I Can Take It or Leave It Each Time

We live about a stone's throw from the giant K-Mart that occupies the former spot of Wannamaker's, a fabled department store from a bygone era on Astor Place. I've made no secret of the fact that I vehemently despise the place for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that it further puts the squeeze on a number of local mom n' pop businesses who really didn't need the competition. Regardless, it's been there for a number of years now. Once I had kids, I found myself being almost regularly dispatched to K-Mart to fetch any number of child-rearing materials -- diapers, wipes, etc., lured by its sickly tractor beam of convenience. These days, even though my kids are older, I'm still routinely assigned missions to K-Mart. And I still hate the place with a vengeance.

This afternoon, I shlepped down into K-Mart's sprawling basement for the purposes of procuring some sundry items and to search -- in vain, as it turned out -- for a special item for Oliver for Christmas (Oliver's currently obsessed with "Thomas the Tank Engine" and feverishly craves a little engine called "Henry"). After several dreary minutes of picking out my goods, I assumed my place on a tediously lengthy check-out line, muttering needlessly violent musings to myself about the inexcusable inefficiencies of the operation.

As I stood there daydreaming, I heard a strangely familiar voice to my right, I glanced over at the neighboring cashier's line and saw a tall, bespectacled and instantly recognizable figure chatting amiably with the cashier, possibly even tossing off a "Merry Christmas" as he collected his bags and left the store.

That person was Richard Hell.