Shopping Day, Part II

Part II of III. Part I is here

It was a maze of pallets, displays, abandoned shopping carts, tall moveable steps closed off at the we aren’t worried if they get hurt.

base with a chain and a sign with the severe warning, “Risk of Injury Employee Use Only,” as if to say

And people, a lot of people, some single, some in roving groups, wandering around the store, it could have been a scene from the Warriors, roving gangs bent on making it from the garden center to the building materials aisle, and other gangs and the occasional, normally impossible to find Home Depot employee trying to stop them.  “Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you?” Nobody falls for that line, at least not twice.

Many of them were staring at something setting on a shelf, or hanging on a peg, staring at it as if they were looking through it, or they didn’t really understand what it was. I imagine it will be that way during the first few encounters with an extraterrestrial life form (unless it has already happened). Looking, seeing, staring, but not really understanding, and definitely not believing.

We weaved our way through the madness, looking carefully around corners, looking back, constantly looking. The air was heavy, charged with a current you could almost feel. It had the feel of an approaching storm. Not the kind that brought cool weather, watered the plants, provided relief, the kind that blew in manic, violent, tore up trees, destroyed property and left the air heavy and wet.

In the long center aisle that bisects the building right down the center perpendicular to the doors there was a display of microwave ovens standing proud yet surprisingly affordable. They were a beacon, calling people to the home appliances. On the back side of the microwave display, the side farthest from the front of the store stood four brand new refrigerators, still in the box. Apparently, Mother’s Day is a big day for large, durable home goods.

This left only a small opening, a narrow gap in front for the traffic.  And it was crowded, we were coming up, through the hand tool aisle, and had almost arrived at the Microwave Gap, at the same time as a man from the right came pushing a cart filled with mulch, shovels, rakes, flowers, weed killer and plant food. And from the left was a man pushing a cart loaded with 2 x 4s, 2 x 6s, 2 x 8s, almost the entire catalog of dimensional lumber, several boxes of nails and screws, hammers, screw drivers, a leather belt with pockets for tools and fasteners.

Neither was willing to move or wait. Inching closer and closer to a catastrophic meeting right in front of us, malice and violence obvious in their every move, a Spanish guitar played in the background.  Lumber bounced and clattered as the man on the right, picked up the back of the cart a small way and dropping it back to the concrete floor.

A clanging, rhythmic pulse came as the man with the mulch bounced a hand trowel against the side of the metal bar serving as the rear handle, then he slowly scraped it across the steel shovel blade, sparks flew and the sound was evil. The other man reached for the hammer sitting on top of a box of serious looking nails.

Closer, and closer, neither willing to look away, staring at each other with the animosity of boxers at a weigh in.  The tension built, the air began to dance in heat waves, the anger and stubbornness was so intense.

“Excuse me.” And a frail, small, old woman, dressed like she had just come from church, her purse straps draped over the silk sleeve of her shiny, impossibly white blouse. In her cart was a watering can adorned with plastic flowers, a hand rake and a small bag of candy. With the imperious, demanding air of a school teacher she parted the masses. Moving to the side, their heads bowed in shame.

And, she forced both men to shove their heavy, difficult, unwieldy carts to the side. She walked past both of them without saying a word, and you could sense the heated rise of embarrassment enveloping them, turning their faces red.

Traffic began to flow, and both men waited patiently then took their turn going through the small opening.

Tune in for the exciting conclusion, when we check out at the self serve register.

A Trip to Human Resources, send food.

Yesterday Becky, from Human Resources, called us in to her office. A small, square, bland, cream colored box with a few posters on the wall, dealing with equal rights, equal pay, a few things about discrimination and one of a cat hanging on a tree with the saying "hang in there" across the top. Her desk was wood toned but did not really look anything like wood. Pictures of a life outside the building were scattered across her desk. Husband, children, pets, vacations, it was almost a biography of her last ten years, chronologically laid out across the sides of her work station. It was a perfect place for an ambush.

Becky looked pleasant. Bright, blond hair, a flowered, flowing knee length dress. She was tall, athletic looking and smiled politely as we sat down. Somehow the effect was awful, and hellish.

"We have had some complaints about your language in the cafeteria. Swearing, and loud threatening behavior. Many people find it intimidating, and offensive." She would look at a computer screen, glance at us, and then make a few small marks on a papers, in manila folders, and then starting the circuit over again. It was ritualistic, almost sinister. 

"Loud, abusive language is not tolerated. It is a violation of several policies. As department lead persons you should both know the rules." She said, her voice steady, monotone, and terrifying. She seemed to grow and a foul light swelled around her. 

The room grew colder and smoke curled around our feet, as she turned from the monitor and glared unblinking at us with an intensity, anger and animosity that was terrible, awesome and unbelievable. 

"It wasn't us." Joe said. "It was the girls from marketing. They curse, get loud, and laugh like hyenas."

"Oh," she said, typing furiously on her keyboard, as the lights and temperatures slowly climbed in the room. "It wasn't you two."

"No, we would never talk that way. We try blend in, not be noticed, being from the research department opens us up to all sorts of ridicule. We don't even want to draw attention, the less people see us, the better." I said, relieved, we were going to walk away without any problems. I was starting to breath again.

Becky smiled, kindly, generously, a Mother's smile. We were home free. "I'm sorry we troubled you with this, we will talk to these associates and get things straightened out."

"Yeah," Joe said, "we only sit by them because they are hot." 

Oh no.

A lock clicked behind us, and a small lightning bolt crackled to my right. It was going to be a long meeting. 

Selecting the proper after dinner wine.

Things got a little tense, and we had to call security.  It all started innocently enough, we were sitting in the kitchen, having some pizza and a few laughs.  It was really relaxed, and people were genuinely enjoying the camaraderie.  There is a special bond that develops between people who work so closely on something for so long, a unique brotherhood.  And, that was evident in the atmosphere after dinner.

We had worked so hard, and for such an extended period, battling monumental odds.  Finally we were able to transport matter across great distances  using kinetic motion energy (we had sent a box of generic brand tissues from the lab, to the bathroom, while not that far, it is well over 100 feet, and that is nothing to sneeze at, even if you have a box of tissues).  In layman's terms, we had "blasted" it from one place to another using a controlled burst of synthetic energy.

What makes this so remarkable, and so difficult is controlling the amount of energy so preciseley, that it doesn't damage the wall, and leaves the tissues intact when they reach the limit of the beam.  It would have really been a mess had it turned the box of tissues into confetti, and the custodian would have been really steamed.

He still hasn't gotten over the "nuclear microwave" hot dog monster who had sprayed everyone in the kitchen, and the kitchen with catsup, mustard and sweet pickle relish, before succumbing to massive myocardial infarction, turns out hot dogs really are bad for you, despite being so delicious.  Just as a cautionary note, don't ask him about the atomic hot dog monster, he might go nuclear.  Sorry, just a little scientist humor there.

Anyway, things were going well, a real celebratory aura, a spirit of accomplishment, and delight.  But, things turned sour quickly.  Once the chardonnay was gone, and they broke out the merlot we knew it was going to go bad.  You know the old saying "merlot then chardonnay, that's ok, chardonnay, then merlot, oh God, no."




There is nothing worse than a bunch of exuberant scientists all hopped up on a little of the red,
slamming down burgundy glasses full of merlot, it is an ugly sight, and it degenerates very quickly until they are nothing but a mob of angry, threatening gang members, in white lab coats.  Fortunately, they can't hold their merlot very well, either, and soon they were all slumped onto the tables sound asleep, wine glasses, and prescription eyeglasses laying everywhere.

Well, tomorrow is going to be a long, bad day around here.  I should get some sleep, and I don't want to be here when the custodian sees this.