One Born Every Minute

It all started as I walked innocently through the outdoor mall toward Victoria’s Secret on a strapless bra quest. I navigated my way around the hundreds of mall kiosks, resisting the siren calls to improve my hair’s texture and heal my life. I sauntered confidently. I even snickered a little to myself. I could DO THIS. I can SAY NO. And MEAN IT. I may even have roared. I AM WOMAN!

 

That’s when I bumped into the Flying Dutchman.

 

To be honest, I have no idea who the Flying Dutchman is — maybe a war hero? Or a trapeze guy? Accessing Google at this point would interrupt the momentum of my story, so I’ll do a search later and probably be real embarrassed when I discover the Flying Dutchman is a crack ointment or douche cream. Which actually…

 

Back to the Dutchman I created in my head.

 

He was small, lithe, wily. He spoke with a melodious, thick, fake accent. His eyebrows were bushy and voluminous. He was spry. He could leap POWs in a single bound, fly over the circus elephants with grace and verve, moisturize inflamed butt cracks.

Or whoever the Flying Dutchman is.

 

But back to the Dutchman I created in my head.

 

He’d been trying to get me to his kiosk for a good solid minute. Beckoning me over. Winking his eyebrows. Standing in front of my legs and refusing to let me take another confident step.

 

He had hand cream to sell dammit. And he was going to sell it but good. To me. Because? (I drew this conclusion later) I looked like a middle-aged beleaguered housewife in need of a good bra and some attention. I was easy easy pickings.

 

“‘ ‘Ello madame,” he says. “Leet me warsh your handz for you.”

 

“No thanks! But thanks anyway. But NO.”

 

“Oh but madame! You need a leeeetle time for yourzelf. Let me take goood care of youz.”

 

{{Thinking: His accent is a bizarre amalgamation of Boston and The Most Interesting Man in the World.}} {{Saying:}} “No. Really. No. By the way? I said NO. Get off my legs.”

 

“Oooohhh. How you meeek me laugh so, you minx. Come here, youz.”

(I possibly utilized poetic license with the minx part)

 

At this point, I felt bad. I know. I KNOW. Obviously, this fake-accented, butt-crack cream did not deserve my pity as he was hounding me so, but it’s just that he tried so hard. And I did need a little time to myself. So why not spend it at a mall kiosk?

 

“Fine. But real quick. Really. My boobs need me to go and get them a bra.”

 

“Ohhh hhhooo hooo ho, you scamp! Youz meek me laugh still!”

 

He takes my hand. He is totally trying to seduce me so that I will buy his hand cream. I know this. I KNOW this. But it’s just so funny. Also, I am a middle-aged beleaguered housewife in need of a good bra and some attention. Still, I look at my watch, implying that I have places to go.

“Please hurry.”

 

He leads me to a small porcelain bowl set in the center of his kiosk. He rubs a salt-like substance on my hands.

“Now, madame. Rub your handz togeether. Open up thoz pores. Let the gold flakes in this lotion draw out alll impurities.”

 

I rub. He pours water over my hands from a classy urn of some sort. I look into the bowl. There is all kinds of dirt and shit in there.

 

“You zeee madame? That ees all in your skin. We get eet out. Toxins, dead skeen, chemicals.”

 

I look again. It’s reallllyy dirty in that bowl. What the hell is IN my skin? Where has this Flying Butt Crack Cream been all my life?

I am tempted to get this stuff and slather it everywhere. On hands. Feet. My bathroom counters.

I look to the left. I look to the right. Is my husband lurking about? He would have my head. How much is this stuff anyway? Did he say there was gold in it? Shit. It really is dirty in that bowl. I have so many toxins circulating wily nily in my system. I must get them out!

While internal dialoguing, I catch the eye of the hat kiosk guy. He smirks. He’s seen this all before. He shakes his head. I get it. I’m a sucker.

Damn it! Almost foiled again.

“That’s pretty convincing,” I tell the Dutchman. “But I have to go.”

 

“Madame! Wait. I ‘ave not zeen your eyez. May I just look for a meenute?”

 

He’s hoping to butter me up. He thinks I can’t resist his bushy eyebrows at full strength. I’ll show him.

 

I lift my sunglasses up and say, “Yep. Here you go. K. Gotta run.”

 

“Oh!” He puts his hands to his chest. “I ‘ave a ‘art attack. Youz eyes so preeeetty.”

 

I hear his lame protestations as I hightail it out of kiosk territory, but as I leave, the hat kiosk guy gives me a thumbs up and fist pump.

 

This is awesome. I was able to say no and win respect for it.

 

“Madame!” The hat kiosk guy calls. “I ‘ave a hat for your beeeeautifeel head….”

 

 

Further research revealed that the above is the Flying Dutchman. Which doesn’t work for this story at all. Please pretend it is not here.