The Great Gnome Debacle of Phoebe Gibbles and Augustus Garfunkel

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There has been a slight altercation. Walmart, oh Walmart, beauty, grace, the go-to gnome place–just so happened to be out of gnomes.

3:27: You, a 15 year old girl in cargo-Bermuda shorts and a festive Halloween shirt walk into Walmart with the intention of purchasing a brand-new gnome.

"Good day, Sheila," I say, waving my lanky, pale arm at slightly obese cashier, Sheila-who-overdoses-on-gummy-vitamins.

"Good day, Phoebe," she replies, scanning an XXL children's minions pajama set for a pot-bellied man with a snazzy comb-over.

I pass her without trying to make small talk like a usually do. I make a bee-line for the gardening supply section. Past the overflowing brassiere collection. Past the children's sleepwear section, where the snazzy man got his snazzy pajamas. Through a clothing rack of ripoff My Little Pony swimsuits, because I, of all people, know the fastest way to get to the gardening aisle. Here we are, holy land of gnomes. See, since gnome inquirers are, quite frankly, quite rare, the gnome section is tucked behind all these hoes. Gardening hoes. I proudly parade to my destiny simply to be given a great big slap on the face. No overflowing gnomes today. There must be a gnome. Just one, buried just beyond my eye can see. I swallow my pride and peek over the edge of the large cardboard box. The bargain gnome bin, completely empty. Nothing of worth. No gnome. Drained of life and happiness. How could this happen... How did God let this happen? I stumble over myself, onto the peeling tile floor and sulk into my discount Bermuda shorts. No gnomes. Where have they all gone? Is there a new gnome competitor-collector in town? Oh my, what a tragedy. Another gnome competitor? When did I die and go to hell? I pick my dignity off the floor and tuck it into the pockets of my hybrid-cargo Bermuda shorts. I find the courage to march over to Sheila and demand answers.

"Sheila!" I hiss, "Gnomes. What have you done to them."

"Deary, you're in a bit of a muck today," she responds in a raspy tone that smells like a carefully-curated cheese platter that went bad 3 months ago.

"Seriously, Sheila. Who's got all the gnomes."

"That's employee-customer confidentiality, Phoebe,"

"LIES! I read the handbook cover to cover to make sure you wouldn't try to pull any of your smooth-moves on me, Sheila. I demand answers." I scoff, pounding my fists on the conveyor belt.

"OKAY, Phoebe," she mutters, "I can give you a physical description,"

"Good enough for me. I'm basically a modern day Sherlock Holmes who's family is financially challenged," I reply, ninja-chopping the air.

"Uh huh," Sheila sighs, "well, your suspect was a dense fellow—around your age. Copper top with too many freckles and a mustard polo shirt. I'm pretty positive he was wearing Birkenstocks, but I'm not too sure. I got distracted by..." she pulls a jar of gummy vitamins out from under the counter and shakes the contents, all with a disgusting grin. I glare at her. She puts the vitamins back under the counter.

"What time, Sheila. WHAT TIME?"

"Ah, yes. 12:25. I remember because it's the time I take my 14th daily vitamin," she grins, moving her hand under the counter. I punch her arms before she has a chance to pull the gummy vitamins out again, using my extremely fast reflexes.

"Cute, Sheila. Very cute. I think that's all I'll be needing today," I say, whipping my low ponytail and flaunting away.