Happenings at Mel’s Grocery

by Michael Carter

Mel doesn’t know what to do. People are getting sick. He thinks it’s someone visiting the chip aisle. But it’s me. I’m here behind the chips, and I just want things to be fair.

It started a year ago. Stuff wasn’t selling at Mel’s like it used to. His chip stock suffered most. And the shoplifting problem didn’t help.

It’s not me swiping from Mel. I don’t need much of anything, being roughly the size of an action figure. To survive, I sneak pieces of cheese from the deli when Mel’s is closed, or chunks of day-old bread no one will buy. Not enough to put Mel under. I have white hair under my orange hat, a pointy nose, and I dress in a green, red, and white outfit—camouflage behind the bags of Garden Veggie Straws colored the same way.

That’s where I live. Behind those bags of Veggie Straws, the ones with sea salt. They’ve been sitting for months. You see, when things get tight, one of the things people scale back on is chips. And Veggie Straws, healthy as they are, just don’t sell like the other bags of junk out there. You know the ones, featured in commercials where celebrities showcase nutritionless chips you know they don’t eat.

Mel tried slashing the price on Veggie Straws, doing two-for-one sales, half off a second bag, all those gimmicks. But he wasn’t moving them like he needed to compared to the other brands. That’s where I came in. The execs at the Veggie Straw factory sent me here hidden in a shipment of Straws to assist.

While Mel was slashing prices and trying to figure out who was stealing, I did my part. I have a small syringe, loaded with this noxious, tasteless juice they sent with me. At night, when Mel’s closes, I go to competitors’ bags, pierce them with my needle, like this, and inject a few drops.

That’s when everyone who bought anything but Straws started getting sick. First the lady who bought a bag of Fritos for her chili. Then the guy who always buys sour cream and onion Lays. Next, the mom who bought barbeque chips for her son who puts them in his PB&J sandwiches. Weird, but that’s humans for you. They all got head pains and puked, and as I overheard from shoppers wandering the aisles, some were hospitalized. Sorry, kid, if that was you.

For Mel’s part, it didn’t help that he was distracted by whoever was lifting from the store. I knew who it was. Guy wears a fancy three-button suit, leather-soled dress shoes that make this gritty sound I can’t stand when he walks, a white pressed shirt, no tie. Leaves a stench of heavy cologne trailing behind as he trolls the aisles.

Mel should have figured it out. The suit guy comes in, never buys anything, but then drives off snacking on something. I see him leaving when I climb to the top of the chip rack. He peels out, munching on jerky or hard-boiled eggs or something else he swiped from the other shelves. I see him walking through our chip aisle, Mel eagle-eyeing him as Mel does everyone in this aisle because of the sicknesses, but he never touches any of the bags because how can you hide a big bag of chips? He moseys by, something already up his sleeve or in his suit pocket, pretending it’s his keys or wallet.

Jerk! He’s a distraction for Mel. All I want him to do is focus on selling more of our Straws, and the suit guy’s thefts mean Mel is going to have to cut products. I know my days living on the shelf are limited. But I did what I was supposed to do. I poked the bags. Got people sick like I was told. Except the folks who bought our delicious Straws.

*

“Last bag of Garden Veggie Straws,” I hear Mel say as I hide behind the bag, my tiny hands holding onto the bag flap, like this.

He picks it up off the shelf, flips the top of the bag toward himself as I scurry to the bottom of the bag, clinging to the bottom flap.

“These expired in January, toss ‘em,” he says to his helper.

I don’t fault Mel. He tried. I tried. Sometimes things don’t work out the way they’re supposed to.

*

The bag flops into the garbage bin behind Mel’s. I’m underneath the bag and the smell of rotten lettuce, moldy cheese, and thawing expired Salisbury steak TV dinners is almost too much. Is this where it all ends?

Then, a shuffling of items at the top of the bin. Someone’s there. I can smell him. He must lap that stuff on so heavily. Gives me a headache, even in here.

The bag of Straws rustles. I grab ahold.

“Never tried these,” the man says to himself, lifting the bag, and me, from the dumpster.

I grip the bag tight.

We’re walking now through the parking lot. He has the bag in one hand, with me attached, the side vent of his suit jacket brushing me. His pace increases and as the bag sways, I look down to my belt.

My needle is still in its holster. And there’s one drop of juice left.