Am I Right or Am I Right?

by Barry Jonsberg

  I was slamming cans of something onto a shelf and cursing softly under my breath when there was a tap on my shoulder. I resisted the urge to slam a can backwards into a rheumatic ankle and got wearily to my feet.

  It was my father. Of course it was. How could it be anyone else? Maybe the Grim Reaper, but frankly that would have been preferable. I narrowed my reddened eyes and tried to get his head to explode through sheer force of will. I saw a film where that happened once.

  “Calma,” he said. “You look different.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “you look exactly the same. Please rearrange these words into a well-known phrase or saying: off, piss.”

  “Please,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone. But first there’s something I need to tell you. Come on, Calma. Please.”

  “You haven’t a clue, have you?” I replied, the steel in my voice getting harder and sharper by the moment. “Not the vaguest idea of what you’ve done to Mum and me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Well, matey, if you want to know the cold, hard facts of the matter, you lost your chance to talk to me when you walked out five years ago. I remember. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you shouting. And you stormed past me as if I wasn’t there and the next thing you were gone. Talking wasn’t of any significance then, was it? Why should I believe anything’s changed?”

  “Calma,” he said, “I have tried to talk to you. I have. But you…Listen, isn’t it possible you might have lost perspective on this?”

  “No, but it’s certain you’ve lost my interest,” I replied. “Please go. Stop haunting this store like some sad ghost father of Christmas past. Stop following me. Just stop everything. Breathing included. Keep out of my life!”

  His eyes widened. I had difficulty myself believing what I’d said, but this was not the best time to engage me in even casual conversation, let alone a heart-to-heart with someone I wouldn’t pee on if he was on fire.

  “But Calma, I’m your father. You might not like it, but that doesn’t change the fact we have a bond. A blood tie. And it isn’t going to go away.”

  “Look,” I said, “get fifty cents and call someone who gives a shit about your clichés. I have to work.”

  I turned back to slam more cans into empty spaces. Ironic, really, since empty spaces seemed to be all I was composed of at that moment. When I looked up, he had gone.

  For a brief moment, I couldn’t be sure if what I felt was relief or regret. But I readjusted my towel and turned my attention to the pressing matter of button mushrooms in brine. Life, as I knew only too well, had to go on.

  My mood did not improve when I took my break. Jason was smoking in his usual spot round the corner, and at first he didn’t see me. He didn’t see me because he was busy talking to a blond girl who was giggling in a moronic fashion. She had big blue eyes, a wide mouth, and flawless teeth. I couldn’t decide which of these features to punch first. She kept brushing back her hair whenever he said anything. Now, if you’re male, you’ll probably find this an entirely innocent mannerism. If you’re female, however, you’ll understand it’s akin to shouting from the rooftops, Come on, big boy. Let’s get it on. I hated her. I hated Jason.

  Apparently he didn’t understand this because when he saw me he gave me 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 blond bimbo, who was fluttering her eyelashes and practicing her hair smoothing.

  “Her?” he said, somewhat redundantly, since we were the only ones out there. “She’s the new girl. We were 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?”

  “Jealous?” I said. “Oh, please. 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. At least she had hair she could fondle provocatively. I just had an expanse of stubbly scalp. 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. A small wisp of hair on his top lip gave him the 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 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.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Could you tell me where you keep stockings?”

  “Stockings?” I said, aware I sounded irritated.

  “Yeah, pantyhose. 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 “stockings” that if we were going to compare vocabularies, I’d outscore him by a factor of three thousand. 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 was also going to be a very hot woman, I thought. I didn’t know anyone who wore pantyhose. 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.

  “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?”

&
nbsp; “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 is 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 pantyhose 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 dish 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 registers. 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. 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 registers.

  There was silence. The store was nearly deserted, which explained why we had five people on the registers instead of one. The runt was capering about, brandishing his loaded towel.

  Then he stopped and, even with stockings over his face, I could tell he was wearing a puzzled expression.

  “The money!” he yelled. “Where’s the fuckin’ money?”

  Candy’s voice came faintly from beneath the desk.

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

  I tell you, if brains were explosive, you could put Candy and the runt together and not have enough to blow your hat off. Or your towel. Or your pantyhose, 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 register. Stash it in this pillowcase. Then do the same for the other registers.”

  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 registers. 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. 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 toward checkout four, where the runt was twitching like a headless chicken. 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 pantyhose—I wished I’d recommended something lighter; they didn’t really suit him—and then he had got a dish 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 toward him and he lifted up the dish 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. I stood over him and saw his eyes rolling back in his head, even through the stockings.

  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 call the police while I go and finish off the canned fruit section.”

  I hadn’t forgiven him for the blonde.

  “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. 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 pantyhose on his head, mangy dish 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 organized-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 rent-a-carpet-cleaner 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

  Leukemia 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, age sixteen, 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 Ms. Harrison as “courageous in the extreme. We certainly don’t recommend members of the public taking direct action against armed robbers, but Ms. 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 leukemia research, tackled the thief as he was in the process of emptying registers. “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 inquiries.

  In the interests of historical accuracy:
r />   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 ratty 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 at 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 gray hair, and nonstick pans.