And May a Dog Bite You, Bitch! (I Get in a Fight)

Let me just set the scene: I'm in the local Shoppers Drug Mart, hiding out in the hair-care aisle. I'd really like to be in the aspirin section, but there's a peculiar arrangement of ladies and strollers between here and there, spread out in such a way that it'd take me at least five "Excuse me"s to get through. I tried going round the other way, but there was a three 'scuse-me pharmacy queue cutting across the floor. So, here I am at my fall-back position in the hair department. I am pretending to look through the excellent selection of do-it-yourself dye kits. I've been here a while, and have made myself comfortable, crouching down on the floor to examine the bottom shelf.

Although I do not realize it, I am mostly hidden from view by a stack of boxes on a push-cart. Thus, when the lady with the noisy kid comes up the aisle, she doesn't realize I'm there. I, on the other hand, can see her just fine (although, to begin with, I'm trying not to.)

"Zaaaaaaaaaam," goes the kid, zooming a half-sucked lollipop through the air like a model plane. "Zaaaaam, zaaaaaaaaaaam, zaaaaaaaaaaaam." His voice is flat and monotonous. He is driving me bonkers.

If he's not gone in twenty seconds, I tell myself, I'm off to inhabit the small-appliances aisle.

"ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" goes the kid.

"Shut the [mutter] up," goes the mum.

Jesus aitch, I think--did she just tell her kid to shut the fuck up? I stop planning my escape, and start eavesdropping. It's an innocent sort of eavesdropping, though, because I still haven't realized I'm invisible. I am, after all, making no particular effort to conceal myself. My coat's sticking out like a big hairy flag. Really, you'd have to be daft not to notice me.

"Zaaaaaam, zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam, zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!" The kid starts spinning in circles with his arms held out to the sides. I get a bit of a smile on my face--I used to love doing that, as a wee one. I'd stand in the middle of the kitchen and twirl till I fell over. Then, I'd jump straight back up and repeat the whole process, again and again till I was shooed out to the yard--

--the kitchen'd smell wonderful (my mother's a brilliant cook), and there'd be just enough room between the stove and the table for a little mini-Socar to play. I'd have set the table already, giving myself the good placemat, the one with the yellow flowers. Mother'd be scooping the last of the oil off the top of the meat sauce, and Father'd be in the other room, reading a book. I'd spin faster and faster, and I'd see: Mother stirring, jar of vinaigrette dressing, sink, telephone, chair, Father, table, chair, chair, fridge, pantry, cabinet, cabinet, Cuisinart, blender, stove, Mother, jar, sink, phone, chair, Father, table, chair, fridge, pantry, cabinet, cabinet, Cuisinart, blender, stove, Mother, sink, phone, chair, Father, fridge, pantry, cabinet, Mother, Mother, Mother, Mother, FLOOR! Hee, hee, hee!--

"--one more time, I swear to God!"

I am jolted back to reality. The mum is shouting at the kid, who has made her drop her purse. She has an infuriating voice, even worse than the kid's. I think about leaving, but I really don't want to. This aisle is the quietest in the shop, even with the pair of them noising it up. Everywhere else, there's a crowd, and if there's one thing I hate, it's a crowd. I hate people brushing against me, and I hate people coughing in my face. I hate the way half the population smells like cigarettes, and the other half reeks of perfume. I hate the feeling of being pressed from all sides, and the feeling of being in the way. And, above all else, I hate being 'scuse-me'd when I'm too surrounded to move.

So I stay, and because I stay, I get in a fight. Not, you know, a fistfight, or anything like that--I'd never do anything so uncouth--but words are exchanged. Swear words.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I'm not in a fight yet--I'm still sitting behind the boxpile, a packet of Clairol ash-blonde in one hand, and Herbal Essences medium-brown in the other. "Methylparaben," I whisper, as if I really care what's in there.

"Zaaaaaaaaaaam," goes the kid, who has started spinning again. I can't help it--I think it's rather cute. Kids, as a rule, drive me round the twist, but this one reminds me of myself. (I never, to the best of my recollection, said "zaaaaaaaaam", but the spinning, that's an unexpectedly fond memory.)

Then, something Very Bad happens. The kid trips, and his lollipop, which is bright blue, sticks to his mother's white-jeansed bum. She spins around, batting it off, and stamps it to dust: krnnnnnch! The kid starts to howl. And then--and then the mum looks both ways, up and down the aisle, sees no-one, and slaps the kid right in the face. She slaps him hard enough to knock him off his feet.

"Jesus H. Christ," I yell, jumping up like a bee's stung me. "What did you do? You didn't just do that!"

The mother gets this horrified look on her face (Oh, no! Someone saw me being a terrible mother!), and then she gets an angry look: "Where the fuck did YOU come from?"

"I--I was here!" I splutter. "What are you doing? You can't just--hey!"

She's picked up a box of do-it-yourself perm solution, and looks like she's about to throw it at me.

"You're not going to throw that at me, are you?"

"Get the fuck out of here!"

(Kid: Waaaaaaa!)

"I was here first!"

(Kid: Waaaaaaa-haaaaaaaa-haaaaaaaa!)

"I don't care!"

(Kid: Sniffle!)

"Hey, don't worry about me! Why don't you comfort your son?"

"Mind your own goddamn business!"

(Then I pick up a box of perm stuff, and throw it at her with such force that her head falls off and goes bouncing away down the aisle: boing, boing, boing, and everyone in the store starts to cheer. The kid grows up, becomes ludicrously rich, and buys me a mansion for saving him from the evil crone, who was really a witch.)

Then, I decide discretion is the better part of valour, and leave. Old bitch is never going to comfort the kid as long as I'm there to argue with. I know her type. She lives for this kind of shit. She'll trade insults with me till the cows come home, if I let her. I settle for pointing her out to an employee as I make my way past the Stroller Brigade:

"Old boot over there's slapping her kid," I go.

"You serious? I can't believe people like that!"

"Yeah. I hope a dog bites her, or something."

"Totally."

I'm staying in the Rat's Nest for a while, I think. Too many crazy folks on the outside.