Tuffy’s Refrigerator Logic

I left work late Friday night, feeling the full brunt of a long and brutal week at the office. I felt the need to do something indulgent and selfish to signify the weekend’s arrival. Considering I had cut out all of the wonderful vices for New Year’s, though, I didn’t have many options. As I drove by my usual Borders, I realized I should pick up a copy of Will Leitch’s interview in Penthouse. After all, we’re all so proud our little moptop kid from Illinois is about to splash all over the nation.

Also, with his book tour coming to my town (or as close as he dare approach, I guess), it wouldn’t hurt to have a little more under my belt to rib him about when he arrives. He’ll love it, just like improv comics love the smartass in the crowd that wants to show everyone he’s just as funny as the performers on the stage by shouting the more ridiculous suggestions before each scene. Hell, the bit where I keep interrupting Will’s reading with “Tell the game show story!” and “We want to hear the Kimmel story!” will surely tickle his funny bone.

I had just been in the store earlier that week to pick up research for Monday’s podcast, but I rushed through my purchase. Therefore, I looked forward to poking around for a few minutes again, perhaps taking more time to browse the manga section or see if any of the hardcovers that languished on my Christmas list were on sale.

As I walked through the parking lot and through the double doors, though, I became acutely aware of all the teenage girls sullenly loitering in front of the store and small children with mothers enjoying a special moment as they flipped through the children’s books on sale at the front entrance. That’s when I realized I was making the first pornographic periodical purchase of my life at age 32. How grand.

All at once, I became very sensitive about my appearance. I was adorned in my slovenly casual Friday wear and sporting a five o’clock shadow around what certainly must now look like the full beard of a child pornographer. Didn’t Jeffrey Jones have a beard in his mug shot? I was sure he must have, staring into the camera with sullen eyes and a ragged beard that was more effective than any sex offender registry to protect the vulnerable children of the community.

My iPhone earbuds were embedded deeply in my ears and my hands were jammed into my coat pockets, certainly marking me as an antisocial figure. Of course, blasting the Newshour podcast isn’t exactly anti-establishment, but that’s not obvious from the other side of the headphones.

I strode authoritatively right to the center of the store, hoping to draw as little attention to myself as possible. This was no longer a shopping trip; it was a mission. No browsing today. Grab what you need and get out. No one else can get that issue of Penthouse from behind enemy lines but you. Be strong, soldier.

Unfortunately, it’s difficult to present yourself as assured and confident when you’re desperately darting your head about like a nervous robin in the center of your local Borders, directly in front of the Information Desk.

The bookish young man behind the desk spotted me rather easily. My career in covert operations would surely be thwarted by anyone that saw the security tape on this mission. “Can I help you find something?” he offered.

I stammered, “No. Well, yes. Yes. Where are the magazines?”

“This way.” He stepped out from behind the desk and motioned with a half-wave to follow him. I pulled my earphones out and followed a few steps behind him.

As I was escorted back to the front of the store (dumb, dumb, dumb), I suddenly found myself in a confessional mood. Maybe this fellow, roughly my age and temperament, will be able to get me out of my conundrum with a minimum of fuss. “Well, actually, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Penthouse.”

It’s only at this point that I realize I’m practically shouting at the back of his head as he walks ahead of me. I quickly add, “My friend is in it this month.” Yes, that would do. I placed quite the emphasis on “friend”, making it clear I would only broach the naughty rows of the Periodicals section for my best friend in all the world. I didn’t feel it necessary to point out the most meaningful conversation I’d ever had with Will was a booze-fueled discussion of the relative hotness of the lead guitarist of the karaoke band at the bar that night.

However, as we pulled up in front of the partially obscured rows of two-dimensional young women staring back at me, I did realize I should have pointed out that my friend was interviewed and not the centerfold.

At that point, though, I just wanted my shame rag so I could leave. Any more talking would simply delay this end goal. Stay quiet, buy the magazine, and leave. Don’t jeopardize the mission any further.

Except there was no magazine. A series of Playboy publications were clearly labeled and plentifully stocked, but there was no Penthouse. I scanned the rows frantically. Where was it? I had to get it now; I couldn’t do this again.

My chosen guide through the many levels of humiliation flipped through a few of the stacks, which was far closer than I cared to get to the circumstantial evidence of my perversion. After an excruciatingly long period of staring and shuffling, he reached to his hip and flipped a switch. Speaking far more loudly than the walkie talkie required, he asked, “Hey, Phil… don’t we carry Penthouse?”

I cringed. A few feet away, the obligatory Borders cafe was full of those same teens and young mothers with their children, sipping away at their coffee and nibbling their pastries. I kept my eyes locked on the magazines, but I was sure they all heard my betrayal at the hands of the Information Desk clerk of the local Borders. Not only was I a pervert, but clearly I had specific needs! I simply couldn’t get by with a Playboy; I needed the latest Penthouse to keep my collection current.

As I looked for the door to plan my escape route, I spotted the bold red letters: “PENTHOUSE”. The issue had been misfiled in the next section, where decent God-fearing people could shop safe from the criminal element such as myself.

I mumbled, “Oh, there it is,” and picked a copy up. I pointed proudly at Will’s name on the cover and asked with unnecessary volume, “See?” See, kind sir? I will be reading this issue! No masturbating for me; no, sir! I will shield my eyes from the disgusting photographic essays long enough to find and read the interview of my best and dearest friend since elementary school, Will Leitch, and then burn the magazine so no one might ever accidentally see those poor degraded women. Worry not, Information Desk clerk at the local Borders! All is safe here. Please let Phil know that as well.

I folded the magazine tightly along the cover model’s spine to prevent her from escaping and walked quickly with my head down to the checkout line. Naturally, a line snaked through the bargain books section, full of doting grandparents and doted grandchildren, teenagers with adult books under their arms, and those ever-present young mothers. Did I break up a Girl Scout meeting with my lust for glossy whores of Babylon?

Briefly, I considered buying another book, just the closest bargain book, so I would not look so conspicuous with my folded magazine. Unfortunately, the bargain books placed next to the registers for impulse buying were all sex improvement books for Valentine’s Day. Not quite the impulse I wanted to convey to the assembled choir. I looked away from them quickly and put my head down again. It’s almost over. Be strong. You can complete the mission.

As I moved up in line and could see the checkout desk, I could scout out my three options for my assigned cashier: a teenage girl, an elderly woman, and an elderly man. I wasn’t sure which I should root for to process my sinful transaction. Surely the teenage girl would be far more progressive. Or would she look me up and down with my greasy hair and stubbly chin and call the police as soon as I walked out? Would the elderly woman be more worldly and supportive or would she find me abhorrent and shout down to the teenager to shield her eyes as she processed the filthy transaction? Would the elderly man nod knowingly at me or punch me out?

In the end, I decided to hope for the elderly man since he was closest to the door and away from the line. I filed requests for favors with various minor deities and stared rusty nails into the back of the head of one particularly needy customer that threatened to throw off the delicate timing required to get the elderly man as my cashier.

When I stepped to the front of the line, I exhaled slightly when I heard a masculine voice shout, “Next in line, please!” I moved quickly to his station and slapped down the Penthouse, face up. See? I’m not ashamed! It’s a pornographic magazine and it’s mine! You and me, right? All the way!

He scooped up the magazine and peered through his thick glasses to determine the price. His eyes widened when he finally recognized what he held in his hands. He looked up sharply and stared hard at me for a few interminable seconds, trying to determine if the 32-year-old in front of him was old enough to buy this sexually charged tripe. My faux pride in my selection quickly dissipated.

While I was back in line, I decided to pay cash for this transaction. After all, I didn’t need my Borders Reward emails to start recommending porn coupons each week. (”Buy one debasement of women and get the second half off! Free pair of extra-absorbent socks with each purchase!”)

Of course, I hadn’t realized just how much porn costs now. When the price rang up, I was shocked. Eight dollars for the pleasure of seeing someone’s Photoshop skills make an attractive young woman completely unattainable? Really? What a ripoff! Why, if I weren’t such an unrelenting pervert, I’d march right out of here without it!

As I set down my bills to prevent the shame of having him try to avoid touching my hands, I realized I was paying cash for a dirty magazine as if I was trying to hide something. (Which I was.) Clearly, I don’t want my wife or girlfriend to find it on my credit card and so I’m paying cash at the local Borders for my cheap thrills. Wonderful.

Unfortunately, the transaction flustered the cashier as well. He told the computer I gave him $20 when I handed him a ten dollar bill. He pointed out the error and apologized. Then he explained the error again. I nodded briskly. He stopped to apologize again as he handed me my change with the receipt protecting his hand from mine. Yes yes, it’s okay. Just finish the transaction, old man!

When asked if I’d like a bag, I answered with a little too much force again: “Yes, please.” He jammed the magazine into the bag, which I snatched from him and turned towards the exit. I could barely hear him shout, “Next in line, please!” as I hit the second set of double doors.

So congratulations on your new book, Will, and thanks for making me feel like a teenager again. However, I’m retired from any missions involving purchasing pornography at bookstores to keep up with your exploits. Next time, I’ll wait until you’re interviewed in The Economist.

Tags: borders, pornography, will leitch

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 13th, 2008 at 1:27 am and is filed under nonsense. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.