The things I learned at Cooper's Hardware

There were never more than two people working at Cooper’s Hardware Store, my Uncle Lorn Cooper in the back, and Debbie Ann Freeman at the register. When Debbie Ann had her babies, she’d be replaced for three months by some recent high school graduate, but she vowed she’d quit after five, and when I walked into the store that afternoon, she appeared to have kept her promise. Everybody knows that a hardware store is the life blood of a town like Walhalla, so when you got in line at Cooper’s you’d better be prepared to wait a good long piece while Mr. So and So and Debbie Ann talked about Mrs. So and So’s prize-winning petunias, or got caught up on who all got saved at the last tent revival at Walhalla First Baptist. You’d know the conversation was just beginning if you saw Debbie Ann’s head bobbing up and down, nice and polite, like a marionette with her head-string cut loose. You’d know they were right in the middle of the good stuff if Debbie Ann put her water-retaining hands up to her Bashful Pink lips, and gently patted it while inhaling dramatically, like a Cherokee warrior about to hoot and holler. And you’d know it was your turn soon when Debbie Ann started fiddling with the cash register and rearranging the bleached-blonde haystack she called hair.
Debbie Ann’s was nodding away when I came up to the register, so I know not to be in a hurry. This old man and I came up to the line at the same time and we have a moment. You know the moment I’m talking about, before I could tell if he should be before of after me. He’s doing a little dance shuffle change shuffle change so that his pot-belly moves jerks around like an armadillo in heat. He looked more pregnant then than Debbie Ann had ever looked. It was the kind of belly that you’d have to fall in love with to keep it. I’d like to have seen him do the cha-cha.
He looked me up and down, like a slow motion version of Debbie Ann’s head bob. He smiled with only one side of his mouth curling up. Go ahead darlin', I ain't in no hurry. His beard looked like over-cooked grits, crusted around his chin, stark white with peppered spots. He continued his belly dance as I edged forward, ducking my head in appreciation. If I had been a man and been wearing a hat I would have touched the brim, but as a girl, meekness was the only appropriate response to chivalry.
I had a small load, sticky mouse traps and a set of spark plugs Uncle Lorn had set aside for my dad. I was fifteen and had just gotten my full license and was grateful for any small errands to run on the weekends. I set my things down on the counter as Debbie Ann made preparations for her Indian war whoop, knowing that it would still be a while.
I feigned interested in the automotive magazines by the register, until his dance halted and he stood still long enough to slide his thumbs underneath his suspenders and slap them against that enormous mound of flesh and muscle. He asked me about school, resuming his frantic sway. On a small child, the movements would have fit, but here was a grown man, grown old, that child still trapped inside. I answered in no and yes sirs.
He never finished school. I reckon you don't really need to 'round here. He motioned toward my purchase, his hand flicking in amusement. He smiled with teeth stained from sweet tea and chewing tobacco and patted his belly, grounding himself. All you need to know 'round here's that Mexican’s are afraid of your dogs, black kids can’t swim, and girls, sure as hell
don't buy spark plugs.