Hot Pants at the Thrift Store

So, I went to the thrift store the other day, wearing what Steve calls my "hot pants" (they're hot because they're actually the right size, rather than a triple-X), and it resulted in all sorts of interesting encounters.  For example, the man who kept asking how much my baby cost (no one ever, EVER talks to anyone else in the thrift store, unless you came out of the same womb).  I got all of my stuff (Steve would call it junk) and started carrying it out to good, old, trusty Charlie.
Just to give you some background, Charlie is as old as I am.  And he looks it.  Maybe worse.  He also has a hole the size of a dinner plate in the passenger side floorboard.  Just sayin'.
So I take the stuff (junk) out to Charlie, and I discover that his poor tailgate no longer latches in place.  I guess he needs suspenders.  After trying to slam it several times, while holding the baby, I gave up and started cramming the stuff (junk) in the front seat, next to the car seat.  I go back, get more stuff (junk), and repeat one more time.  The last time, I hear someone call, "Ma'am."  Being completely antisocial, I pretended not to hear.  So dude got louder and started running, yes, running down the street toward me.
At this point, I just want to leave, but I'm too dang polite (a.k.a. doormat) to ignore him, so I smile.  He asked if I wanted him to close the tailgate.  At this point, it's completely pointless as everything is already loaded in the front, but I find myself saying, "Yeah, that would be nice!" like he just offered me a kidney.  He goes in the back and starts slamming the tailgate, to no effect.  He gets puzzled, stops, then starts again.  The whole time I'm standing in back of the thrift store, holding a baby, in December.  Fantastic, right?  It gets better.
He starts looking at Charlie's inner workings (pervert) and discovers the issue (you know, other than the fact that he's wasting his time like this).  Out of the blue, he asks me, "So, you do you have anyone in your life that knows how to close this?"
Let's review for a minute.  Mr. Helper is my dad's age and lives in a single wide trailer that is about to fall down--literally.  However, to give him his due:
1)I'm holding a baby
2)I'm wearing my "hot pants" (so I can have a baby and still be "hot")
3)I'm driving Charlie and shopping at a thrift store, so I must not have very high standards/expectations
Unfortunately for Mr. Helper, though, I responded, still smiling, with, "Yeah.  My husband.  Who's at work."  I realized what was going on at this point, and refrained myself from adding that he's a cop.  Barely.
Mr. Helper disappeared mighty quickly after that.
I'm going to dress like a slob from now on.
And park in the front.
And not take Charlie.