She Comes Again

A stormy night at the mega-grocery store and the staff nervously awaits the one person who can make their lives a living Hell.

The rain began Saturday afternoon around three, starting off with a slow drizzle that changed to a downpour with the darkening sky.  By five o’clock it looked like it was closer to midnight.  People ran for cover, becoming drenched to the skin with every step they took.  A low rumbling started as almost an afterthought and the air took the smell of burnt copper wires.  Then, without warning, an explosion of thunder shook the windows of homes and stores and the jagged shards of white bolts of lightning lit the sky.

Roadways began to fill with rain and cars came to a slow stop as their electrics shorted from driving through lakes that seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Basements flooded, sending homeowners running to salvage what possessions remained and curse their loss of memories and personal treasures. 

Cats backed into corners, their hair standing on end, both from the static electricity in the air and from a fear of something coming.  Hiding under beds and behind furniture, their faces were locked in a snarl and a growling hiss built in their chests.  Only a few looked out from behind their emergency bulwarks, only to cower when the next roar of thunder was heard.

The ears of dogs flattened and the animals sunk to the floor in submission, releasing a soft mournful whine from their throats.  Strays and domesticates began to howl as one, as if their combined yowls would protect them.

And somewhere, a baby cried.

Savage forks of lightning lit the parking lot, illuminating the rows of cars, and the glass and concrete structure that lay before them.  A bolt tore through the sky and struck a transformer on an electric pole, sending fiery sparks of flame and electricity to the lot below.  It looked like skeletal fingers of electricity were pointing the way to her conquest.

Another series of bolts lit the white paper signs in the windows, its black lettering burning holes in the retinas of those unlucky enough to see it.

SCOTT TOWLES – 120 SHEET ROLL - .79 CENTS – wth. Mfg. Cpn.

EASY MAC – 2 FOR $5.00

FOLGERS COFFEE – 32 OZ. - $3.99

The lightning made the large red letters a white pink and blurred the eyes of the people running towards their vehicles.  As the light dimmed, the letters look like a sign painted with fresh blood.

SUPER STOP ‘N SHOP

 

“Good evening, Shoppers! In our seafood/deli section, we are having a special on fresh medium sized shrimp!  Only $3.99 a pound!”

This announcement was followed by Phil Collins warbling the last part of an unremembered song from ‘The Lion King’, which then segued into the theme from the television space-opera, Star Trek: Enterprise.

It was a bizarre counterpoint to the store’s mood.

The supermarket: one of the last places in the world where one could get out their frustrations against their fellow man.  Unhindered.  Unchecked.  Expected.

Dirty looks, rudeness, sarcasm, blatant stupidity; every negative emotion running full tilt.  Shopper after shopper almost flying into a murderous rage over the last package of beef and been burritos, being hit from behind by a cart driver not paying attention, someone feeling that their lone package of chicken franks would be mixed with the purchases of the person in front of them (followed by the sudden dive for that rectangular plastic bar that made all customers equal).

The checkout counters were jammed with people who had grabbed multiples of things from shelves, feeling that this storm was the prelude to the end of civilization, all jockeying for a position on line behind someone with fewer purchases than they had.

But the stock clerks knew.

The checkout women knew.

The store manager and the woman at the courtesy desk knew.

So did the single security guard, who was presently wondering if he could live on his social security check alone.

She was coming.

And there was nothing they could do.

           

A bolt of lightning struck a halogen light outside the store, sending the current through the wire, suddenly cutting off the light FM that came through the ceiling speakers.  All you could hear was rolling wheels, muffled curses, and the constant boop as the scanners rang up another item.

           

            As each woman at their respective checkouts tallied up their customer’s purchases, they shot out furtive glances at the faces of the shoppers on line, and then relieved glances to each other.  Eyes shot to the elderly security guard, who shrugged and shook his head.  He was told to give them a signal of some kind if she was spotted.  Still they each looked at the faces on their lines.

            Their last security guard had missed her, and was fired for his trouble.  Some thought that firing wasn’t good enough.  A check out clerk had fashioned a noose out of a roll of clothesline (20 FEET FOR $2.99!).

            One of the ladies at the checkout released a high-pitched half scream.  All motion ceased at the registers as if a switch was flicked.  One lady’s foot rested hard on the pedal that controlled the moving belt, mixing purchases not yet scanned with the ones that were ready to be bagged.

            A low buzz went down each row, freezing the woman in their spots.

            “Millie saw her in produce!”

            They all looked at each other.

            One did the sign of the cross, and she was Jewish.

            “And she brought help!!!” came a cry from checkout 14.

            One woman (who was actually a freshman college student trying to earn a little spending money) went into a dead swoon.  A woman who was on her break dragged the unconscious woman away from the checkout and propped her against the ATM kiosk and took her place.

            Another burst into tears and blurrily scanned her customer’s purchases, rivers of black mascaras poured down her cheeks.

            “Maybe she’s mistaken?” came a hopeful whisper.

            “Yeah,” agreed another.  “It’s too early!”

            “What the f**k has time got to do with it!” rasped the woman in number 3 (12 ITEMS OR LESS).  She looked forward and saw the bulging hostile eyes of a woman holding a small child in her arms.  But before she could apologize for her profanity, someone screamed, “THERE SHE IS!”

            The checkout counters were filled with the sound of cracking vertebrae as heads turned.

            Sighting was confirmed.

           

            Feeling safe behind her waist high counter, the woman at the courtesy desk concentrated on a crossword puzzle.

            “Excuse me,” someone said in front of her.  “Where are the bacon bits?”

            A pleasant cultured male voice.  She didn’t look up, trying to remember what an eight-letter word for ‘periodical’ was.  She hooked at thumb at a sheet taped to the wall of the booth.

            “Listing’s on the wall, honey,” she said.

            “I checked,” the man replied softly; almost seductively, “but I couldn’t find it.  Could you check under the brand names in your cross reference?”

            “On the wall, honey.”

            “I mean the list you have under the puzzle book you’re working on.”

            The woman glanced up at the figure dressed in black.  Black leather jacket.  Black turtleneck.  Black eyes.  Okay looking.  Nice smile.  Very white (sharp) teeth.

            I think I’ve seen him before, she thought, the answer magazine momentarily flying out of her head.  She lifted the book and lifted the list to her eyes.

            “What’s it called?” she asked.

            “Bacon bits,” he replied.  “By Hormel.”

            “What are they?”

            A pause.  “Bacon bits.”

            Her eyes left the list and looked at him.  Blankly.

            “What?”

            “Crumbled pieces of cooked bacon,” he said.  His smile appeared wider (sharper).

            “What’s it used for?”

            I think I know him, she thought.  Oh, yes, you do, said a voice in the back of her head, which was rapidly moving forward.

            “Garnishes.”

            Her blank expression approached brain death.

            “Topping?” he suggested.  “On pizza.  English muffins.  Eggs . . . “

            “Oh!” she said that one synapse firing.  “Aisle 16.”

            “It’s not there,” he replied.

            She frowned and looked to the paper, then back to him.  “What do you mean?” she asked.  “It says right here, aisle 16!”

The man moved his face closer to hers, his smile widening as his eyes darkened.

            “I know what it says,” he said.  “But the item is not on the shelves.”

            Oh, yeah, her mind said.  I do know him!  He’s the son of the lady . . .

            The pupils in her eyes dwindled to pinpoints.

            “Sorry, Sir!” she exclaimed.  “I’ll have a stock clerk bring up a few cases from the back room!”

            “That’s okay,” he said kindly.  “I can take a rain check.”

            “NO!” she said, her voice rising three octaves and two decibels.  “No.  No problem!  That’s okay!  The shelf needed filling anyway!”  Her hand grabbed the telephone and pressed the intercom.  “FIVE CASES OF HORMEL BACON BITS TO AISLE 16!” she screamed, then backed away from the counter.

            The man did a mock bow and shot her a wink.  “Thank you very much,” he said and walked away.

            As he turned down an aisle, the woman shut the courtesy counter light off walked outside to the pouring rain.  She stood under one of the arced halogen lights in the parking lot and hoped the next fork of lightning would strike it.

           

            The checkout ladies were on the verge of panic.  One woman’s hands shook so much she inadvertently scanned items several times, calling over the assistant manager to void the duplicate entries.  Another was chewing on pack after pack of Twizlers, her lips and teeth red from the liquorish candy.  A middle-aged woman with a 50s bouffant hairdo tried to scan a package of fish fillets, but the scanner, versus emitting a boop, sounded nothing when the bar code didn’t register.  After three more tries, she screamed and began to pound the package with her small fists, then threw it across the lobby and struck the security guard in the eye.  One woman just shook and giggled; her eyes wide and bulging.

            Who would it be? was the question that ran through their minds.  They looked to one another, abandoning all ties, all friendships; all hoping it would be anyone but them.

            The girl in number 9; the one who was giggling and vibrating, began to laugh.  Her laughter rose in pitch as well as in intensity, bordering on hysterical.

            All eyes turned to 9.

            The woman was headed for that girl’s checkout.

            And she wasn’t alone.

            The woman in question was short in stature, dressed in a voluminous coat that hung past her knees, and wore dark sunglasses, which were unsettling at this time of night.  She walked in front of her companions, pushing a cart, almost goose-stepping like a mini-Hitler.  The black-garbed son - who was pushing a cart brimming with carefully balanced goods which rose several feet above the cart’s rim - followed her.  Behind him was the woman’s husband, whose cart was equally overflowing as well.  He was a large man who towered over both the woman and the son.  He had the broad shoulders of a football linebacker and the toothy smile of a shark.  It had to be a trick of the light, but a few of the women would later swear on a stack of Bibles that the man had double rows of sharp teeth, exactly like the predator.

            The woman in 9 began to hyperventilate.

            The store manager, who had come down from his booth above the store to pick up a copy of the Star newspaper on his way to the men’s room, walked over to the girl and stood next to her.  He looked at the son who was placing his purchases on the belt, then back to the girl.  His hand lifted and he delivered a hard back and forward-hand slap to the girl’s face, leaving his reddened handprint clearly on her cheeks.  She regained her composure.

            The manager walked down the aisle that sold wines and spirits and reached for a bottle of scotch.  It was only then he noticed that his hand was still holding the crushed copy of the Star.  He released it, allowing it to drop to the floor, and grabbed the bottle.  He took a step, turned back and picked up a bottle of vodka with his other hand.  He walked with his head down, not wanting to meet the fearful gaze of the checkout women, and went back to his office.  He sat down in his chair and looked at the security monitor on 9.  He absently reached into his desk and pulled out a schedule of employees, and, with a shaking hand, penciled in a note to give the girl the following week off.  With pay. 

            The girl on 9’s eyes was glassy and her skin was a fish belly white, which was an interestingly odd complexion for a Hispanic woman.  She smiled at the woman.  The woman stood in front of her son (who was still placing the items on the belt) and smiled back in a very friendly way.  The girl exhaled a small sigh.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. 

            After a few minutes of the repeated boop, boop, booping from 9 as the scanner logged in the goods, the woman, her son and her husband turned to look at the other checkout lines.  No one moved.  Not the checkout women.  Not the customers.  They were all watching the activity on their line.  The three grinned at the observers as one, sending shivers up everyone’s spines who either resumed their duties or took a sudden interest in newspapers showing Kirstie Alley’s sudden weight gain.

            The items rolled down the moving belt and were placed into white plastic bags all bearing the Super Stop ‘n Shop logo.  The girl slid the purchases back where the son and the father placed the packaged the goods into a rapidly filling shopping cart.  The prices and names of each item flashed on the display above the register.  The girl began to feel a pain in her wrist from tilting the barcodes to the scanner and glanced to see how much more she had to check in.  The first shopping cart was only half empty.  There was another monstrous one to go.

            At that moment, a single thought went through the minds of each woman at the checkout.  It was something the manager said at last week’s meeting:

            “We are working on getting audio registers for each post.  When the item is scanned, or the barcode is entered, a friendly computerized voice will say the name of the item and the price.  It will also announce the amount of the manufacture’s coupon, the savings the customer will receive, and state if the coupon has expired.  Because all the updated pricing and specials will be uploaded into the system, no manual entries will be needed.  It will also insure to the customer that they are being charged the proper price for their purchase, versus comparing it to the register receipt when they get home.”

            The manager used the test module to show the women what it would be like.  A female voice - similar to the computerized voice on the Star Trek series - announced in a slow calm tone, ‘Dinty Moore Beef Stew.  $2.99’. 

            All eyes turned to the booth above them and glared at the manager who tried to hide in the booth’s shadows.  Hearing that droning voice all day long would be maddening; more so when the woman showed up.  The manager took a pull from the bottle of scotch as his hand crumpled, then tore the work order for the audio registers and the memorandum from corporate into small pieces and dropped them into the trashcan.  He momentarily considered setting it on fire to destroy the evidence.

            Customers slowly passed number 9, staring in awe as the shopping carts filled.  One female customer stopped to lay a warm hand on the girl’s shoulder before heading to the parking lot.  When a small crowd had gathered to observe, the son and the father turned completely around as one and grinned evilly at them.  Like one large throat, the customers swallowed, the crowd rapidly dispersed and left the store.

            When the woman’s shopping carts were empty, and the now three carts outside of 9 were filled with bulging white plastic grocery filled bags, the girl’s finger hovered over the total key.  With the speed of a striking scorpion, the woman’s hand shot out and caught the girl by her wrist.  The girl’s eyes followed the hand to the woman’s face.  With her free hand, the woman lowered the sunglasses an inch revealing eyes that were dark as pitch, hard as granite and as forgiving as an IRS auditor.

            “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked sweetly.  It was only then she released her wrist.

            The young woman trembled in her ankle-highs.  “Any coupons?” she asked, her voice rising on the second syllable.

            The woman smiled evilly and looked at her offspring and spouse.  The son let out a high raspy cackle that sounded like rusted hinges on a cemetery gate.  The father made a bass staccato growling sound through his shark-like grin.  The girls’ eyes darted to each face, her breathing coming in hitches.

            The woman whipped her coat open like a gunslinger, revealing two thick leather hip pouches.  She opened the first and removed a six-inch stack of coupons and handed it to the girl.  She went into the second pouch and removed another six-inch stack of coupons, and handed it to her as well. She turned to her son whose hand went directly below the girl’s eyes and handed her another monster stack of coupons.  The woman took the stack and handed it to the girl.  She looked at her husband, who pulled out another stack of coupons, handed it to the son, who handed it to the woman, who handed it to the girl.  The girl rocked back and forth on her heels at the four stacks placed on the counter.

            From the confines of his booth, the manager had dropped the empty bottle of scotch into the trash and opened the vodka.  In one long swig, he drank a quarter of the bottle.

            It took almost twenty minutes to check the coupon’s expiration dates, the girl’s hands moving like an automaton.  The girl’s watery eyes narrowed at a very old and yellowed one and looked up at the woman nervously.

            “There is no expiration date on the coupon,” she said in a flat voice.  “It is open ended.”

            As the girl nodded, she raised the coupon to the scanner.  The woman’s arm shot directly in front of her eyes, pointing at the wall.  The girl’s eyes glazed over.  Her head turned and followed the direction of the woman’s pointing finger.  She saw the large white paper sign with the patriotically red and blue bold lettering.  She turned back to the woman, her lower lip trembling.

            “Isn’t today ‘double-coupon’ day?” she asked angelically.

            The girl stared at the woman.  She turned to the son and the husband, who regarded her with humorless grins.

            The girl nodded and tapped a key on the register.  The fifty-cent coupon registered as a dollar.  She began to scan the rest.

            The manager drained another quarter of vodka from the bottle.

            The line behind the woman poured into the household product aisle.  The customers behind her saw that there were openings at other registers, but had felt they lay claim to Number 9 and weren’t moving.  Curses and objections were muttered at what they felt was an unnecessary wait.  One customer pushed forward and raised his hand to touch the woman’s shoulder but a hand with a vice-like grip caught his wrist.  The color of his skin drained into his neck as he saw the husband’s Christmas ham-sized hand locked around his upper arm.  The husband’s face was very close to his.  When a voice whispered in his ear, his head snapped to see the grinning face of the son.  A small voice of logic told him that they were on the other side of the registers only seconds ago.  As the son spoke his message in the man’s ear, a small wet spot darkened the crotch of the customer’s jeans.  The husband released the wrist and the man lowered his arm to his side.  He stiffly adjusted his jacket and walked away from his cart and out of the supermarket and into the night.

            Before anyone else could make the same mistake, some of the more seasoned veterans whispered warnings to the others on number 9.  Many customers abandoned their spots and took their carts to other checkout lines.  The few remaining were frozen in place, in terror of moving an inch.

            The register tape inched on and on and hung down the side of the register, like a creeping vine.  It suddenly stopped.

            Everything was tallied.  All plastic bags were filled piled on top of each other, nearly causing an overflow or purchases. 

            The gross total on the display read $562.73. 

            The gross total of coupons read -$197.43.

            The girl looked at the woman who simply nodded.  The girl raised her hand and touched a key.

            The total of the double coupons read -$394.86.

            The net due equaled $167.87.

            The girl looked back at the woman who was holding out two crisp one hundred dollar bills.  She took it, entered the figure and handed the woman back her change of $32.13.  And the thirty-foot long register tape, and the red-bordered store tape (with more coupons!) that came along with it.

She was about to automatically ask if the woman wanted to donate something to the Jimmy Fund, but a warning klaxon rang in her head and her jaws snapped shut.

            The woman put the change in one of the pouches and folded the tapes neatly and placed that in the other.  She walked past the girl who quietly fell to the floor. 

            As the three pushed their carts to the exit, the manager staggered to the door to greet them.  In his hand was a bottle of gin that was already half empty.

            “Thank you for shopping Super Stop ‘n Shop, Ma’am!” he slurred.

            The woman stopped while her husband and son left the store to the parking lot.  The rain suddenly stopped the moment they walked out.  She stared at the manager who was trying his best to remain upright.  She lowered her glasses and smiled at him.  It was a smile that would send Death himself running.

            “See you in two weeks!” she said cheerfully.  She lowered her glasses and walked out, pushing her cart.

            Suddenly, the sound of Don Henley singing ‘The Boys of Summer’ filled the store.

            The checkout women crowded around the store’s large window and watched them fill their minivan with their purchases.  The son took the empty carts and placed them in a small line at the curb.  On his way back to the van, he stopped by the woman from the courtesy desk, who was still standing there dripping by the halogen lamp.  He moved his face to her ear and said something, then gently touched her cheek. 

            Through the thick glass window, over the sound of the ex-Eagle’s singing, the checkout women heard the woman in the parking lot scream long and loud, and watched her slid to the ground and lay motionless in a large puddle.

            The manager walked a step and fell forward, overturning a gum and snack display, banged his head against a counter and slid to the floor, clutching his bottle of gin to his chest.

            An explosion of thunder shook the windows and the torrential downpour resumed.

            The women slowly turned and took their spots at the registers.  The stock clerks returned to stock the shelves.  Shoppers returned to their mode of tormenting each other.

            It was business as usual.

            Body count: two, which wasn’t too bad considering.  Four stock clerks lifted and deposited the store manager and the checkout girl into shopping carts and wheeled them into the back room.  One ran to a Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk and ordered six black coffees.  All in all, a good night.

            But the underlying tension remained.

            They all knew they made it through another night, but it would only be a matter of time for the Coupon Lady to return.

            And somewhere, that baby still cried.

Dedicated to Ma (Dolores Gibbs Benitez).

 

Reviews

[Ron B]

This foreboding piece was hysterical. Hell, I was getting scared waiting to see what evil lurked in the storm, if it didn't cause it. This is very well written and the character descriptions are great. Good job.