I know, perhaps better than anyone, the vast assortment of products, wrappers, foreign money, and ticket stubs that most women discard in their purses, never to see again. With this in mind, I've become downright diligent about checking the inner compartments of each and every purse before I tag or clean it. I find a lot of quarters, gum wrappers, Tylenol, and Canadian pennies, most of which I throw out. Every now and then, I'll find an expensive lipstick or a ten dollar bill or a prescription or something, and I'll put it in the back of the cash drawer and try to remember to return it the next time its owner wanders in. Needless to say, this process isn't exactly rocket science; it's just not a perilous or time-consuming job.
So the other day -- as usual -- there I am, sifting through a handful of new purses, wiping a couple clean, shaking change out of them as I go. I get to the last one and it's huge -- some half nylon, half leather purse-duffel combo. I jiggled it around to check for contents. There was a muted clinking sound, like coins at the far bottom or something. I was talking away to my co-worker (as I am wont to do on my good days), eyeballing some people that just walked in the store, and trying to clean purses all at once. I was a real multi-tasker. I plunged my hand into the bag, groping for the clinky contents at the bottom. Uh-oh, I realized. Something was not right. I was holding something, but it was not change, or gum wrappers, or ticket stubs. I pulled my hand out in curiosity.
"OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I shrieked in horror. I did a little knee-jerkish jump and looked at what I'd dropped on the floor in front of me. It was -- and it pains me to relate this -- a pastel blue octupus vibrator with a tail. More disturbing yet, the tail was proportionately... large. And kind of bead-like. And in dropping the little montrosity against the floor, I had turned it on. There it was, a little sex-bead octopus buzzing and twitching all over the floor, a gruesome remnant of someone's fun time with the duffel bag.
At this point, I froze. I'm a moderate germophobe. I don't like touching door handles and public bathrooms make me a little uneasy, so it follows naturally that inadvertantly touching someone's sex toy that goes God-knows-where is enough to make my delicately balanced psyche basically implode. I couldn't touch it again, that was for sure. But I couldn't let it lie there on the new carpet, either, buzzing around with its creepy little tentacles. I had to pull myself together in this moment of crisis. And most importantly, I had to turn it off.
I grabbed the roll of paper towels off the shelf behind the counter and ripped off about three handfuls. I tried to gather myself mentally, and then, looking prepared to mop up a sea-swell in Venice, I went in for the kill. I grabbed the octopus by its tail with one clump of tissues. I dangled it in front of me, burying my other hand within a second forest of paper towels, and pressed the only thing I could find that even marginally resembled a button. It clicked. Woo! Success! I waited nervously, watching the octopus suspended there in tension.
Something worse happened. After pausing for a few seconds, the thing started pulsing. BRR BRR BRR. I poked the little button again. Faster and faster pulsing. At this point, I lost it. It became clear that someone had fed this thing after midnight or something, and it was never going to turn off. It was probably going to multiply in the dark crevaces of the store, and I couldn't stand idly by and watch it happen. I ran. I ran past the art gallery, the hair salon, and the travel agency, two hands full of paper towels and one clutching a pulsating rubber octopus. I probably had a vaguely maniacal look of terror on my face. I heaved my upper body over the edge of the dumpster fence and threw my gyrating antithesis into the furthest corner of the bin. I could hear it rattling horrifically against the other trash as I walked away, and I felt a (probably disproportionate) rush of relief as I scuttled out of earshot.
Hopefully the owner of that nice trinket doesn't come in and ask for her vibrating octopus, because it's definitely not safely tucked away in the register drawer. Most importantly, though, if you EVER do ANYTHING with a handbag/piece of luggage other than dropping it into the nearest industrial incinerator, please get all of your sex toys out of it. While you're at it, Lysol-wipe that shit to cover your tracks.
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