There is a tower of oranges in the storeroom. Denis lifts crates down from the tower. I stand beside him like a foothill at the base of an Alp. He stacks oranges, clementines, satsumas, and mandarins on my trolley and begins loading his own one with bananas. We push our trolleys to the shop floor; I lead the way like a tug guiding a container ship into dock.
We replenish. I help Denis with the finer points of produce handling and polishing and stacking. He gets the crates of fruit down from the tops of the towers.
We are a team. The Fresh Produce team. Team Banana. Team Orange. Team Team.
There is a commotion in the Fresh Produce department. A customer collapses by the bananas. I alert security, and they call for an ambulance. The woman lies prone, her head resting at the base of the banana display. The woman is young, maybe ten years older then me; blonde hair obscures her eyes. She has angry looking spots around her mouth and cheeks. Denis and I help the security guard, stopping customers from getting too close. Mostly they just want to gawk. Soon we are corralled by a ring of trolleys containing newspapers and bell peppers, pushed by people with slack jaws and vacant eyes. We keep them at bay: Team Team to the rescue.
The paramedics arrive. They part the silver sea of trolleys and gawpers, and check the woman methodically. They pay particular attention to her hands and feet. Loading her onto a trolley, the paramedics wheel her away.
Good work, lads, one of them says.
The shoppers disperse. I swap theories with Denis and the security guard about what was wrong with the woman for a while, and then we go back to work.
My chest fills with pride over our ‘good work’. I do good work for the rest of the day.
We replenish. I help Denis with the finer points of produce handling and polishing and stacking. He gets the crates of fruit down from the tops of the towers.
We are a team. The Fresh Produce team. Team Banana. Team Orange. Team Team.
There is a commotion in the Fresh Produce department. A customer collapses by the bananas. I alert security, and they call for an ambulance. The woman lies prone, her head resting at the base of the banana display. The woman is young, maybe ten years older then me; blonde hair obscures her eyes. She has angry looking spots around her mouth and cheeks. Denis and I help the security guard, stopping customers from getting too close. Mostly they just want to gawk. Soon we are corralled by a ring of trolleys containing newspapers and bell peppers, pushed by people with slack jaws and vacant eyes. We keep them at bay: Team Team to the rescue.
The paramedics arrive. They part the silver sea of trolleys and gawpers, and check the woman methodically. They pay particular attention to her hands and feet. Loading her onto a trolley, the paramedics wheel her away.
Good work, lads, one of them says.
The shoppers disperse. I swap theories with Denis and the security guard about what was wrong with the woman for a while, and then we go back to work.
My chest fills with pride over our ‘good work’. I do good work for the rest of the day.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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