Target Your Paint

After three recent reader requests to share one of my numerous “man on the street” stories, I comply. Perhaps you will find it amusing. Perhaps it will reveal something of yourself. Perhaps there is something we can learn…




This is the anecdotal record of a sad little man. Somehow, the threads of my life have been intertwined into his through the banal necessities of life that take me to…Target. “Why is he sad” you ask? The answer is found inside of my mind: plainly in the fact that what he wishes me to be thinking, is not reflected by my brain waves. “Why is he little” you ask? I suppose that may be because he is a little bit Asian, even with his preppy look, slick hair, and indigenous tongue.



I frequent the local Target occasionally and one day I fatally was called over into his checkout line. Instantly, he beamed and said, “Now, I haven’t seen you in my Target before! Come here before? You should always use my checkout in the future. What’s your heritage? Girl, are you for real? ” He trailed off on subtleties and jovialities of every strain. When my eyes dilated, it was probably from surprise mingled with fear, despite whatever he interpreted. I used Ice Queen 101 with evasive frankness while my brain said “Your Target? Never use his line again. Avoid Target.” He walked me to the door with my purchases.



A couple weeks later, I buzzed through some shopping early in the morning. I didn’t see him. But maybe that was because I kind of made myself really short, under my hood, behind a magazine rack. The young woman with dark eyelids who scanned the barcodes, kept glancing at me for a bit and then said, “Oh, you must be the girl he was talking about. I am supposed to give you an employee discount—from the manager.”

I looked up a little startled, “No, thank you!”

My brain said, “I want the discount. I don’t want his discount.”



Then came the day I wore paint and all its accoutrements over my clothes. It was house paint in white and aqua tones. My sister-in-law and I were pulling together the best nursery ever that day, and I forgot all about the sad little man, until we got to the checkout line. “Oh my.” I laughed quietly. “Let’s stay away from that guy and his line!” I told my sis, as I referenced previous experience. We were called over to an empty lane of a sweet middle-aged employee who took care of Jess’ purchases safely. All of a sudden, the little man waltzed over from his line and dismissed the other employee declaring he would now operate her register. “Are you sure?” she asked, a slightly surprised. “Definitely.” He grinned at me. Sweet Jess blushed for me, towards the cart. This time I did a pre-emptive strike, wondering if I lamely talked about nothing if it would combine with my slovenly appearance to create a desultory air of unattractive stupidity.

“We’re getting ready for the baby today. Just have a few more crafty projects to go.”

“Really now? I can’t do things like that. You must be so skilled!” as he scanned my items with flair.

“No. I don’t know how to do it.” I said blankly to the cart.

“Well all you need is some alcohol and that will fix that! You all should try it. Do you dance? I love to dance. Karaoke, too. I’m super good at it karaoke. Must be my Asian-ness.” His voice winked blatantly.

I decided to pull the Ultimate Awkward move, and just stared silently at the purchases as if I didn’t have complete comprehension. He kept talking excitedly about activities that supposedly demonstrate fun-ness. He followed us to the door to “return our basket” as the rest of the customers behind us…waited. We escaped, hacking with amusement. My brain said, “Poor little desperate man.” In his brain, I believe I was meant to be thinking, “What an epically cute dude.”



I thought I had been appropriately lame and rude previously. But then…I picked up an item from Target, on behalf of my big brother far away for my sister’s birthday. I snuck into line. But the slick manager popped out like a Keebler elf and strolled over to me and took my items and started laying them out on the belt. I think I was supposed to be impressed by massive customer service skills, being juggled while commanding orders were spoken with long codes to the food department, checking a price check for someone’s potato rolls, while answering “Sally’s” question about the cash drawer three stands over…while practically stepping on my foot and taking the hangers out of my purchases with ample compliments on my choices. I think I may have been intended to be thinking, “Swoon. He’s a masterpiece!” But, for the sad little man I was thinking, “He’s a piece of work. I shall regretfully never be able to buy anything personal here ever again...if I come back.”



So. The long awaited moral of the story has come. Art, no matter how fantastic, in the wrong place is called “graffiti.” Girls and guys may be made to be impressed and impress, but in the wrong place at the wrong time, it is just plain strange, inappropriate, unattractive, and awkward. My big brother said that next time I should say, “I am so out of your league that I could step on you and little white stuff would come out that tastes like chicken.” I informed my brother that that would not work for several reasons that came to mind immediately, and perhaps you just thought of some, too. But, perhaps there is misused art in your bag that evokes a similar response from others. Perhaps we need to redirect our skills toward their intended time and place in an effort to bless and encourage, whether it’s a spray paint can, charm, knowledge, abilities, or brawn. Why use your God-given skills as a manipulative tool on others or at the wrong place and time? It is our day to build up, for God’s glory. Think about it.