Myra's Trip to Walmart:  'Short Stories'

By Vanessa Sgroi © 2008

It was a beautiful Spring day with blue skies and warm breezes.  Robins and starlings streaked to and fro with bits of flotsam for their homey nests. 

Myra Grum saw none of the beauty of the day.  It was Tuesday, the third one of the month, and it was her day to go to Walmart.  Early morning was the best time to go, and Myra always left the house at 9:00 a.m. on the dot. 

She trudged to her car, tapping her intricately carved wooden cane.  Myra was not quite 70 but looked 90, and she often told people she felt 105.  Her tightly curled hair and self-righteously pursed lips added to the illusion.  There were some who dared to say she didn't need the cane, and they were promptly disabused of the notion with a well-placed and swift swat. 

Myra's ancient black Cadillac started with a growl rather than a purr.  Backing out of the driveway, she heard a thump and glanced in her rearview mirror to see she'd knocked over her neighbors' trash can.

Serves them right.  I've told them not to put it there. 

As she continued on down the street, she smirked as she watched pieces of trash toss on the wind and land in various and sundry places in the neighbors' neatly-tailored yard.  None of it would dare land on her property. 

Walmart's parking lot was nearly empty with only about a dozen cars clustered in the spots nearest the doors.  Myra drove up the aisle and noticed a small red Ford slowing to pull into a slot.  Speeding up, she swung around the hapless vehicle and rammed her big boat of a car into the parking space.  She guffawed at the look of astonishment on the other driver's face. 

She threw open her car door and hopped out, completely ignoring the fact that her door had dinged the car parked next to her.  Gathering her geometrically-patterned mumu around her, she clutched her purse and cane and marched off—the slap-clapping of her clodhoppers against the pavement sounding like an ominous drumbeat. 

Myra sailed past the elderly greeter inside the door, momentarily considering tripping the old man with her cane.  Deciding not to bother, she hurried over to the shopping carts. 

Spying a young Walmart employee, she yelled, "You there! Yes, you young man!" 

"Yes, ma'am?"  The young man's name badge read "Stevie". 

"Stevie?  What kind of name is that anyway!  Listen, I want a cart." 

"Yes, ma'am.  They're all right here." 

"No-no!  I want YOU to find me a cart.  It mustn't squeak or wobble.  I won't accept a filthy one either." 

Reluctantly, Stevie began searching for a cart for the querulous woman.  Some 17 carts later, he finally found one that met her standards.  He barely bit back the sigh of relief when she stomped away.  He could only hope he'd not have to deal with her again any time soon. 

Leaving Stevie behind, Myra marched off in to find the items composing her carefully made list.  She glowered at other patrons she happened across, particularly a happy looking couple in the book aisle.  The woman was blonde while the man was dark-haired.  Their laughter rippled merrily up and down the aisle.  Myra made sure to bump their cart and send it rolling into a pile of precariously stacked books, which promptly tumbled.  Their gasps brought a gleeful smile to Myra's prune face. 

Knowing where just about everything was in the store made her visits tolerably short.  It wasn't long before her cart contained most of her purchases.  The last thing she needed was toilet paper.  Lumbering toward the correct aisle, she paused to look at bedspreads.  Her perusal was punctuated with annoyed grunts of dissatisfaction. 

Too pink. 

Too green. 

Ugh.  Too yellow. 

Oh for God's sake, who would want FLOWERS on their bedspread! 

Thinking of her still serviceable white chenille spread, Myra sniffed in disgust and pushed the cart away from the offending bedroom linen. 

In the paper products aisle, she was surprised to find only one package of her brand of toilet paper left on the shelf.  She reached for it, only to have it snatched away at this last second. 

"What do you think you're doing?  That was mine!"  Spinning toward the offender, she raised her cane intending to stab an unsuspecting toe. 

"Uh uh uh.  I wouldn't do that if I were you."  The old man next to her slyly smiled. 

"Why . . . why . . . just who . . . who do you think you are?" her outrage was palpable. 

"Madam, I . . . I am Mort Flinglies.  And I have a cane of my own.  I'm also the gentleman who took the last package of Softy Puf." 

Furious, Myra made a move to grab the package.  The tip of a cane digging into the toe of her left clodhopper stopped her. 

"Now, now my dear.  No need to get all worked up."  Mort started to chuckle and rakishly tipped a non-existent hat at Myra.  Still chuckling, he tossed the toilet paper in his cart and all but skipped away. 

For once Myra was left speechless.  Forgetting about the toilet paper altogether, she stormed to the front of the store and her favorite check out aisle.  There, she managed to make short work of terrorizing the stuttering cashier with exacting demands and complaints.  After demanding a third recount of her change, she grabbed the money and stuffed it in her purse before stalking away, steering the cart like it was an army tank. 

As the automatic door closed behind Myra's retreating figure, Stevie stood near the cart carrel shaking his head.  The elderly greeter stood next to him. 

"Wow, am I glad she's gone!  That is one bitchy female." 

"Son, all I can say is get used to it.  Don't forget--she'll be back in three short weeks." 

Stevie sighed with relief.  That gave him three weeks to search for a new job.

The End...

 

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