In the supermarket things are getting restless.
People shuffle in the queue for the self-scan machines, glaring passively, harrumphing at no one in particular, but pointedly and with feeling.
At the self-scan machines things are little better. Toes are tapped at tardy assistants. Red lights blink. Calm mechanical voices ask for items to be added or removed from the bagging area. Shrill human voices imprecate.
There is a man – short and sullen, overladen with fruit – who cannot pay for his rockmelon. An assistant finds it for him. It is under M, because it is a melon.
‘I have complained about this before. It is a rockmelon. It belongs under R.’
‘Not much I can do about it sorry.’
‘There is. You can record my complaint. I want to make an official complaint.’
Together they look to the complaints counter. It is oppressed by the crowd that has gathered there. Its defenders are inadequate, soon to be overwhelmed.
The assistant shrugs.
The sullen vegetarian snarls, his teeth clacking and his eyes all a-spark.
‘I’ve complained about this before. It’s not good enough. It’s a waste of your time and mine.’
The assistant shrugs.
The vegetarian’s eyes bulge. Veins rise on his neck, at his temples.
‘Excuse me,’ says a tall woman. Her body is a work of art, and a canvas. Lean and pretty. Coloured inks on her arms, her thigh, her décolletage. ‘There’s three machines not working.’
Red lights are blinking over the three machines.
‘Just a minute,’ the assistant says.
From somewhere in aisle three there’s a predatory howl.
The queue for the machines surges.
A display of produce crashes to the ground, shattering glass and spilling preserves and spreads marked down for quick sale.
At check-out number seven there’s a young girl’s scream.
At the complaints counter the splintering of wood and a panicked cry.
A fist in thrown.
Teeth spill, skipping across the polished floor.
A head strikes a counter with a wet crack.
There’s the smell of blood and violence in the air.
The vegetarian leaps upon the assistant, bears him to the ground where others rush in with boots and stomping feet for them both.
Someone tries to climb the bread aisle, to safety, but the whole thing topples and they fall into the surging mob.
Men are vaulting the complaints counter, clawing at their victims, bursting throats between their teeth.
I take my receipt and the goods I’ve purchased. I step away, through the automatic doors, past the buskers splintering their guitars against each other, past the collisions and chaos of the car park, to my car.
Best to get home. The kids will be wanting their dinner.
J M Melican 