Christmas Grab
 The automatic doors slid open. The icy blast of refrigerated air melted Melbourne’s summer heat, congealing the perspiration trickling down my forehead, sending a shiver up my shorts, and fogging the lenses of my sunnies.
I paused in front of the checkouts to clear my vision. Barcode readers were chirping away with the volume of cicadas on a summer’s evening. Thirteen standard and four express service exits were jammed with shoppers all in festive spirit, a mask for their normal aggression.
I watched the red blazer with the manager’s badge and black bag move to checkout number two and open the till. The delay while she meticulously counted each denomination gave an edge to the banter being hurled by the stalled queue.
It would take little to create a riot.
The supervisor, before signing, rechecked the figures on the tally sheet. For one brief moment, the bag stuffed with notes lay unattended on the counter. The blue-shirted guard, with his pseudo-police badge, had already moved to the next checkout and was engaging in a little pre-Christmas party tease with the well-endowed attendant. Perhaps he felt the uniform excused his Santa-stomach. The way he was squeezed in behind his fancied titbit meant I could grab the bag and be gone before Fatso could turn around.
Wait, a thousand at the most, it would have to be checkout number thirteen to even consider a grab. Well thirteen isn’t my lucky number. Besides, I needed a big one. This wouldn’t be the last cleanup before the armed guard collected the day’s takings. Worst estimate a shade short of half a mill and being Christmas Eve it would sit in the office until morning.
By now, I had acclimatised. With things to do, I leant on the trolley and steered for the welcome bar and the business side of the money stalls. Down aisle one, I kept the pace slow and followed the blonde sheila, dawdling ahead. I rather fancied her shape, as she bent to pick items from the lowest shelf. Reaching for the top shelf didn’t give a bad silhouette, either. I realised the gymnastics were not performed for my benefit, but were part of the psychological price war waged between the company and customer. Now and then, she gave me a knowing look as if inviting me to take part in the hunt.
At the end of aisle twenty, I spotted it. Not that one could miss a twenty-foot-wide roller door with, ‘NO EXIT BEWARE DOOR IS ARMED’, painted in eighteen-inch bright red text on its off-white surface. Despite the warning, I did not believe if you opened it, it would explode; I frowned at the conduit running up to a huge horn, suggesting it would alarm someone.
What switched the wrinkles from my forehead to around my mouth, was the small personal access door, centrally located and close to the bottom edge of the larger door. It was secured with an everyday padlock. I fingered the skeleton key in my pocket. To undo the lock two minuets max. A lump of chewy to hold it back together, and with a quick shake on the outside the average guy could squeeze through. Then up the stairs to the pay office and bingo, Surfers Paradise, here I come.
I needed a diversion, some real confusion. I backed up through the crowd. Yep! There it was, a fire hydrant and a mountain of toilet paper specials, just the combination. Why did I give up smoking? I tried visualising the aisles. Blast! Lighters were with the cigarettes at the front counter. Candles and matches in the next aisle? I swung the trolley in a tight turn. As always, battling against the tide, I incurred the gripes of grim-faced matrons and the wrath of the weary male trolley-walkers who followed in their wake.
Returning triumphant I turned the corner. The trolley, with a mind of its own, joined in the act and caught the base of the pyramid sending the mountain of bum-wipe cascading across the aisle. I knelt among the sea of rolls. Damn! They were plastic wrapped. Dropping a match would have little or no affect.
“Darling, what the devil are you doing? We don’t use that brand.”
“Sorry, Love.” I grinned sheepishly at the blonde sheila.
“Husbands,” she muttered to the world at large and set off in search of the next bargain.
I’m sure; Christmas Grab will make a good story — with a bit more research.
Copyright © Charles Gonda
|
