Friday, January 14, 2011
The Wiggery Witch
Every Tuesday and Thursday, I seem to end up at a Plasma Donation center. Mostly because I am jobless and if I have any desire to eat, I must sell my body. For months the routine was clockwork: Park at the wig shop, walk to the plasma center, read a book, have my blood sucked out of me. It could take anywhere from an hour to four, but I couldn’t care less. I had nothing better to do with my time and would most likely end up taking a nap on my couch after consuming an entire jar of peanut butter.
One Tuesday, I went along with my biweekly routine. I had parked at the wiggery when the owner came out to give me a lecture of how I wasn’t allowed to park there. “I’m sorry. Is there a sign or something that is posted because I just didn’t know?” I could tell that she was extremely upset because her wig had started to move about her head whenever she would give me a shameful nod. Finally she noticed the hairpiece flopping around, adjusted it, and told me, “You know, I have elderly customers that can’t walk far distances and you are taking their parking spaces. You are not allowed to park here, and the plasma center has been told that they need to inform their donators that they can’t park here. You parking here is like parking in a handicapped spot and you should be ashamed!” I am not one who likes an argument, or confrontation for that matter, and so I moved my truck three spots down from her shop and gave a polite wave when I passed by her window. The wig woman didn’t appreciate it though because she was busy applying adhesive to her wig and I could see her bald head for what it was: Spiteful.
I went into the plasma center and asked about the wig woman. Most of the phlebotomists told me that she was crazy and that she is not allowed to shoo away people from parking in front of her shop. One in particular was very disturbed by the wig woman’s actions. “She is just pissed off because we bought her old store and made her move so we could expand. She is a bitter, nasty, old woman…” she walked away still speaking about why this old woman was so upset but I couldn’t follow and listen because I had a needle in my arm, keeping me to my lounging chair. “…And I just looked at her and walked away! She needs to up her meds! Oh, I just asked and you are allowed to park there, so I expect that you park there when you come on Thursday.” I really was clueless to why this phlebotomist was so upset at this geriatric, but I had been given a command by my phlebotomist and it is best not to make one’s phlebotomist mad.
Thursday came and I found parking at the wiggery again. I knew that if I could make it indoors before she saw me, I would not have to deal with her. I parked, locked my door, and scurried off, but as I had passed her window, she saw me. I couldn’t help but smile and wave. I prayed that she wouldn’t recognize me, but she did. I could see a scowl develop on her face and she started to tromp towards the door to put me in my place (which ironically, her wig never seems to be in its place). I panicked, and I ran. Bursting into the plasma center I screamed out, “The wig woman! She’s after me!” The other donators looked away from the movie to see who made the ruckus, but within a second of seeing that it was me, they all turned back to stare at the TV.
I waited for her to come in and chew me out in a crowd of people, but she never came. Was she waiting outside the door for me? Or could he possibly be keying my truck? My worst fear was that she would glue last season’s wigs across the body of my truck. If she put wigs across my truck, I would have to take the bus home, mostly because of my fear of hair that is sans a scalp. But when I left, nothing. She sat at the window, looking for customers, and the only vehicle near her shop was mine. I had no other choice but to gird up my loins, walk into her shop, and say, “I’d like to try on some wigs.”
One Tuesday, I went along with my biweekly routine. I had parked at the wiggery when the owner came out to give me a lecture of how I wasn’t allowed to park there. “I’m sorry. Is there a sign or something that is posted because I just didn’t know?” I could tell that she was extremely upset because her wig had started to move about her head whenever she would give me a shameful nod. Finally she noticed the hairpiece flopping around, adjusted it, and told me, “You know, I have elderly customers that can’t walk far distances and you are taking their parking spaces. You are not allowed to park here, and the plasma center has been told that they need to inform their donators that they can’t park here. You parking here is like parking in a handicapped spot and you should be ashamed!” I am not one who likes an argument, or confrontation for that matter, and so I moved my truck three spots down from her shop and gave a polite wave when I passed by her window. The wig woman didn’t appreciate it though because she was busy applying adhesive to her wig and I could see her bald head for what it was: Spiteful.
I went into the plasma center and asked about the wig woman. Most of the phlebotomists told me that she was crazy and that she is not allowed to shoo away people from parking in front of her shop. One in particular was very disturbed by the wig woman’s actions. “She is just pissed off because we bought her old store and made her move so we could expand. She is a bitter, nasty, old woman…” she walked away still speaking about why this old woman was so upset but I couldn’t follow and listen because I had a needle in my arm, keeping me to my lounging chair. “…And I just looked at her and walked away! She needs to up her meds! Oh, I just asked and you are allowed to park there, so I expect that you park there when you come on Thursday.” I really was clueless to why this phlebotomist was so upset at this geriatric, but I had been given a command by my phlebotomist and it is best not to make one’s phlebotomist mad.
Thursday came and I found parking at the wiggery again. I knew that if I could make it indoors before she saw me, I would not have to deal with her. I parked, locked my door, and scurried off, but as I had passed her window, she saw me. I couldn’t help but smile and wave. I prayed that she wouldn’t recognize me, but she did. I could see a scowl develop on her face and she started to tromp towards the door to put me in my place (which ironically, her wig never seems to be in its place). I panicked, and I ran. Bursting into the plasma center I screamed out, “The wig woman! She’s after me!” The other donators looked away from the movie to see who made the ruckus, but within a second of seeing that it was me, they all turned back to stare at the TV.
I waited for her to come in and chew me out in a crowd of people, but she never came. Was she waiting outside the door for me? Or could he possibly be keying my truck? My worst fear was that she would glue last season’s wigs across the body of my truck. If she put wigs across my truck, I would have to take the bus home, mostly because of my fear of hair that is sans a scalp. But when I left, nothing. She sat at the window, looking for customers, and the only vehicle near her shop was mine. I had no other choice but to gird up my loins, walk into her shop, and say, “I’d like to try on some wigs.”