Theresa Lewis

This is a true story. Before I tell it, I feel it necessary to give my readers a little background on my humble life.

 

For the past almost twenty years, I never go out alone. I don’t shop alone. I don’t walk alone. I don’t do anything alone. The only thing I do alone is live alone.

 

Since I don’t have a car, I have to rely upon the kindness of others to get me to where I need to be. Winters are very hard on me. Okay, the truth is that I’m old, crochety, over weight, out of shape and clumsy, but then I have always been clumsy. There, I swallowed my pride and admitted it. My parents enrolled me in dancing classes when I was little in hopes that I would develop some grace of movement. It’s sad to know that their efforts were in vain. Most kids grow out of their awkward years, unfortunately, I never did. I’m still as dainty as a bull in a china shop.

 

One day this past January, my sister took me to get my groceries. She told me she didn’t need to buy anything, but she did have some errands to run. She let me off right at the door to the huge grocery store. She said she would be back in an hour. Oh, my goodness! I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I could actually do my shopping by myself and would not have to worry about keeping someone waiting.

 

Usually, I don’t take time to read labels, even though I know I should. It’s hard when I know I am obligated to whoever drove me. I hate to dilly-dally. That day in January, I was free to do whatever I wanted inside the grocery store. I could read labels and check pricing. It was quite liberating and exhilarating for me. I felt a little disoriented and almost didn’t know where to begin, but I had my shopping list in my hand so I decided to start my endeavor in the bakery department. I wanted to buy a loaf of baked-in-store raisin bread.

 

This was my first time in this store since it had been renovated. It was enormous. I noticed that none of the loaves of fresh baked breads were sliced. They did have a large industrial automatic slicer with instructions on it. I chose a loaf of raisin bread and approached the slicing machine. I read the instructions carefully. All I had to do was to place the loaf of bread against the back wall of the machine and slide the wrapper over the arm of the machine so I could bag the sliced loaf when it came out the other end. All I had to do after that was to choose the thickness of the slice and push the start button. It couldn’t have been any easier.

 

I placed my loaf on the machine, but in order to slide the cellophane wrapper over the arm as instructed, I had to use both hands. I put my shopping list down on the table of the slicer. Whoops! My grocery fell through the crack and into a huge wooden drawer below. I could see it, but I couldn’t reach it. The oak drawer looked like a crumb catcher. I tried to open it a crack so I could stick two fingers in and snatch out my shopping list.  I don’t know what happened but all of a sudden there was an almighty double bang that sounded like two rapid shots of gunfire right by my ears. The sound echoed around the store. I got such a fright that my knees buckled and my bladder let loose.

 

It’s funny how bones are rigid enough to hold a person upright under normal conditions, but when in shock, bones seem to turn into mush and melt inside your skin. I grabbed onto the counter under the slicer for stability. I slumped forward and shouted, “…oh, crap!” The humongous crumb drawer lay on the floor at my feet. There was dead silence in the store that only moments earlier, was abuzz with shoppers pushing their carts.

 

My dilemma was what to do now. I grabbed my shopping list and just stood there looking down at the crumb drawer. I tried to pick it up, but it was far too heavy for me to lift. This all took place in a matter of a few seconds. A big man from the butcher’s area ran to my aid. While he assisted me, I was aware of a thousand eyeballs staring at my back. I was so embarrassed that I dared not turn to look at anyone.  Even the butcher had to struggle to put the crumb drawer back in place.

 

Once the scene was over, I was left still shaking like a leaf. I couldn’t have imagined that the wooden drawer hitting the floor could ever have been that loud. I made a cursory personal examination just to make sure that I was still alive and didn’t have any bullet holes in me. I had heard that sometimes if a person dies from a sudden unexpected impact, they don’t always know that they’re dead. My confirmation of still being alive only came when my sister showed up an hour later to take me home.

 

I still had to get my loaf of bread sliced and bagged before I went on my way. I shoved my shopping list into my pocket and with trembling hands tried to push the right buttons on the slicer. The choice of thickness was given in millimeters and I couldn’t relate to that. When did anyone ever hear someone say, “…give him two point five centimeters and he will take one point six kilometers?” That’s just stupid!

 

All I know is that I hate the thick Texas cut of bread. I like my bread the way it used to be years ago when I was a kid.  I chose the thinnest measurement then pushed the start button. It appeared to me that all was going just fine. The slicer was making whirring sounds and crumbs were flying everywhere. When the slicer stopped, I realized that my loaf of raisin bread had not been sliced thin the way I wanted it. It had been gobbled up by the slicer blades and spat out as a doughy ball of mangled bread, a pile of raisins, and crumbs. What came out of that machine had absolutely no resemblance to the loaf that I had submitted for slicing. The slices (I use that term loosely) were thick in the crust area, but almost all the slices were missing the centers. They looked more like picture frames than they did slices of bread.

 

I struggled like a fool to scoop up the mangled mess and to force it into the cellophane bag only to realize that the bag was too small. The bread was piled higher than the bag would allow. A kindly old gentleman came to my rescue and explained that I was supposed to take a plastic bag and bag tie from the side of the slicer. Of course, in my demented state at that moment, I didn’t see the plastic bags and ties.

 

Without another word, he took my mangled ball of dough and put it into a proper plastic bag then tied it off with a plastic clip. He actually explained to me (as though I didn’t have all my marbles) how the plastic clips worked. He cheerfully handed me an extra plastic clip, just in case I decided to buy a second loaf. Oh, the indignity of it all.

 

I guess it was because I was rattled that I kept bumping into things as I did the rest of my shopping. I can’t tell you how many patrons came up to me as I roamed the rest of the isles and asked me if I was okay. Many people came up and spoke to me… you know, just to make conversation, or perhaps it was just to see if I could make coherent conversation. I’ve shopped there for many years now and usually no one ever speaks to me.

 

When I got home with my loaf of bread, I took it out to examine it. I had a feeling that those six inch spikes that were sticking out of the left side of the slicer were meant for me to shove into the loaf of bread to stabilize it while it was being sliced. Well, I – didn’t – do – that.

 

I did my best to try to puff up the slices, but it wouldn’t work. That ball of dough was beyond fixing. I ended up ripping a hunk off it whenever I wanted a piece.

 

 

THE END