It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  Apparently, he didn’t understand this because when he saw me he gave a big smile and came over to where I was slouched in abject depression against a wall.

  ‘Hey, Calma. How’s it goin’?’

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ I replied, in a tone of voice that could strip paint. Jason glanced back at the blonde bimbo who was fluttering her eyelashes and practising her hair-smoothing.

  ‘Her?’ he said, somewhat redundantly, since we were the only ones out there. ‘She’s the new girl. We’re just chatting.’

  ‘Happy days,’ I said. ‘It’s not often chatting can produce that kind of effect on the female of the species.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Oh come off it, Jason,’ I said. ‘It was like watching the Discovery channel. A few more minutes and she would have adopted a mating posture. The air’s thick with pheromones. Or it could be the cheap perfume she’s wearing. What is that, Canal Number 5?’

  Jason smiled, which was entirely the wrong approach to take.

  ‘Are you jealous, Calma?’

  I tried to snort and curl my lip at the same time. It’s a difficult manoeuvre and liable to result in a pool of nasal slime down your front if not perfectly executed. I got away with a small fountain of spit.

  ‘Jealous?’ I said. ‘Oh, please. Of a blonde twig? You flatter yourself, my friend.’

  His smile broadened and the twisting sensation in my gut grew accordingly.

  ‘You are,’ he stated.

  I spluttered something incoherent as an encore and stormed back into the store.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d had a better day.

  I decided to lose myself in my work. I careered around the store like that Tasmanian devil in the cartoon, all whirling shapes and blurs. Shelves were stacked in such a way that if you were an innocent bystander you’d swear time-lapse photography was going on. There is a theory, often espoused by the mindlessly optimistic, that physical work is a perfect antidote to pressing personal problems.

  It’s a crap theory. Maybe because the work was mindless and purely physical, I found myself focusing more and more on the problems besetting me. I was still no nearer a solution to the Fridge puzzle, Vanessa was off somewhere and miserable for reasons still unclear and my boyfriend was oozing pure charm at a brain-dead blonde anorexic. At least she had hair she could fondle provocatively. I just had an expanse of stubbly scalp.

  As my mind flitted from one dilemma to another I became more infuriated at my helplessness. The angrier I got, the blacker my mood. So it was all I could do to remain reasonably polite when some guy tapped me on the shoulder to ask directions.

  He was a runt, with the complexion of an avocado. At some stage in his recent past, he had suffered severe acne and his skin was pitted with scars. A small wisp of hair on his top lip gave him the absurd look of someone desperately trying to appear older than he was. I guessed he couldn’t be much older than me. He had spiked his hair with gel and looked like the kind of bloke I remembered from primary school, the type who tied cans to the tails of dogs and thought the height of sophistication was farting during science lessons and shouting, ‘Who cut the cheese?’ Don’t get me wrong. I don’t normally judge on appearances, but I was in a bad mood and prepared to make an exception in his case. He gave me a crooked, nervous smile, as if it was an unaccustomed action.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Could you tell me where you keep tights?’

  ‘Tights?’ I said, aware I sounded irritated.

  ‘Yeah, tights. You know, the things women wear on their legs.’

  I was tempted, believe me. It was with a conscious effort of will that I stopped myself from telling him I was aware of the meaning of the word ‘tights’; that if we were going to compare vocabularies I’d outscore him by a factor of three thousand; that based on first impressions I’d be surprised if the amount of words stored in his long-term memory would hit three figures. But I didn’t. Instead, I sighed and replied as reasonably as I could manage.

  ‘Aisle fourteen, sir. Would you like me to show you? On the grounds I’d be surprised if you’ve mastered figures beyond ten?’ Actually, I didn’t say the last bit. He sounded relieved, though.

  ‘Yeah. Would you?’

  ‘This way, sir.’

  He followed me across the store and seemed nervous, glancing all over the place as if expecting an ambush at any moment. He couldn’t stop talking, either.

  ‘They’re for my girlfriend,’ he threw in, apropos of nothing. ‘Really, sir,’ I replied. ‘That is a relief. I’m not sure we’ve got any in your size.’

  ‘No. They’re for my girlfriend. I’m buying them for her.’

  I could see that the conversation, having hit this dizzying height, was unlikely to soar beyond it.

  ‘She’s a very lucky woman,’ I lied outrageously. She’s also going to be a very hot woman, I thought. I didn’t know anyone who wore tights. In the heat of the tropics, wearing stuff like that was a recipe for disaster. You might as well put up a neon sign saying, ‘Welcome. Fungal infections, this way.’ It was not a pretty thought, and I banished it immediately. Maybe she worked in an aircon environment in the kind of job that required formal dress. Then again, why would someone like that be going out with the reptilian homunculus trailing behind me? I dismissed the question. I had enough to worry about.

  ‘Here we are, sir. What denier do you want?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Thickness. Darkness. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Thick and dark.’

  A little like yourself, I thought.

  ‘Well, these are the darkest we have. One size fits all.’

  ‘Great. Do you sell toys, too?’

  ‘A present for yourself, sir?’

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Er, no. It’s for my nephew.’

  ‘Well, we don’t have a toy section, as such, but near the checkouts you’ll find our ‘Bargain Buy’ area, where the products of billions of Chinese can be found, in various shades of thin plastic and nothing priced above two dollars.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He scuttled off in pursuit of quality merchandise and I returned to aisle ten where assorted tins of fruit awaited my expert ministrations. I was just wondering why anyone would ever purchase lychees in vinegar when a scream from the customer service desk echoed through the store. This was immediately followed by shouting and the crashing sound of displays falling. Given a choice between lychees and front-of-store drama, I think you’ll agree there is little competition, so I went to see what the commotion was about.

  It was the runt. He had the tights on his head and, under other circumstances, I would have applauded his sense of civic duty. This was a face best kept under wraps. However, he was also leaping around the checkouts, waving his arm about. His hand was hidden by something – it might have been a tea towel similar to the one wrapped around my head – and he was yelling at the top of his voice.

  ‘I’ve got a gun, motherfuckers,’ he screamed. ‘Get down on the floor, all of youse. I want the money from the tills. No funny business, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ heads off.’

  I had time to admire the look on Candy’s face. She had stopped chewing for one thing and panic was struggling to emerge. It was a long process. I think for Candy, the neural pathways are clogged, so emotion seeps through to her face like sea water draining into the moats you build next to sand-castles. Then she slowly sank beneath her desk. It was a bizarre sight, as if she was standing on a trapdoor that was being cranked, by degrees, down into the bowels of the building. The other employees, Jason included, dived beneath their tills.

  There was silence. The store was nearly deserted, which explained why we had five people on the tills instead of one. The runt was capering about, brandishing his loaded tea towel. Then he stopped and, even with tights over his face, I could tell he was wearing a puzzled expression.

  ‘The money!’ he yelled. ‘Where’s the fuc
kin’money?’

  Candy’s voice came faintly from beneath the desk.

  ‘We can’t stay on the floor and get the money from the tills. You’ll have to make a choice.’

  I tell you, put Candy and the runt together and, if brains were explosive, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your hat off. Or your tea towel. Or your tights, come to that. The runt looked around as if for assistance and then strode over to checkout four. Jason’s checkout.

  ‘Okay,’ he yelled. ‘You! Get up and get the money out of your till. Stash it in this pillowcase. Then do the same for the other tills.’

  At least he had had the presence of mind to pick up a pillowcase from Housewares. Aisle thirteen, if memory served me correctly. Jason got up from the floor. His expression was sickly.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Just do it, motherfucker. I’m not kiddin’. I’ll blow you away. I swear to God.’

  ‘I can’t open the tills. You need the supervisor’s key.’

  I don’t know how long this little farce would have continued, but I was getting fed up. The way things were going, we’d be stuck in Crazi-Cheep for hours, until somebody got their act together. From what I knew of Candy and from what I could glean of the runt, acts were a very long way from getting together. Plus, I was pissed off.

  I strode along the front of the aisles, stopping to pick up a stainless steel frying pan [aisle twelve, $19. 99 – pretty good value, actually] and then headed towards checkout four, where the runt was twitching like a headless chook. He saw me coming from afar.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?’ he screamed. I was beginning to despair of this guy. Granted, he was in a pressure situation, but that’s no reason not to vary the decibel count. I mean, after a while, being yelled at becomes passé. You need to mix it up. That’s my theory, anyway.

  ‘Get on the fuckin’ floor,’ he continued.

  I ignored him. I had it all worked out. The toy section? Yeah, right. He had picked up a water pistol, or something. Let’s apply a little logic here. What self-respecting robber would go to a store with a gun, but without a disguise? No. He had picked up the tights – I wished I’d recommended something lighter; they didn’t really suit him – and then he had got a tea towel and a plastic piece of crap from the ‘Bargain Buy’ section and that was it. All he needed for a heist. That and relying upon the staff being complete bozos. Well, he hadn’t counted on Calma Harrison. I strode towards him and he lifted up the tea towel.

  ‘Another step, motherfucker and . . .’

  ‘And what?’ I said. ‘You’ll dry all the dishes in the place? Listen, shitface, I’ve had a bad day. I am not the kind of person who has sexual relations with her own mother and I resent a sad, pathetic dropkick like you wasting my time.’

  And with that I smacked him on the head with the pan. It made a very satisfying ‘clunk’ and he fell to the floor like one poleaxed, whatever an axe with a pole on it might be. I stood over him and saw his eyes rolling back in his head, even through the tights.

  There was silence. Then Jason appeared at my side.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Calma,’ he said. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Mopped up a nasty spill,’ I said. ‘Part of my duties. Now I suggest you ring the police while I go and finish off the canned fruit section.’

  I hadn’t forgiven him for the stick insect.

  ‘But he was armed. You could have been killed!’

  Jason’s voice was cracking slightly and I noticed the decibel count was creeping up. If it continued, I’d smack him round the head with the pan as well. I was developing a taste for it. Tactile satisfaction, you might say. Instead, I put my hands on my hips, the pan sticking out behind like a small satellite dish, and turned my scorn upon him.

  ‘Oh, please, Jason. What kind of a moron do you take me for? I mean, look. Stupid tights on his head, mangy tea towel [aisle thirteen, four for five dollars] and a two-dollar plastic water pistol. He’s not exactly Mr Big from Sydney, trying to muscle in on the local organised-crime scene. He’s just a pathetic bag of shit.’

  I kicked the runt’s arm at that point, to punctuate my line of reasoning. The tea towel fell away and his arm flopped. A loud bang rang out and something ricocheted off the hire-your-own carpet cleaning display, taking out part of the skylight. There was a gentle shower of splintered glass and a smell of something burning.

  I looked down at the runt’s hand.

  A black metal gun was gripped in his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the barrel.

  There was only one thing to do. I fainted.

  Chapter 16

  Fifteen minutes of fame

  Leukaemia supporter foils

  supermarket raid

  ‘She’s a heroine,’ says supervisor

  A local resident foiled an attempted armed robbery at a supermarket late on Saturday night.

  Calma Harrison, aged 16, an employee at Crazi-Cheep supermarket, attacked the alleged thief with a stainless steel frying pan, despite him being heavily armed and dangerous.

  Courageous

  A police spokesperson described the intervention by Miss Harrison as, ‘courageous in the extreme. We certainly don’t recommend members of the public taking direct action against armed robbers, but Miss Harrison showed remarkable composure and bravery.’

  Charity

  Ignoring personal danger and armed only with a household utensil, Calma Harrison, who recently had her head shaved as part of the fund-raising program in support of leukaemia research, tackled the thief as he was in the process of emptying tills. ‘I just couldn’t let him get away with it,’ she said. ‘Being an Aussie battler, I knew I’d have to have a go. There were pensioners in the store and they could have been harmed. I didn’t think about my personal safety. I just acted on instinct.’

  Heroine

  Candy Smith, the supervisor on duty, said, ‘Calma is a heroine. The guy was obviously crazy, but she tackled him straight on.’

  A local man is helping police with their enquiries.

  In the interests of historical accuracy:

  1. The newspaper article didn’t come out until Monday.

  2. I didn’t say any of that stuff. I mean, would you really expect me to say something like, ‘I knew I’d have to have a go’? Does that sound like me? And as for, ‘Being an Aussie battler’ – well, they could force me to wear stilettos and shred my epidermis with a paring knife, and I still couldn’t bring myself to utter that phrase. They made all of it up.

  Okay, I’ll give you the shortened version. I woke up on the cold floor of the supermarket with Jason leaning over me. He looked concerned. I was too. It occurred to me I was wearing daggy underwear under my uniform and my fall might have rucked everything up, exposing things better hidden. As it turned out, it was all right.

  The police made it there in quick time and I sat up just as they were cuffing the runt and bundling him, none too gently I might add, out of the premises. He hadn’t recovered consciousness, and judging by the dent in the bottom of the frying pan I suspected he would be out of it for some time.

  Not even Candy could expect me to carry on working after that little episode. In fact, they closed the supermarket early, once the police had taken the names and addresses of everyone there. I was told they would be around to take a statement, when I had recovered. To be honest, all of this went by in a blur. I do remember Jason walking me the short distance home. I didn’t have the opportunity to tell him that if the Fridge was not home, I was locked out. Anyway, it was academic. The Fridge’s car was in the driveway and there was a light on in the kitchen.

  I don’t know if she was more surprised by my bald head or the revelation that I had attacked a gunman with a frying pan. I was feeling queasy, if you want to know the truth, and took off to bed as soon as Jason left. The Fridge wanted to talk, but I was still pissed off with her and pleaded tiredness and ill health. I knew I would have plenty of explaining to do in the morning, but my bed called to me. I
was asleep in minutes.

  I dreamed of guns, mascara, men with long grey hair, and non-stick pans.

  Chapter 17

  Sunday, bloody Sunday

  When I woke up in the morning it took time for the previous day’s events to come back to me. They had the texture of a dream. As the full significance of what I had done sunk in, my legs trembled. I was lying in bed, the sheets rippling all over the place. I was doing a horizontal performance of Riverdance. It took twenty minutes before I could think about swinging them over the bed and putting weight on them.

  I had a shower and got dressed slowly. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining everything to the Fridge and was happy to delay the inevitable. While I got ready I mentally prepared my own newspaper article.

  Bald drongo in supermarket fiasco

  ‘What a loser!’ says supervisor

  Police are considering charging local resident Calma Harrison, 16, with reckless endangerment of life after a bizarre series of events at Crazi-Cheep supermarket on Saturday night.

  Harrison viciously attacked a customer with a frying pan, causing $19.99 worth of damage to the pan and $2000 worth of damage to a skylight.

  Idiot

  A police spokesperson described Ms Harrison’s actions as, ‘reckless in the extreme. Frankly, we are fed up with members of the public “having a go” and thereby putting the lives of innocent people in jeopardy. If the idiot was my daughter, I’d slap her silly.’

  Bald

  Candy Smith, supervisor at Crazi-Cheep supermarket, said, ‘There will be a thorough investigation into the incident. Calma has been rude to customers before, but I didn’t believe she’d attack one. I’ve worried about her since she started work, and when she turned up with a shaved head, I knew there was going to be trouble.’

  Calma Harrison was unavailable for comment last night. Police are monitoring all flights to the Galápagos Islands.

  The Fridge was inhaling coffee when I made it down the stairs. She was dressed and appeared to be on the verge of going out. As normal. I stuck bread into the toaster and got a glass of milk as a delaying tactic.