You can see a lot of things at any Walmart on any given day.
Hear stuff. (Smell, too, if you’re brave enough to employ that sense…)
I know I’ve given fellow shoppers a thing or two to take in down the cat food aisle on occasion (occasions when I thought I’d contained my hot mess meltdown in the parking lot when I clearly had not).
On this particular occasion, I was minding my own business, head down, senses mostly off so as not to be bombarded, when I got caught in a bit of a stall-out on the way out of the store. When I reached the issue, I also paused, ever so briefly, to take in the wonders that are our fellow humans.
The main character was a slightly older-than-middle-aged lady, with a mess of dark hair piled high on her head secured with sunglasses. I might’ve described her as well-dressed had the clothing not been so disheveled. She sat atop a motorized shopping cart.
She dismounted, straightened her glasses, and chose another, scooting that cart inch by inch before dismounting.
Then a third cart.
Round and round.
Inch by inch.
All the carts.
The second character was a much older-than-middle-aged Walmart Greeter Guy. One could’ve described him as stressed had he not been—well. He was stressed, as shown by him scratching his head and pleading with the woman that all the carts were fully charged and ready to take her anywhere in the store—and back again if she wished.
“But I hear a noise. Do you hear the noise?” She tilts her head toward the machine.
“Ma’am, they all make noise.”
“But the last one that made this noise stranded me. And I can’t be stranded.” Now granted, this lady has used up quite a bit of energy—and I’m guessing a dollop of leg strength—jumping on and off the carts trying to find one that will do her shopping trip justice.
“Ma’am, I’ve plugged them all in myself. They’ve been charging all day. Any one of them will last the whole time you’re here.”
“But they make a noise.” She puts her head down near the handles of her newest victim. I can attest that it did, indeed, groan a bit.
We can’t really know why it did that, so I’ll let you fill in that detail.
“They all make a noise.” Greeter Guy runs his hands through his hair, thinning by the moment.
“But they’ve not always all made THIS noise.” She puts her head down near the handles again.
Little Miss had been rather quiet up to this point, since I was stocking her up on her grape goodies and lighter fluid. But I sensed this little encounter was going to set her wings a-flutter with fodder.
I also sensed a trickle of shoppers forming behind me, and I knew we needed to move along. I made an “I’m sorry” glance toward Greeter Guy, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. Maybe because I know in a few short years, that could be me, test-driving all the carts if I don’t get my disheveled self onto the walking track.
Little Miss, in all her glory, plopped her tutued fanny onto his shoulder and yelled in his ear, “Let her ride piggyback!”
The man turned all shades of red, swatted the air as though a bee was after him, then commenced scratching his head and re-plugging in all the now-unplugged scooters.
Even though I know others can’t hear or see Little Miss, I do believe she’s influenced a few folks here and there. I cannot be responsible for THIS man losing his last working brain cell and his job should he cave to the call of the muse and tote THAT woman around on his back while she picks up her Pringles and Liquid Plumber.
I turned all shades of red and hustled out of the store, shaking the bag of grape soda bottles until the glass clinked. “Hey! You’ll bust them!” my misguided Little Miss left Greeter Guy and flew after me.
“What on earth was that?”
“I was just trying to help the man out.”
“We do not help out.”
“I had an idea and needed to channel it.”
“We do not channel suggestions like that. Not on real humans.”
“So on fake ones?” She landed on my shoulder.
I cringed a bit. I know what she’d just done, but I’m trapped in this conversation now. “We use your creative spark for words on the page and characters in stories.”
“Which means my misguided writer needs to sit and write so I can CHANNEL THIS!!!!!”
She dove into the sack before I could catch her, pulled out a soda, and took a slurp. Meanwhile, the vehicle parked next to ours emptied its passengers into the parking lot. All these real adult-sized humans wore one-piece zippered footed pajamas. No shoes. Just—feet.
Little Miss took them in as she threw back another slug of grape soda. “If Greeter Guy channels me, it is Walmart. I don’t think anyone would notice.”
