Another Visit to Bob Johnson’s Department Store

It was always a treat traveling thirteen miles to town.
Especially a treat if going to Bob Johnson’s Department Store.
For these infrequent trips, Mom always dressed me in my Sunday Best.
An Argo laundry starched, and pressed church dress covered a candy cane petticoat.
White socks with spidery web thin lace around the turned down edges
and black patent leather shoes my older sister outgrew
having slightly overturned, scuffed heels completed my “ooh child, thought I was cute” look once again.
Smudged in my memory is one visit.
This Saturday morning Mom and I were looking at the purtty choices of clothing upstairs.
Well, Mom was looking.
Cause I knew for certain I wasn’t gonna get nothing.
With six chaps and two grown-ups living on Dad’s one paycheck
there were few new anything to be had.
Following her from rack to rack, I was glad to be there.
Midway of the visit, I had to pee.
Wagging a warning finger, she sent me to the bathroom on the basement level.
Treaded quickly but respectfully down the steps.
Carefully avoiding bumping into any other shoppers.
Turned the knob on the colored bathroom door.
It was locked.
Knocked and nobody answered.
Had to pee bad.
Shifting back and forward I tried waiting.
I had to go.
I had to go.
Rushed to the White Ladies’ Only bathroom.
Turned the knob on the door and was relieved it was unlocked and free.
Scared I entered.
Immediately smelled sweet, scented soap and perfumed air.
Wow, it sure-nuff didn’t smell like the colored bathroom.
Carefully, wiped the toilet seat afterward with toilet paper.
No droplets were gonna be left by me.
Wiped the sink clean too.
Heard someone turning the knob.
I slowly opened the door.
Saw two startled white ladies.
The blue gray haired eldest lady
sharply asked, “Colored child what are you doing in our bathroom?”
A battering barrage of "Don't you know better?" muffled my attempted explanation.
Oh Lawd, I caused such a ruckus.
Relieved I saw Mama coming toward us.
Glaring stares stabbed her every step to retrieve me.
Angry garbled protest showered down on Mama and me.
Knew from the single lined firmness of her lips, I was gonna be whupped.
Just didn’t know it was gonna be in the store in front of all of them white folks.
WHOMP, an open-handed blow crossed my rear end.
Oppressive outrage switched
seamlessly into strident supportive cheers.
WHOMP.
“Whup her.”
WHOMP.
“Teach her a lesson”.
WHOMP.
"She gotta learn."
I wept.
Not because it hurt my candy caned covered bottom.
It ached much deeper.
Yanking my skinny arm, Mama pulled me down the aisle to the exit.
She showered the ‘somewhat soothed’ audience repeatedly with sorrys for my transgression.
Through hiccupped tears, I promised Mama to never, ever do it again.
A promise firmly punctuated with me always drinking only sips of water
before all future visits to Bob Johnson’s Department store.