vituperation

February 25, 2003

So, did you hear? Huntsville made the national news today. Apparently an argument over a CD player broke out between people in a local temp agency, and one person’s temper flared a little too high.

His solution? He pulled out his gun and took care of the argument in the only way some people know how.

Three people - including a father and a son - were dead on the scene and a fourth died in emergency surgery. A fifth was shot, but escaped with only minor injuries. The shooter holed up in his home about a mile from my office and stood up against SWAT teams for most of the day before surrendering to negotiators.

It’s sad, senseless, and pathetic.

Oh. In case I didn’t mention it (and I don’t think I did) those last two entries - the ruminations on Hickory Hills - were 100% true. All those places exist, and all the incidents happened.

My wife went to the doctor last week to find out why her foot hurt, and while she was there she picked up a special present. A present she liked so much she brought it home and shared it with me.

As a result, I’ve been tired and sniffling and sneezing and coughing and stuffy and bitchy and headachy since Friday.

The only redeeming thing is that despite all the symptoms, I only actually felt bad on Sunday (how do we know Fred felt bad? He skipped a workout). Other than the general tiredness and things above I feel fine.

If you’re in the mood to cast about a stinkeye, cast it toward my Typhoid Mary wife, please.

Am I the only person who wishes sweeps month would end so I won’t see Michael Jackson every time I turn on my TV?

I stood in the aisle at Walmart, peering up at the hot air popcorn popper above me. It mocked me from on high, sitting in its place of honor upon the top shelf. I’d been wanting one for a while, for an experiment, and here was one right in front of me, yet just beyond my grasp. I was in a tizzy, delirious with desire.

I looked around.

A Walmart employee - associates, I think they’re called - stood just down the lane from me, stocking and straightening shelves. He was busy as a beaver, bending and lifting and moving and marking, but I had no compunctions at all about walking up to him. I’m an approacher, as I’ve mentioned.

“Excuse me,” I said. He turned to face me, a questioning look on his face. “Can you help me get a popcorn popper down?”

He put down what he was holding and followed me back to where the popcorn popper gloated and mocked. Despite the fact that he was a good six or seven inches shorter than me, he stretched up an arm and tried to grab a popper. He couldn’t even touch the bottom.

“How about if you stand behind me,” I said, “And I rock the stack and make the top one fall. Can you catch it?”

He was agreeable, and took up position behind me. I reached, one toe-tip on the very bottom shelf and one leg kicked gayly out behind me like a ballerina, for the poppers. My fingertips reached, but that was all. Slowly, carefully, I began to work the stack of poppers toward the edge of the shelf, trying to maintain my delicate balance.

There was a flange on the edge of the shelf, and the boxes fetched up behind it.

No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t have enough of a grip on the boxes to tip the stack. But try I did, jigging them this way and jagging them that way, while the stockboy jumped back and forth behind me with his arms outstretched. I wondered if we looked like Amos and Andy.

“Here,” a voice called from down the aisle, “why don’t you use the cart?”

I stepped down and turned to see an elderly man pushing a blue Walmart cart toward us. A little girl, perhaps three, sat in the cart, a sucker clutched firmly in one hand.

Damn, I thought, looking over at the stockboy, standing in a cart sounds dangerous as hell. I sure hope he doesn’t fall and break his neck.

“That’s a good idea,” the stockboy said, and turned to me. “You’re taller, you should do it!”

I blinked at him. He nodded, smiling.

I cast a nervous glance at the approaching cart. I’m not the one getting paid to be here, I thought. The old man drew up next to us and aligned his cart perpendicular to the shelving unit. He pulled the little girl close. With a sigh I flung one leg high and into the waiting cart.

Almost.

That’s what would have happened if anyone else had tried it. Me? I caught my foot on the side of the cart and almost fell down. As it was I ended up hopping around the aisle flailing for balance like the world’s largest duck.

I tried a second time, and was successful.

Standing tall, holding onto the shelves with one hand for dear life, I reached up and knocked a popper into the waiting arms of the Walmart stockboy. The old man held the cart steady as a rock, and I climbed down unscathed, except for the little bit of pride I scraped off trying to get my foot into the cart.

The experiment, I’m pleased to say, was an astounding success.