Denis, Freddie and I put the finishing touches to the orange pyramid. This one is 3.5 metres tall and each side of the base measures 5 metres in length. We use a grapefruit for the capstone.
The Turtle watches as customers pile their baskets high with oranges, clementines, mandarins and satsumas. She gives us a nod of approval and an encouraging lash of the whip before moving on. I leave Freddie in charge of the orange pyramid and go to fetch bananas from the storeroom.
I cannot replenish the banana display, as there is a man in it. His head and arms are not visible as he has reaches right over the first stack of crates and rummages around at the back. I park my trolley and watch him.
He jerks and strains like he is trying to free something deep in the display, his feet lifting off the ground every now and then. Planting both feet, the man braces himself and pulls his upper body free. He emerges, holding a blackish banana in one latex-gloved hand. Turning, he looks at me as I stand there. The man is wearing a black polo shirt, black combat trousers, a black cap, and a white breathing mask over his mouth and nose.
He looks at me, and I look at him.
Can I help you? I say.
I think I’ve got everything under control, he says. He produces a clear ziplock bag and carefully puts the banana in it, seals it and puts it in his pocket.
What are you going to do with that?
The man looks nervous, his gaze darting around the fresh produce department. His roaming eyes finally settle on mine.
Did no one tell you? I’m doing random fresh produce checks in the area.
The man produces an ID of some kind, and flashes it toward me, too quickly to make out any details.
Your manager will know all about it, he says.
What kind of checks are you doing? I say.
Freshness tests, that kind of thing.
The man produces a plastic rod from his thigh pocket. It resembles a small club or truncheon. He waves the rod at me.
Fruit tester, he says.
He taps a peach with the rod.
That one’s okay, he says.
The man moves away, tapping at random fresh produce as he edges towards the door. He taps at several places on the orange pyramid, gives me a thumbs up gesture and exits the store.
I watch the door for a while, but he doesn’t come back.
The Turtle watches as customers pile their baskets high with oranges, clementines, mandarins and satsumas. She gives us a nod of approval and an encouraging lash of the whip before moving on. I leave Freddie in charge of the orange pyramid and go to fetch bananas from the storeroom.
I cannot replenish the banana display, as there is a man in it. His head and arms are not visible as he has reaches right over the first stack of crates and rummages around at the back. I park my trolley and watch him.
He jerks and strains like he is trying to free something deep in the display, his feet lifting off the ground every now and then. Planting both feet, the man braces himself and pulls his upper body free. He emerges, holding a blackish banana in one latex-gloved hand. Turning, he looks at me as I stand there. The man is wearing a black polo shirt, black combat trousers, a black cap, and a white breathing mask over his mouth and nose.
He looks at me, and I look at him.
Can I help you? I say.
I think I’ve got everything under control, he says. He produces a clear ziplock bag and carefully puts the banana in it, seals it and puts it in his pocket.
What are you going to do with that?
The man looks nervous, his gaze darting around the fresh produce department. His roaming eyes finally settle on mine.
Did no one tell you? I’m doing random fresh produce checks in the area.
The man produces an ID of some kind, and flashes it toward me, too quickly to make out any details.
Your manager will know all about it, he says.
What kind of checks are you doing? I say.
Freshness tests, that kind of thing.
The man produces a plastic rod from his thigh pocket. It resembles a small club or truncheon. He waves the rod at me.
Fruit tester, he says.
He taps a peach with the rod.
That one’s okay, he says.
The man moves away, tapping at random fresh produce as he edges towards the door. He taps at several places on the orange pyramid, gives me a thumbs up gesture and exits the store.
I watch the door for a while, but he doesn’t come back.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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