I Am Stronger Because of All I've Been Through
[b]My Mother the Feminist[/b]
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Strange Aberrations over Gosselin's Market
"I got a job at Gosselin's Market as a cashier," I said to my mother. She stopped stirring the soup for a moment, looked at me curiously, and finally spoke. "I guess you could do that," she answered.
As in a movie where the protagonist must pause to think, stopping time momentarily with the other actors frozen in place, I pondered my mother's answer. Could do that? Now you have to understand my mother often gave frank and honest answers, not leaving too much wiggle room for interpretation. Could do that? There was a strange spirit in the room that seemed to take over my being and the words "could do that" began to grow and swell in shape and meaning.
I realized I couldn't leave my mother in suspended animation for too long and, pressed the "Play" button to start time going and the earth rotating again. "Yes, I thought I could do that. I mean I don't see anything that hard about being a cashier, just cashing out groceries. Right?" I responded. My mother, eyeing me warily, continued to stir the soup. "I guess so," she said.
I went to my room and changed into my running kit. I sprinted along a dirt road as fast I could for a while and then slowed to a steady gate. I would do this just to blow off steam. As I walked back to the house after my run, I thought about my mother's words. The word "could" troubled me. I felt this strange conviction that there was a deeper meaning behind it. Yes, a deeper meaning like I was striving for a lesser goal, that I hadn't reached high enough. It seized me for a moment and then finally I shook it off. Crying out loud, I thought, it's only a job in a grocery store! What's the big deal?
I arrived at Gosselin's Market, donned my blue apron, and attached my hand written name tag, "Monique." I would get a permanent tag if I lasted 30 days. "No problem," I thought. At the store, I trained with a middle aged woman named Diane. She stood behind me while I ran the items through and punched in the prices followed by pressing the larger key to register the transaction, which set off a great whirring sound and the clatter of gears.
I was doing ok for a while working slowing when suddenly I made a mistake and had to stop. The customer, watching my every move spoke up. "She over charged me on the tomatoes," the woman said. With that, Diane stepped in, pulled the paper out to read the price and make the correction, canceling that transition, and then proceeding to re-enter it. Flustered, I entered the wrong price two more times requiring Diane to stop and fix the mistakes. This was nerve wracking, testing the customer's patience, and causing the line of customers to lengthen, along with feeling completely helpless while Diane untangled my snafus. Finally we finished the woman's order and as she was leaving gave me a sour look. I, feeling a bit flustered, accepted her scorn graciously, since I was new and more important I knew an outburst of my famous temper would cause me more problems and possibly get me fired. It was a humbling experience to say the least, and I knew I couldn't let a disgruntled customer get the best of me.
After a few weeks, I was getting the hang of it, making less mistakes, and improving my speed at moving the groceries through. When things were slow, they would take me off the registers and have me bag, yielding the cashier job to the more experienced girls. No problem, I didn't mind bagging, since it was a nice break, and less stressful than working the register. Also, you could chit chat with the customers, who often were neighbors of mine. Over all, I liked the atmosphere of the market, being busy and alive with the activity of moving food products of all kinds in the back door, and out the front.
Strangely, I took bagging more seriously than the others, who preferred to just toss items haphazardly into the bags, I began to study shapes and sizes as they came down the conveyer. After a while, I prided myself on how square and uniform my bags were. Some thought I was nuts to do this, but I thought it a superior gift of spacial recognition, a fancy scientific name I invented. Some women would ask for their bags to only half filled, so I would and roll up the top. Woody, one of the assistant managers called me aside and told me not to use so many bags. "Bags cost a penny a piece." he would say. "But these women tell me they have to climb up three flights of stairs," I answered. Woody shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
One day there was a posting on the bulletin board for a stocker. Hmm, I thought, I could do that, as I felt the spirit of my mother moving around me and the words "could do that" became the essence of my personal mantra. It seemed easy enough, unloading the boxes and putting things on shelves. I did notice that were no girl stockers in the store. I talked to John, one of the other assistant managers. "We don't have girls stocking. You have to be strong enough to lift the boxes. Then you have to move them around. It's hard work." he argued. At that moment, I felt once again the spirit of my mother hovering over me, giving me a surge of confidence. My only recourse was to beg. Yes, beg! "John, give me a chance," I pleaded. "I know I can do this," I insisted. "Sure, the boxes are heavy but I'm strong enough. I may not look it, but I'm tough and wirey. Give me a two week trial and if I can't do it, I'll go back to the register," I added. I kept verbally pummeling John until he raised his hands and said, "Ok, I'll think about it."
A week later, John asked me to go to aisle 6 and help Leo, the store manager. When I got to aisle 6, I found Leo lying on the floor, his immense body rolling back and forth like a beached whale as he took cans from the cart and shoved them back into the lower shelf. Obviously, he wasn't afraid of getting dirty. Leo usually had a fowl disposition as a rule, yelling and shouting at the help. He was a little nicer to the girls as a rule. "Monique, go back in the stock room and get me a shelf stretcher," he barked.
I was too scared of him to ask what a shelf stretcher looked like, let alone where you found one. Instead I briskly walked to the back of the store and burst through the double doors, where I found a group of the department managers either taking a break or holding a meeting of some sort. They all turned and looked at me. "Leo sent me to fetch him a shelf stretcher. Where do you keep them?" I shouted anxiously. I studied them carefully and they all seem to take on a variety of expressions, some looking confused, or embarassed, with others looking down at their feet, and some with a suppressed smile. But this only lasted a second or two when they all simultaneously burst out in uncontrolled laughter. I stood frozen realizing what had happened. Of course, how does one stretch a shelf?
Once again the protagonist must press the "Pause" button to think, stopping time and freezing the action as the group of men stood frozen before me with ghoulish and hideous expressions. Then I began to consider my options as to how to handle the situation.
1. First, I could mow them all down with a machine gun, giving them what they richly deserve. No, I thought, too messy, plus they'd probably make me mop up all the blood.
2. Or, cry and sob uncontrollably creating an emotional scene that would be heard all over the store, making sure my screaming and wailing would bring scores of people running to my rescue. "Monique, what's wrong? Are you being attacked?" they would ask. Sobbing, I would answer in tears, "No, it was the sh-sh-sh-el-el-fff str-e-e-e-t-t-ch-cher." "Ah hah," they would exclaim, another victim to the shelf stretcher trick! Poor Monique!"
3. Lastly, I could just ignore then, taking it as a harmless practical joke. I pondered all three options and finally decided on ignoring them, at least for now, and would plan my revenge later of course. I pressed the "Play" button once again as time began ticking away and, I curtly turned on my heels and left the stock room.
I returned to aisle 6 to find Leo in the standing position now and stuffing shelves with cans of peas. "I couldn't find a shelf stretcher," I told Leo. He looked at me blankly while eyeing me carefully to see if I would show any signs of embarrassment. "So how can I help?" I asked. He paused for a moment. "Fill this section. Lima beans, green beans, kidney beans." he barked. Leo started cutting open boxes, and setting them on the floor in front of me. I started pulling the cans out and arranging them in the shelves. As I worked, I began to sing the score from My Fair Lady, "I'm so pretty, I'm so pretty, I'm so pretty and witty and gay . . Ya da da da da da da da da da da."
By the scowl on his face, I could tell Leo was annoyed. Strangely, I suddenly had no fear of being fired. After all, my mother had already decided I was destined for bigger and better things. It was a nice dream for a moment, but then I was snapped back to reality realizing that I live in the "aqui y hora," and must be cautious about living in a dream. But then I thought of my Dad, and if I got fired, my mother might not care, but my father would want to know why. Hold it! Sorry Dad, you're not allowed in this story. Out!
A few days later, John said he would give me a try as a stocker. "Hurray!" I squealed. Even then I began to sense that I was already immersed in the politics of life, well, at least Gosselin's Market for the moment. But the pressure was on, and I must succeed! John started me off on the cereal aisle. We walked the aisle listing the shortages, and went to the stock room to "pull the stock." This wasn't too bad, and I got a real education as to how much of what kind of cereal people were eating. Cereal was light lifting. Then I made my first mistake as a stocker, I took the box cutter and cut too deeply into six boxes of cereal. John patiently corrected me and showed me that I had cut too close to the top of the box. John joked that he would dock my pay for the cost of the cereal. Feeling stupid again at my awkwardness around things that seemed rather easy, my confidence began to shrink. But, I soldiered on and was able to complete the aisle.
Later that day I learned they had hired another cashier named Jane, a minister's daughter that attended private school. I began to wonder if I had already been replaced due to my mediocre performance as a cashier, and nutty obsession with "square bags." Once again I sensed that the winds of change were not blowing in my favor, but in spite of that, I busied myself, focusing on the job at hand.
The job at hand was aisle 9, as I peered down the aisle I saw a sea of glass. Pickles, mustard, ketchup, olives, spaghetti sauce, and on and on it went. Again, John and I conferred on what items were short. "Are you ready to solo?" he asked. "Ok, I'll do my best." I answered as I took the list and headed for the stock room. There, I found a pull cart and began to search the rows of boxes. Finally, I found the black olives, which were buried with three other boxes, meaning I had to unload the boxes first before getting at the olives. The boxes were heavy as I strained and grunted to wrestle them out the way so I could get to the olives. Finally, I freed the olives and loaded them onto the cart. I sat for a moment, catching my breath, as I suddenly longed for the lighter boxes of the cereal aisle. Several of the male stockers passed by offering no help. Obviously, the word was out that I was to do this my myself.
Finally, my cart was loaded and I began to push it towards the doors, but had trouble steering it. So I wheeled it around and pulled it which was harder but at least I had control. I peeked through the door to check traffic in the aisle, and seeing it was clear, gave a great heave pulling the cart through the swinging doors and out into aisle. "Whoops, a little too fast," I heard myself say, and realizing that, gave the cart handle a quick pull to the left. The boxes on top began to sway back and forth, and in my panic, I tried to correct the motion by jerking the cart in the opposite direction, and then realized that wasn't the right thing to do. The load continued to sway back and forth as I watched in horror.
I should yell something like "Timber!," or "Fore!," I thought, but instead chose to cower down and close my eyes. I waited for the sound of the crash, and then there was this tremendous Ka-Blam!, followed by the sound of many wheels spinning, with cans hitting the floor, and glass shattering. But it wasn't the sound I expected, but more off in the distance. I opened my eyes to see that miracle of miracles, my load had not spilled! "Oh Hallelujah," I whispered to myself.
But I barely had time to celebrate as people began to rush toward the front of the store where the crash has been heard. I followed the crowd and arrived to see the twisted wreckage of several dozen shopping carts resembling a multi-car pile up, with boxes turned over and cans scattered, and broken jars with contents spilled everywhere. Almost immediately, all available hands were on deck attacking the areas with broom and mops and began to make sense of it again. In the midst of the debri field stood Jane, standing there looking completely helpless and embarrassed. Jane looked stunned, but none the less she shook it off and began to help cleaning up the mess.
It took only an hour to restore the front of the store to its original condition. As it turns out, Jane, having a spare moment from cashiering and bagging, decided to go out and collect the carriages in the parking lot. Nobody told her to do it, she just thought that's what you do if something needs to be done, except she collected a few too many not realizing the tremendous weight and momentum generated by said carriages, proceeded to explode through the front doors knocking over several displays. Of course, she was called into the office while Leo and some of the other managers gave her a working over, trying to discern how she got the idea in her head that she could go out and collect carriages without being told to do it.
If that wasn't embarrassing enough for Jane, a few days later the practical jokers struck by pulling a prank on the new girl by reversing the signs on the Men and Ladies room, just moments before Jane was taking her break. I heard she was in out of the Mens room in about ten seconds as she walked briskly away realizing there were no urinals in the Ladies rest room. I told my mother about it that night. "What did she do? What did she say? Did she tell anybody? she questioned. I couldn't answer, I had my hands full as I sweated out my probation as "stocker on trial." The job was hard enough, but even I was constantly paranoid about some dirty trick being pulled on me. I trusted no one. I told myself, "I have made my own island and now I must live and survive on it!"
We thought life would return to its normal methodical pace, but it was obvious the fires of rebellion were burning within the camp. And then the day came when I believe the entire political landscape of Gosselin's Market would be changed forever.
The store had an "open mike" next to the service desk near the front of the store, where anyone who needed to make an announcement such as "Leo, come to the Service Desk." or "Ronnie, to receiving," or "All baggers up front," and so on. Anyone could just step up to the mike, press the button and talk away. On that day, Jane happen to be standing by the service desk when a middle aged woman entered the store, and asked her which aisle the Kotex and Tampons were kept. Jane wasn't sure, but in a split second, a diabolical plan hatched in her mind which grew into an overwhelming compulsion, and without hesitation, she pressed the talk button, cleared her throat, and announced … "Attention, Leo, please come to the service desk, a woman needs help with her feminine napkin."
Up until that moment, my own revenge has been simmering for some time, waiting for the right moment to strike, but now all things were changed forever. Jane had taken all my minuscule ideas and trumped them all. Forget about a shot across the bow, Jane had launched a torpedo to midships!
Once again the protagonist must press the "Pause" button, and capture a cacophony of facial expressions on customers and employees alike. Like the scene from High Noon when Frank Miller's train pulls into the station. The whistle blows, shattering the tension while heads all over the town whirled around in unison.
I will now press "Play" and say that the volume of sound in the store dipped dramatically for a second and then increased in volume and power with squeals of laughter and gasps augmented by cackling and snorts which went on for several minutes.
There, Jane stood by the service desk. She had removed her apron and folded it neatly over her arm as she waited for Leo to approach the service desk and summarily fire her. But instead, she was taken into the office once more for another interrogation. This time we could hear Leo yelling at the top of his lungs as he ranted and pounded the walls rattling the doors and windows. Poor jane, we thought, the poor girl will be permanently traumatized for life.
But, we were wrong. After Leo was sufficiently yelled out, things quieted down. When we heard the door begin to open, everyone scattered. Peeking around a corner, I watched Jane exit the office, still carrying her apron. She was told to apologize to the woman, which she did, and then she put her apron back on, and though a little shaken, returned to the registers.
From that moment on, I steered clear of Jane, even refusing to make eye contact if we happen to pass each other in the aisle. I didn't want Leo or any of the managers to suspect that Jane and I were in some conspiratorial alliance to promote the feminist agenda at Gosselin's Market. No, no, I had my own battle to fight. I had no other agenda except to do a job I thought I was capable of doing, no other.
Then a week later, I was once again pushing a cart of canned goods along the main aisle when I happen to look over in the direction of the deli department, and was aghast at what I saw! There behind the counter was Jane! Jane! It was Jane! Jane was now working in the Deli department, wearing a red apron no less, and, making an extra 25 cents an hour!
Oh whoa is me, how could this happen? Somehow, the spirit of my mother has somehow filled the entire store, like Tinker Bell sprinkling her fairy dust, bewitching and empowering teenage girls to go on to bigger and better things for no other reason than the fact that they thought they . ."COULD DO THAT."
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Strange Aberrations over Gosselin's Market
"I got a job at Gosselin's Market as a cashier," I said to my mother. She stopped stirring the soup for a moment, looked at me curiously, and finally spoke. "I guess you could do that," she answered.
As in a movie where the protagonist must pause to think, stopping time momentarily with the other actors frozen in place, I pondered my mother's answer. Could do that? Now you have to understand my mother often gave frank and honest answers, not leaving too much wiggle room for interpretation. Could do that? There was a strange spirit in the room that seemed to take over my being and the words "could do that" began to grow and swell in shape and meaning.
I realized I couldn't leave my mother in suspended animation for too long and, pressed the "Play" button to start time going and the earth rotating again. "Yes, I thought I could do that. I mean I don't see anything that hard about being a cashier, just cashing out groceries. Right?" I responded. My mother, eyeing me warily, continued to stir the soup. "I guess so," she said.
I went to my room and changed into my running kit. I sprinted along a dirt road as fast I could for a while and then slowed to a steady gate. I would do this just to blow off steam. As I walked back to the house after my run, I thought about my mother's words. The word "could" troubled me. I felt this strange conviction that there was a deeper meaning behind it. Yes, a deeper meaning like I was striving for a lesser goal, that I hadn't reached high enough. It seized me for a moment and then finally I shook it off. Crying out loud, I thought, it's only a job in a grocery store! What's the big deal?
I arrived at Gosselin's Market, donned my blue apron, and attached my hand written name tag, "Monique." I would get a permanent tag if I lasted 30 days. "No problem," I thought. At the store, I trained with a middle aged woman named Diane. She stood behind me while I ran the items through and punched in the prices followed by pressing the larger key to register the transaction, which set off a great whirring sound and the clatter of gears.
I was doing ok for a while working slowing when suddenly I made a mistake and had to stop. The customer, watching my every move spoke up. "She over charged me on the tomatoes," the woman said. With that, Diane stepped in, pulled the paper out to read the price and make the correction, canceling that transition, and then proceeding to re-enter it. Flustered, I entered the wrong price two more times requiring Diane to stop and fix the mistakes. This was nerve wracking, testing the customer's patience, and causing the line of customers to lengthen, along with feeling completely helpless while Diane untangled my snafus. Finally we finished the woman's order and as she was leaving gave me a sour look. I, feeling a bit flustered, accepted her scorn graciously, since I was new and more important I knew an outburst of my famous temper would cause me more problems and possibly get me fired. It was a humbling experience to say the least, and I knew I couldn't let a disgruntled customer get the best of me.
After a few weeks, I was getting the hang of it, making less mistakes, and improving my speed at moving the groceries through. When things were slow, they would take me off the registers and have me bag, yielding the cashier job to the more experienced girls. No problem, I didn't mind bagging, since it was a nice break, and less stressful than working the register. Also, you could chit chat with the customers, who often were neighbors of mine. Over all, I liked the atmosphere of the market, being busy and alive with the activity of moving food products of all kinds in the back door, and out the front.
Strangely, I took bagging more seriously than the others, who preferred to just toss items haphazardly into the bags, I began to study shapes and sizes as they came down the conveyer. After a while, I prided myself on how square and uniform my bags were. Some thought I was nuts to do this, but I thought it a superior gift of spacial recognition, a fancy scientific name I invented. Some women would ask for their bags to only half filled, so I would and roll up the top. Woody, one of the assistant managers called me aside and told me not to use so many bags. "Bags cost a penny a piece." he would say. "But these women tell me they have to climb up three flights of stairs," I answered. Woody shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
One day there was a posting on the bulletin board for a stocker. Hmm, I thought, I could do that, as I felt the spirit of my mother moving around me and the words "could do that" became the essence of my personal mantra. It seemed easy enough, unloading the boxes and putting things on shelves. I did notice that were no girl stockers in the store. I talked to John, one of the other assistant managers. "We don't have girls stocking. You have to be strong enough to lift the boxes. Then you have to move them around. It's hard work." he argued. At that moment, I felt once again the spirit of my mother hovering over me, giving me a surge of confidence. My only recourse was to beg. Yes, beg! "John, give me a chance," I pleaded. "I know I can do this," I insisted. "Sure, the boxes are heavy but I'm strong enough. I may not look it, but I'm tough and wirey. Give me a two week trial and if I can't do it, I'll go back to the register," I added. I kept verbally pummeling John until he raised his hands and said, "Ok, I'll think about it."
A week later, John asked me to go to aisle 6 and help Leo, the store manager. When I got to aisle 6, I found Leo lying on the floor, his immense body rolling back and forth like a beached whale as he took cans from the cart and shoved them back into the lower shelf. Obviously, he wasn't afraid of getting dirty. Leo usually had a fowl disposition as a rule, yelling and shouting at the help. He was a little nicer to the girls as a rule. "Monique, go back in the stock room and get me a shelf stretcher," he barked.
I was too scared of him to ask what a shelf stretcher looked like, let alone where you found one. Instead I briskly walked to the back of the store and burst through the double doors, where I found a group of the department managers either taking a break or holding a meeting of some sort. They all turned and looked at me. "Leo sent me to fetch him a shelf stretcher. Where do you keep them?" I shouted anxiously. I studied them carefully and they all seem to take on a variety of expressions, some looking confused, or embarassed, with others looking down at their feet, and some with a suppressed smile. But this only lasted a second or two when they all simultaneously burst out in uncontrolled laughter. I stood frozen realizing what had happened. Of course, how does one stretch a shelf?
Once again the protagonist must press the "Pause" button to think, stopping time and freezing the action as the group of men stood frozen before me with ghoulish and hideous expressions. Then I began to consider my options as to how to handle the situation.
1. First, I could mow them all down with a machine gun, giving them what they richly deserve. No, I thought, too messy, plus they'd probably make me mop up all the blood.
2. Or, cry and sob uncontrollably creating an emotional scene that would be heard all over the store, making sure my screaming and wailing would bring scores of people running to my rescue. "Monique, what's wrong? Are you being attacked?" they would ask. Sobbing, I would answer in tears, "No, it was the sh-sh-sh-el-el-fff str-e-e-e-t-t-ch-cher." "Ah hah," they would exclaim, another victim to the shelf stretcher trick! Poor Monique!"
3. Lastly, I could just ignore then, taking it as a harmless practical joke. I pondered all three options and finally decided on ignoring them, at least for now, and would plan my revenge later of course. I pressed the "Play" button once again as time began ticking away and, I curtly turned on my heels and left the stock room.
I returned to aisle 6 to find Leo in the standing position now and stuffing shelves with cans of peas. "I couldn't find a shelf stretcher," I told Leo. He looked at me blankly while eyeing me carefully to see if I would show any signs of embarrassment. "So how can I help?" I asked. He paused for a moment. "Fill this section. Lima beans, green beans, kidney beans." he barked. Leo started cutting open boxes, and setting them on the floor in front of me. I started pulling the cans out and arranging them in the shelves. As I worked, I began to sing the score from My Fair Lady, "I'm so pretty, I'm so pretty, I'm so pretty and witty and gay . . Ya da da da da da da da da da da."
By the scowl on his face, I could tell Leo was annoyed. Strangely, I suddenly had no fear of being fired. After all, my mother had already decided I was destined for bigger and better things. It was a nice dream for a moment, but then I was snapped back to reality realizing that I live in the "aqui y hora," and must be cautious about living in a dream. But then I thought of my Dad, and if I got fired, my mother might not care, but my father would want to know why. Hold it! Sorry Dad, you're not allowed in this story. Out!
A few days later, John said he would give me a try as a stocker. "Hurray!" I squealed. Even then I began to sense that I was already immersed in the politics of life, well, at least Gosselin's Market for the moment. But the pressure was on, and I must succeed! John started me off on the cereal aisle. We walked the aisle listing the shortages, and went to the stock room to "pull the stock." This wasn't too bad, and I got a real education as to how much of what kind of cereal people were eating. Cereal was light lifting. Then I made my first mistake as a stocker, I took the box cutter and cut too deeply into six boxes of cereal. John patiently corrected me and showed me that I had cut too close to the top of the box. John joked that he would dock my pay for the cost of the cereal. Feeling stupid again at my awkwardness around things that seemed rather easy, my confidence began to shrink. But, I soldiered on and was able to complete the aisle.
Later that day I learned they had hired another cashier named Jane, a minister's daughter that attended private school. I began to wonder if I had already been replaced due to my mediocre performance as a cashier, and nutty obsession with "square bags." Once again I sensed that the winds of change were not blowing in my favor, but in spite of that, I busied myself, focusing on the job at hand.
The job at hand was aisle 9, as I peered down the aisle I saw a sea of glass. Pickles, mustard, ketchup, olives, spaghetti sauce, and on and on it went. Again, John and I conferred on what items were short. "Are you ready to solo?" he asked. "Ok, I'll do my best." I answered as I took the list and headed for the stock room. There, I found a pull cart and began to search the rows of boxes. Finally, I found the black olives, which were buried with three other boxes, meaning I had to unload the boxes first before getting at the olives. The boxes were heavy as I strained and grunted to wrestle them out the way so I could get to the olives. Finally, I freed the olives and loaded them onto the cart. I sat for a moment, catching my breath, as I suddenly longed for the lighter boxes of the cereal aisle. Several of the male stockers passed by offering no help. Obviously, the word was out that I was to do this my myself.
Finally, my cart was loaded and I began to push it towards the doors, but had trouble steering it. So I wheeled it around and pulled it which was harder but at least I had control. I peeked through the door to check traffic in the aisle, and seeing it was clear, gave a great heave pulling the cart through the swinging doors and out into aisle. "Whoops, a little too fast," I heard myself say, and realizing that, gave the cart handle a quick pull to the left. The boxes on top began to sway back and forth, and in my panic, I tried to correct the motion by jerking the cart in the opposite direction, and then realized that wasn't the right thing to do. The load continued to sway back and forth as I watched in horror.
I should yell something like "Timber!," or "Fore!," I thought, but instead chose to cower down and close my eyes. I waited for the sound of the crash, and then there was this tremendous Ka-Blam!, followed by the sound of many wheels spinning, with cans hitting the floor, and glass shattering. But it wasn't the sound I expected, but more off in the distance. I opened my eyes to see that miracle of miracles, my load had not spilled! "Oh Hallelujah," I whispered to myself.
But I barely had time to celebrate as people began to rush toward the front of the store where the crash has been heard. I followed the crowd and arrived to see the twisted wreckage of several dozen shopping carts resembling a multi-car pile up, with boxes turned over and cans scattered, and broken jars with contents spilled everywhere. Almost immediately, all available hands were on deck attacking the areas with broom and mops and began to make sense of it again. In the midst of the debri field stood Jane, standing there looking completely helpless and embarrassed. Jane looked stunned, but none the less she shook it off and began to help cleaning up the mess.
It took only an hour to restore the front of the store to its original condition. As it turns out, Jane, having a spare moment from cashiering and bagging, decided to go out and collect the carriages in the parking lot. Nobody told her to do it, she just thought that's what you do if something needs to be done, except she collected a few too many not realizing the tremendous weight and momentum generated by said carriages, proceeded to explode through the front doors knocking over several displays. Of course, she was called into the office while Leo and some of the other managers gave her a working over, trying to discern how she got the idea in her head that she could go out and collect carriages without being told to do it.
If that wasn't embarrassing enough for Jane, a few days later the practical jokers struck by pulling a prank on the new girl by reversing the signs on the Men and Ladies room, just moments before Jane was taking her break. I heard she was in out of the Mens room in about ten seconds as she walked briskly away realizing there were no urinals in the Ladies rest room. I told my mother about it that night. "What did she do? What did she say? Did she tell anybody? she questioned. I couldn't answer, I had my hands full as I sweated out my probation as "stocker on trial." The job was hard enough, but even I was constantly paranoid about some dirty trick being pulled on me. I trusted no one. I told myself, "I have made my own island and now I must live and survive on it!"
We thought life would return to its normal methodical pace, but it was obvious the fires of rebellion were burning within the camp. And then the day came when I believe the entire political landscape of Gosselin's Market would be changed forever.
The store had an "open mike" next to the service desk near the front of the store, where anyone who needed to make an announcement such as "Leo, come to the Service Desk." or "Ronnie, to receiving," or "All baggers up front," and so on. Anyone could just step up to the mike, press the button and talk away. On that day, Jane happen to be standing by the service desk when a middle aged woman entered the store, and asked her which aisle the Kotex and Tampons were kept. Jane wasn't sure, but in a split second, a diabolical plan hatched in her mind which grew into an overwhelming compulsion, and without hesitation, she pressed the talk button, cleared her throat, and announced … "Attention, Leo, please come to the service desk, a woman needs help with her feminine napkin."
Up until that moment, my own revenge has been simmering for some time, waiting for the right moment to strike, but now all things were changed forever. Jane had taken all my minuscule ideas and trumped them all. Forget about a shot across the bow, Jane had launched a torpedo to midships!
Once again the protagonist must press the "Pause" button, and capture a cacophony of facial expressions on customers and employees alike. Like the scene from High Noon when Frank Miller's train pulls into the station. The whistle blows, shattering the tension while heads all over the town whirled around in unison.
I will now press "Play" and say that the volume of sound in the store dipped dramatically for a second and then increased in volume and power with squeals of laughter and gasps augmented by cackling and snorts which went on for several minutes.
There, Jane stood by the service desk. She had removed her apron and folded it neatly over her arm as she waited for Leo to approach the service desk and summarily fire her. But instead, she was taken into the office once more for another interrogation. This time we could hear Leo yelling at the top of his lungs as he ranted and pounded the walls rattling the doors and windows. Poor jane, we thought, the poor girl will be permanently traumatized for life.
But, we were wrong. After Leo was sufficiently yelled out, things quieted down. When we heard the door begin to open, everyone scattered. Peeking around a corner, I watched Jane exit the office, still carrying her apron. She was told to apologize to the woman, which she did, and then she put her apron back on, and though a little shaken, returned to the registers.
From that moment on, I steered clear of Jane, even refusing to make eye contact if we happen to pass each other in the aisle. I didn't want Leo or any of the managers to suspect that Jane and I were in some conspiratorial alliance to promote the feminist agenda at Gosselin's Market. No, no, I had my own battle to fight. I had no other agenda except to do a job I thought I was capable of doing, no other.
Then a week later, I was once again pushing a cart of canned goods along the main aisle when I happen to look over in the direction of the deli department, and was aghast at what I saw! There behind the counter was Jane! Jane! It was Jane! Jane was now working in the Deli department, wearing a red apron no less, and, making an extra 25 cents an hour!
Oh whoa is me, how could this happen? Somehow, the spirit of my mother has somehow filled the entire store, like Tinker Bell sprinkling her fairy dust, bewitching and empowering teenage girls to go on to bigger and better things for no other reason than the fact that they thought they . ."COULD DO THAT."
51-55, F
