My Esperan Spy

            Someone once said: “It’s better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than open it and remove all doubt.”

            That’s why I write.

            It was this past Tuesday that I sauntered into the ‘Soopermarket Plus!’ on a mission to locate and secure sweet pickle relish. Not the pickle relish with the microfilm inside. Just sweet pickle relish. Of course, all hell was due to break loose. Where I go, people freak out.

            At the entrance there were two competing leafleteers. One was with the “Smiles in the Park” festival. The other wanted MSG banned. The foyer was too small for the two of them. I cut quickly through as they began to face off. Both were unarmed, technically, but I had a feeling that all three of us knew the damage that could be done with a sheaf of 20 pound bond.

            At times, I think I’ve become too cynical. But, I am not entirely at fault.

            I quickly made my way to the condiment aisle. I don’t waste time. The only glitch in the mission was choosing between Heinz and the store brand, when suddenly I had bigger problems. I heard a voice.

            “How are you doing?”

            I looked anywhere that was above unobstructed floor. No one. The voice was of the disembodied variety, as far as I could tell.

            “I said: ‘How are you doing?’”

            A face poked out from a stacked display of barbecue sauce. At that point, I thought the gig was up. I assumed that he was with the Esperan secret service, and that this was about the “Leek Incident” at the market square in their capital, Tur, back in 2009. To throw him off, I simply said- “I’m doing okay”, and not “The turkey rolls microwave on medium.” (A general countersign, back from that frantic time when no one was sure.)

            “Alright then.” The storeworker seemed offended. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.” He could have been an uncle, or even a colleague. Instead, he was simply bothering me. He seemed intrigued, even cross, with something just behind me as he spoke. Always on my guard, I turned and looked. Behind me was a row of Hellman’s Mayonnaise. I grabbed a jar of the Heinz and made my way to the checkout stand. The man stared at my ear (right), following it as I nodded politely and I wove around him down the aisle.

            I’m tired of running.

            Why such a life? Wherever I go, people freak out. I try to console them, with words contextual and sweet in tone, but that’s no help. They disregard the words coming out of my mouth. They freak out. They have no motivation that I can discern.

            What is the problem? I mean, do they think I’m a shoplifter? Lemme ask: Do I write like a shoplifter? I wouldn’t deny that I’m a special agent, especially in bars, but I’m not really all that swift. People in shops freak out about me, and despite everything shoppy going hunky-dory, they freak out as if I have some chaotic hidden agenda.

            I could be an agent. It all could be a “Wacky Funky Double-Blind”, but, either way, it is all myself. I am myself. 

            I never forget what I am trained to do. We can’t deny what we are. I heard on CBS that there was a shortage of ‘Wacky Funky Double-Blind’ agents, especially in Bozeman. Norah O’Donnell seemed very concerned. That’s why I’m still useful.

            Once I had tripped on a warped sill at the front entrance of a store, and happened to see a better-dressed-through-necessity employee nearby. I told him about it.

            “Did any glass break? Should I call an ambulance?”

            “No. I didn’t fall or hit anything, I just tripped…”

            “Don’t tell me you’re saying you’re injured, then.”

            “I’m not. I just tripped…”

            “Dude. Now that you’re telling me about all that acid you’re using, I have to mention it during the deposition…”

            It’s getting harder to hide, and I’m tired of running. Not to mention the tripping.

            I must say, though, to segue from being a catty spy, I must say that in that particular shop I was also done a good turn. It was on the day, and event, where I officially became old.       

            I’d bought a prescription there, at the pharmacy, then I got a little something in grocery and took it through the check-out stand. I was a full block away when I realized that I’d left the prescription on the check-out counter. When I got back, I immediately went to the customer service counter, and my contact had the prescription waiting for me.

            That was nice.

            But, can anyone blame me for being so confused? In this world? What’s the use?

             I’ll never give up. You can’t just leave your post. But, I consider it everyday.

            How can there be so many delusional people out there? I blame the culture. And, our culture is nothing to reach for during a crisis. It is the crisis.

            (The chaos that results with our overall culture is further explored in my long stories: “Distinguishing Features”, [’16] and “Time of Leaders” [’17])

                                                                                                                        -Stan.

            Our culture demands that we function with an all-knowing look. Sometimes, what’s required is nothing but an all-knowing look. The phrase ‘I don’t know’ is anathema. But, the demeanor is nothing but a concept, which is very old, and it’s not a way to get things done. No one is an android. They still don’t exist.

            No wonder I decided to go through life pretending that I’m a special agent.

            Or, do I?

            Specifically, through the media, it seems that we must all look like we are on the verge of something wonderful. A graphic artist, represented on television, must always wear a paint-spattered apron, or they are not a graphic artist. They are nothing. Perhaps they are lying. Cabinet builders wear coveralls and a floppy blue, oversized shirt. Muttonchops would be a plus. And, so on. All of this can be found in the drug and car ads. Professors beam self-realizedly as they point left, right and everywhere. Even compelling the wardrobe way in back to rattle off the types of rock. (Cabinets are known to panic when called upon. Thus, they’re the worst place to hide. Infiltration 101.)

            I have nothing against shopworkers. I’m a shopworker. Most of us are selling things from the other side of the world to each other. Of course, it’s not sustainable. But, that’s not the subject of my rant. This all seems to be based in something big and cynical, and that trickles down into the culture. With credentials in place, one can easily keep pace through devotion to the ‘company cause’, and an aversion to communication. So, it’s: “Just keep talking, and perhaps no one will notice.” “Respond quickly to what you think they’re saying. Sometimes you’ll be lucky and hit on the right answer.” Meanwhile, what isn’t required is the ability to map out one’s own gluteus maximi, even when using the dual-metacarpal method.

            Perhaps I should just find a nice bow-tie and go on the talk-show circuit. One way to postpone the eventual fate of someone in my profession.

            Sometimes the tactic I use in these afore-mentioned situations is to just get all of the question out in a droning voice while someone also goes on and on. A bid to just get the transcript straight. But, my words fall on stupid ears, and no one else is keeping track.

            “Could you tell me where the Jell…”

            “That’s another department. Health and Beauty.”

            “No…”

            “Uh-huh! I should know.”

            “I’m looking for the Jell…”

            “I already told you! Gel is in Health”

            “Jello.”

            “and Beauty. I should know. I’ve been here fifty-seven years…”

            “Jello. As in the song: ‘Watch it wiggle…”

            “…I’m assistant manager of ‘little things in boxes’…

            “…See it jiggle. Jello brand gelatin…”

            “…and I’ve been here since it was a Piggly Wiggly…”

            “…J-E double-ell OH!”

            “How dare you.”

            (bass voice here…) “That’s Jell-o!’”

            “Oh! Jello. Why didn’t ya say?”

            “I’ve been trying to get the ‘OH’ out for the past three minutes.”

            “Your personal life is no concern of mine. That’s another department.” (Points.)

            “Thank you.”

            “Enough! Away with you!”

            I’ll explore hair products more in my next work, but suffice to say that although it’s a challenge, it can be good exercise to see if I can just get a question out. Perhaps I should just keep talking, too.

            But, that’s no way to live. Except for an auctioneer who’s very, very busy.

            Sometimes I’m a little down. But, then I remember Vienna, ’52. Those were times.

            But, this overall stupidity, when met with skepticism on the part of the customer, brings resentment. A ‘well, I won’t help you, then’ attitude which would work if the result would be opposite to what had been hindering. But that isn’t the result. Mostly, it’s glowering. Amongst and over stacks of product.

            We must be vigilant. The stock has eyes.

            And, when sweet-corn is in season, the shelves have ears.

            I couldn’t pass that up.

            But, there is some truth to it.

            So, the assistant offended by a customer’s attempt to bring reality into a situation may result in their wish that someday they really, really will be in a position to help, but then they won’t. No wonder there’s a Trump.

            Things are better for me, now that I’ve adjusted to the craziness. I’ve laid in a supply of “Hamburger Helper”, and there are muskmelons growing in my garden. (“Jardin Ennui”.) So, I know where the melons are, no matter how helpless people think I am. I don’t have to contribute to the wage of someone who can’t handle muskmelons. As in:

            “Do you happen to have musk…”

            “In Health and Beauty.”

            Perhaps you can commiserate, or even relate to my experiences, even if some of them are imaginary. It’s no wonder I’m a ‘little messed up’. No wonder I shop while humming the theme from ‘Mission: Impossible’.

            Maybe I should retire from being a secret agent. But, first, I have to determine if I am one. One checker I met would probably vote ‘no’. He asked me, as I brought a frozen tray of On-Cor Salisbury Steaks through, if I was “gonna eat all that.” I could have hugged him. He might have been my Esperan spy.