my car at around 4:30 p.m. I held a paint-stained plastic stool in one hand and my keys in the other. This gentleman shuffled toward me, cradling a large 7-Eleven soda in the crook of his right arm, his head tilted to the right as he sucked on the straw. He had slightly better taste in clothing than the Wal-Mart character; wearing a red jacket, a baseball hat, jeans, and a button-up shirt.
I saw that we were about to cross paths, and offered a tentative smile.
He scowled at me. "'Bout time you got to work," he growled. The words came out somewhat slurred, as he refused to take the straw out of his mouth to talk.
I chuckled, having been on the receiving end of this joke before. "Ha ha, I know, it's kinda late to be just starting out."
He hustled by me, dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, mouth forced into a warped frown around the straw. "You're really late," he snarled. "They've been waiting for you for a long time."
My mouth dropped open at the open hostility. "Uh . . ." I offered, as my rapier wit had become somewhat dulled in the past couple hours.
"So, so, late," he snapped and continued walking.
All on the same day. What are the odds?
So, my plan for next year's November 5 is to hide in my basement and hope all the crazies pass me by.