It is Friday morning, and I’m trying to get an early start on the weekend. Unfortunately, I’m sitting in the parking lot, waiting for someone, anyone, to stick a key in the door to open so that I can be first in line at CVS with the intent of buying a plunger. Bad start — the day could be a long one.
Hoping for the best, I was pleasantly surprised that CVS actually has a “Household Repair” section, complete with your standard $6.99 plunger. Let’s hope for a day that gets better, but for starters, times are tough.
“Good morning,” the attendant proclaimed from behind the counter. She was bubbly and glad to see her first customer of the day, and a smile adorned her face from ear-to-ear. Not my face. I needed a plunger. It’s straight up 8 a.m., and I’ll be returning home to something far from inviting. Let’s be honest. When your request at CVS at 8 o’clock in the morning is for a plunger (with a sense of urgency in your voice), even Miss Congeniality with the fancy red vest and the “I’m here to help” button knows there’s a problem. She knows it all too well. The plunger isn’t to help get toast out of the toaster.
She sensed my urgency, quickly leapt into action, darn near vaulted over the counter and showed me the way down aisle six to the tools of the trade. They had one to pick from, which was perfect — I didn’t have time for analysis. Plungers fall into the category of need, not want. “I’ll take it.” If you ask for a plunger at 8 a.m. at CVS, it could be bright red with “ha-ha” written all over the handle and cost $59.99, and you’re still saying the same thing — “I’ll take it.”
I didn’t need a bag — after all, it would be pressed into action shortly. As a result, I dash out of the store with the plunger firmly held in my right hand. My gait is high-stepping, and I’m avoiding eye contact with everyone. Still filled with urgency, I was focused and moved without delay — sort of like a drum major sporting a baton and rushing through the rank and file at the beginning of a halftime show.
My wife is roaring with laughter in the car. I join in. It’s obvious why. I might as well have had on a clown nose and attired in a sandwich board proclaiming, “You know what’s going on in my world.” What am I hiding? Nobody’s guessing.
Nobody wants a plunger. We need a plunger. When we need one, we hope we have one. We quickly move about the house looking under cabinets, in closets, in the garage, and in the nooks and crannies usually reserved for creepy crawly things. For God’s sake, check in the basement…HURRY! Then we go to CVS.