“Sorry if I don’t go flashing my panties to every Tom, Dick, and Harry hanging out in Walmart.” “I’m sorry, did you say my name?” A man with bushy gray eyebrows and a circa-2000s soul patch steps into the aisle, holding a blender in one hand and a pair of work boots in the other. As one does in Walmart. “What?” I say. “I’m Harry,” he says, tapping his chest with the blender. “I thought I heard you say my name and something about … panties?”
