The very idea of taking me, the tall, curvy, tattooed, goth lady, to a religious book store is ridiculous, isn’t it? The notion seems foolish, impossible really, how would they even manage to trick me into such a place.
There is an unholy power, understood only by the elders and then only just, possessed by grandmothers to get their adult grandchildren to do things they’d never choose to do themselves.
A power my grandmother exercised today.
She and my mother had planned to go visit the dispensary today, but my mother was unable to go. Her back pain had returned with the tropical storm dancing her way up the coast and she was barely able to sit upright in her living room, let alone drive 45 minutes out and back.
I rearranged my day to accommodate their needs, set mam up with her coffee and snacks, and off to the city I went with Gran. We get all the way into the car when she declares she needs to go to the religious bookstore in the same city.
I was not dressed for this.
I wore my new cardigan, white comfy and reminds me of a snug version of the one JLC wears in the first Halloween. Underneath was my favorite black and red lace crop, and a pair of my partners jeans.
I’d not expected stopping in any book shop today, and while my attire is indicative of what I’d generally wear out, I may have preferred something else.
But I went, and the owner spotted me on entry, my hair and makeup in my usual wild and dramatic style likely clueing the sour faced woman in that I am not her usual clientele.
She never spoke a word to me, but she didn’t like the looks my chest was getting. The cardigan is snug, the top button is not enthusiastic about staying closed. So I wore it open. I have lovely breasts, the chest above have beautifully designed tattoos which I paid quite a lot for. Covering them seems a waste.
The shop owner apparently disagreed.
As my gran looked for a replacement mug for my grandfather, her reason for the trip, the woman glowered at me, and the three male students watching my bored perusals of her shelves. The “youth” section was utterly depressing, and nothing on the section seemingly devoted to books written by mega church pastors.
I noticed after a few minutes she was signaling me. I was confused. The only person who knew me there was Gran, she wouldn’t have told the woman about my hearing issues, so why was she miming at me in a vaguely insulting manner. Then I realized, she didn’t want to say anything, but wanted me to cover up.
The woman was miming closing a jacket, and buttoning up to the neck.
I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or curse. But then she glared again, and the petty bitch deep in my being slipped on her boots.
Showtime!
When next she motioned me to button up, I shook my head, not happening. She motioned more insistently.
I undid a button.
She did a fabulous impression of a fish opening and closing her less than expertly painted lips. Then she points at the young men in the shop. For those who don’t speak purity culture imbecility, she wanted me to cover up so as not to provoke lustful thoughts in the college students in her shop. Because college boys are known universally for the purity of their thoughts.
Had I rolled my eyes any harder I may have seen brainstem.
She motioned again. I undid another button. Gran commented on the lovely lace of my crop top, and how over heated the woman kept her shop this early in autumn, perhaps she was struggling with money unable to afford air conditioning?
As Gran paid, I grinned at the owner, the dare in my eyes. “Your move” may well have been spoken audibly. The three young men followed us to the line, no books to be seen. One had a bookmark with some Bible passage on it, but nothing really required. Gran and I smiled politely, the lads blushed madly and to their credit attempted to meet my eyes. It was a long way above what they wanted to see, but they did try.
As the bell above the door rang while I opened it for Gran, she looked back at the shop and shook her head. Speaking in that way only older ladies can, she expressed her sadness the shop was struggling so, maybe if the owner tried not glowering at paying customers she’d be more successful.
I blew a kiss at the owner and left the shop laughing with Gran. We were sitting down to a late lunch before either of us had our giggles under control.
