Recently I was at Half Price Bookstore elbows-deep in my latest literary tour-de-force, the Orkin Capenter Ant Brochure, when an irate middle-aged black lady with a fiery look in her eyes ran into the sitting area and passed judgement on all of us.
“I don’t know who it is,” she yelled, “but one of you zoned me. And I want you to STOP. You hear me?” She took a good look at each of our dumbfounded faces and stormed out.
And just as our gasps began giving way to snickers, she stormed back in.
“I’m sorry” she loudly announced, “If it’s not any of you, I’m sorry. But one of you all zoned me. And I will NOT be zoned.” She put emphasis on the word “not” by pounding the chair back of a pony-tailed man sitting directly in front of her. Then ran out of the store, slamming the door during her exit.
It’s weird, but she was so convincing in her accusations, that I couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of guilt after she left.
To this day, I’m still not sure what she meant by zoning (perhaps she lost a basketball game; or received a call from the urban planning office), but I for one am stopping it right now. In fact, we should all stop it.
It’s no picnic.
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