Supermarket Mishap

He looked down his long bony nose at me. From where I sat at his feet, he seemed exceptionally tall. His black trousers traveled upwards five hundred yards or so, stopped by a belt buckle sized to fit the bottom of a galvanized bucket. Above the buckle a plaid shirt stretched fifteen hands high. Only a buttoned-down collar could have stopped that shirt from laddering through the roof.

Yes. Viewed from the floor, this man seemed eye-poppingly tall.

And dour, too. His voice rasped like a rawhide strap across my frayed nerves and rapped my knuckles with its imperious tones of authority. "What happened here?"

My fingers gently steadied the tottering stack of green beans before they could roll under the bottom shelf, tenderly patted the large dent in the can of tomatoes and deftly caught the small tin of kippers hurtling from above, laudibly stopping its crash to the floor.

I gazed at the wreck of damaged goods surrounding me then raised my eyes along the length of the man, noticed by his name tag that he was the store manager, and replied meekly: "I don't know."

His arms, several kilometers in length, swung towards me. He must-a been ambidextrous for both of his hands grasped mine as he drew me to my feet.

We stood, side by side, and surveyed a thousand cans of candied yams scattered haphazardly along the aisle. All were dented, smashed, scared, scratched, blistered; some were twisted and kinked.

A crowd assembled to help us look at this unnatural disaster.

That's when a petite brunette remarked: "Oh look! The shelves have caved in. Some heavyweight must have stood on them."

Eyes swiveled in my direction.

At five feet and one-half inch, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, I stoutly maintain that I'm not a corpulent person. My height just hasn't caught up with my weight.

The manager raised an eyebrow.

"Well," I mumbled, "the cart kept moving."

"You rammed the shelves with the cart?" The manager's tone held that note of incredulousness that only the stiff necked can perform with credibility.

"No. I tried to stand in the cart. In order to reach a package of kohlrabi sauce. If you're going to put stuff up there near the ceiling, why don't you supply ladders?

"Because customers don't buy the products which are on the top shelf." The manager gestured smugly at the items lining the top row. They were covered in a layer of dust.

"Of course they don't, you silly goose. They can't reach them."

The petite brunette nodded. "I haven't a clue what's up there."

The crowd started drifting away. No one had a pad and pencil out ready to record their names and opinions, but watching a disaster is far different than getting involved in the aftermath. Melding in with the departing crowd seemed like an excellent opportunity to make my escape.

I stopped at a safe distance away and glanced back. There were a few people still milling about including the manager, of course, who would never need a ladder to snatch kohlrabi sauce from a shelf located in high altitude regions.

I couldn't help but wonder: Why is it when an embarrassing moment occurs, there are always witnesses?

Wouldn't it be nice, when a dozen items plan to tumble into the aisle, if the only decision needed is whether to slink away unnoticed or round up a clerk and complain that this mess, created by someone else, needs immediate attention . . . .
Supermarket Mishap © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan