"Meijering" part 1

The door greeter doesn’t speak English. “That is a very ineffective strategy for greeting people.” That’s the first thought that hits me. I’m too tired to think and not speak. “Unless the bulk of the store’s foot traffic at 3:18 in the morning speaks Spanish as a first language. That’s possible.” My tour through the grocery department seems to indicate that the majority of the people working in the store also speak Spanish, though. Of course, the fact that I’m not actually looking for anything at this particular moment is advantageous in two ways with regard to my relationship with these “valued store employees.” Firstly, I don’t need to ask them where anything is, so the language barrier isn’t an issue. Secondly, they are floor cleaners, so chances are they don’t know where it is anyway.
Remember this, kids! America is the land of opportunity; just not the best opportunities. People complain about immigrants taking jobs, but if they want to clean floors for six dollars an hour under the table, they’re welcome to it.
Grocery, as a department, holds no joy for me. Even the ethnic foods aisle, otherwise known as the “international foods” aisle, even though they have a section specially marked for southern and soul food, is a humdrum venture. I love this aisle because it allows me to laugh at characters on children’s foods who are not beloved childhood friends. A quick trip down the cereal aisle to visit those same old friends reveals that most of them have been replaced by younger, less charismatic characters.
Canned vegetables and fruits has to be the most mind-numbing section of the store. Nobody even pretends preserved food is exciting. There is a man sitting on a stool when I walk down. Theoretically, he is pricing cans, though his rate is comparable to a man putting down puppies. It seems almost as if his need for work could barely face off against his lack of will and the gravity of a much larger heavenly body than that on which he currently resided.
Resode? I suppose not, though it is more aesthetically pleasing.
Strangely, this is the aisle where my night becomes intriguing. Just around the corner I hear two voices. I don’t really know what they’re saying; the verbiage blends in with the muzak to create a sort of background noise similar to that of a refrigerator. But unlike the aforementioned appliance, the silence that follows this hum is not one brought on suddenly; it is punctuated with a sharp sound of skin colliding with skin. And, much like a child playing with a synthesizer set on sound effects mode, two other sounds quickly follow: an aluminum can striking the ground (I don’t believe this store gives a discount for dented cans, though) and a glass jar breaking. I assume that it’s pickles. This is where my mind is at 3:40 in the morning. I realize, as I clock on my phone, that I’ve been walking around this damn store for twenty minutes for no reason other than I can’t sleep, and suddenly here I am. Present at the beginnings of a pickle jar massacre, I’m sure.
The sounds that followed came in short, frenzied bursts: A woman’s grunt, followed by boxes of whatever they sell in the next aisle falling to the ground or being knocked into each other. I hear a tennis shoe skid on the ground every now and then, and occasionally another smacking sound. Is that a fight? It sounds like a fight. I hope they don’t break anything I am going to decide I need.
It’s 3:41 and the fight has ended. I hear heavy breathing and then more sounds of tennis shoes skidding. Whoever he is, he runs past the end of my aisle. All I know is that he’s white, he’s about my height, and he’s wearing a blue windbreaker. I hear the Spanish speaking cleaning crew yelling at him in fragments of English and their native tongue. It all blends together. I start walking. Instead of two distinct turns to go between the aisles I use a sweeping arc, as a painter laying down the first stroke of his masterpiece. In the next aisle, which has cleaning products at the far end but at this end plastic sandwich bags and Tupperware, I see a young lady in a yellow dress lying on the ground. There’s blood all around her and her face is wet with it. Boxes of bags lay about her: collateral damage.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I can’t see the time because it wants me to know that there’s no service. I’ll have to walk all the way back to the aisle before this one to tell someone that there is a broken jar of raspberry jelly here.
And a body.