No Books For You

So let me be clear. I did not go into Red Barn Adult Books to purchase anything, or to make freaky friends. I went only to satisfy my morbid childhood curiosity, and to get a glimpse of a subculture of society that has always intrigued me (intriguED. Past tense). It’s the dogged undercover journalist in me, what can I say? And the closer I get to leaving for a trip, the more bored and anxious I get. The more bored and anxious I get, the more I, er, tend to do stupid shit. It was either the porn shop or skydiving.

So my findings?

I’ve been more turned on while listening to a linguistics professor recite the Prologue of Canterbury Tales in Old English.

I’ve been more sensually titillated shopping for drill bits in a hardware store.

I’ve been more sexually intrigued by a Target display of throw pillows.

It was as antiseptic as a pharmacy. Efficient as a Blockbuster. Friendly and congenial as a Starbucks. Honestly, the scariest part was the parking lot. No lie. It was super sketchy, with rusted Dodge Darts and faded Chevy Camaros doing loops and donuts in and out of the gravel. I hightailed it out of there when a guy in a Ford Bronco with duct-taped windows (he looked like a mix between Burt Reynolds and Matthew McConaughey in “Dallas Buyers Club”) lowered his mirrored sunglasses at me and gave me a creepy smirk.

Yikes.

And while I cannot speak for all of the franchise locations, I found it ironic that the establishment I patronized did not actually have any books. And I broke my rule of not engaging anyone in conversation. I broke it within five seconds of walking through the door.

Me: (Walks in, a little bell rings politely, signaling my entrance).

Him: (Friendly-looking youngish guy looks up from phone) Hey. (Looks down again).

Me: Hi.

Me: (Looks around) Don’t you have books?

Him: (Looks up from his iPhone) No.

Me: (Pause) Isn’t that false advertising?

Him: (Stares at me, slight smile) Can I help you find anything?

Me: No thanks, just browsing.

Him: Aight, let me know.

Me: Thanks.

Me: (Browsing “gadgets,” and trying not to laugh) Nice selection.

Him: Thanks.

(Bell tinkles and shady male customer walks in and greets cashier. After a quick glance in my direction, he begins to talk. I subtly eavesdrop, thinking that finally, after all these years of wondering what goes on in here, I’m about to be privy to it. Drum roll, please…)

They proceeded to talk about ATVs, quads and Motocross. The customer eventually glanced in my direction, as if he wanted to ask me something. I made eye contact. Here we go, I thought.

Customer: That your Audi in the lot?

Me: Yep.

Customer: How you like it?

Me: Not bad.

Customer: How many miles to the gallon it get?

Me: Oh, um, I have no idea.

Customer: Well, how much it cost to fill it up?

Me: Well, I guess 40 dollars or so?

Customer: You don’t really know, do you?

Me: Not really, no.

Customer: (Laughs and shakes his head. I get the feeling I should be insulted, but I’m not sure why).

I left not too soon after that. They blathered on and on about four-wheeling, and I was both disappointed and overjoyed to observe that they ignored me completely while I browsed. Disappointed, because I knew this would be a yawner of a blog post. Overjoyed because, well, their lack of interest in me abated the dull tinge of worry I had that I might get murdered in there. How silly of me to think that. Obviously, since I am writing this, I’m very much alive.

That’s all I have to report. I’ve been to church carnivals that provided me with juicier material. I know I could have asked more questions about what went on in there, and I’m not naive- I know “things” go on in the bowels of those places, especially judging from the icky Google reviews.

Ew.

Dad was right. I’m too nice of a girl to know about such things. And while I won’t divulge what they sell in there, I will say that if you’re curious, you should pop in for a visit.

But no books for you.