Haven Or Hell?

• Shannon Astill, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

The repetitive beep of the checkout seems to numb the noise of the packed isles. The first four hours dragged on due to long lines and never ending purchases. Scanning groceries all day long must be the most unfulfilling job. No single aspect gives me a sense of satisfaction. I’m not creating anything, helping anyone or making a difference in people’s lives. Once I had been the person on the other side of the register, but now I’m just a link in the food buying chain, and a highly educated link at that.
Customer. Greet and smile. Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Announce, “Twenty-five dollars and sixty-five cents please.” Take money. Give change and receipt. Repeat. Repeat and hope another won’t join the line...
Automatic doors slide open and the outside world is visible. There’s a storm. The smell of the rain and a gust of air step through. I breathe in deep as the doors slide shut; the outside is world closed off for a time longer.
Greet and smile. Scan: chips, frozen vegetables, beef mince, bread, lighter and a packet of cigarettes. A small hand reaches over the counter and pushes up a lollypop. Scan. Announce, “Thirty-six dollars and fifty cents please.” Change. Receipt. Greet stained teeth filling a crooked smile. Scan chips and coke. Announce, “Seven dollars and-”
Another gust of wind slides through the door and I notice a small black and white bird flying through the automatic doors as they close. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I scan another load of food. Small and wet, he perches on the cold metal that ends in a light box; he watches me as well. I scan– he tilts his head. I scan again– he tilts his head the other way. Announce, “Fifty-six dollars and twenty cents.” He flies away.
With a few quick beats of wings he flies over the registers and lands on a sign above the fruit and vegetable department, still visible from my register. Sitting above the “Australia’s only 200% table fresh guarantee” sign he scans below; a haven of stacked produce lays beneath him. He flitters around excitedly from side to side on the suspended sign; I continue to scan.
“Look mummy! A bird!” squeals a toothless mouth as chubby fingers point.
“Yes, love. I think it’s come inside to get out of the rain.”
Why? Out of all the places a bird could take refugee why fly into this store? This is no place for a bird to fly about in and live. The outside world is where he should be, the world for free minded animals. Not here. This is a trap, a cage, a prison guarded by sliding doors and the tick of the clock that governors the release of its cell mates. This is not a haven; it’s a hell.
Greet. Scan. Scan and keep in sight the small bird that surveys the large figures below amongst the fruit and vegetables. A leathery hand reaches for a bunch of grapes; the bird watches, waits. The grapes are carried away in a red basket and the bird, now knowing his target, swoops, plucks a grape with a shiny beak and lands on top of a noisy drink fridge.
“Excuse me,” says a demanding voice, “I want to speak to your manger. There is a filthy bird in this store and I don’t like it.” Caught.
“Of course,” I say with false warmth, “I’ll just call my manager now.” Smile and turn away. I reach for the microphone watching the bird and announce, “Customer service, checkout manager to register five please, checkout manager to register five.” The bird, having finished his grape, rejoins me at my register.
“Filthy bloody animal,” disapproves the demanding voice. A pungent aroma of nicotine mixed with body odor lingers in the air. I nod politely and smile as if in agreement. Long unwashed hair rests on an un-ironed faded Bundaberg Rum shirt. Wrinkled forehead is scratched by yellowing finger nails.
The door slides open. Outside the sun is emerging from the empty rain clouds yet inside a storm of an argument is just beginning.
As the manager arrives he is greeted by the demanding voice which demands for something to be done about the “filthy animal.” The argument between hot-temper and uninterested laziness begins. Cocked headed and lively the “filthy animal” watches the argument like a small child at the circus. I scan.
“What if the bird has lice? What if it craps all over the fruit and vegetables and we eat it and we get lice?”
“Yes, I see your point. But I just can’t ask it to leave! How am I supposed to catch it when it’s seven feet above me?”
“Well haven’t you ever heard of a ladder?”
“Yes, but that will just scare it and make it fly somewhere else! It’s not going to sit there saying, ‘Please pick me up!’”
“How dare you insult my intelligence! Who do you think you are? You're a nothing. My seven year old daughter could do what you do!”
“Look I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Doors slide open and the day is now clear and inviting. The demanding voice storms off leaving behind the promise of “never shopping here again.”
The bird, now aware of the change in weather, watches the mechanical doors for an opening to the outside world.
Doors slide open and worn thongs step through pushing a metal trolley. The bird flaps, glides and lands in a neighboring tree– free. Free from a life of entrapment. Free from a world ruled by plastic sheets and pressed metal. Free to do as it pleases.
I remove my gaze from the bird and look at the clock. Forty-five minuets until my release.
Greet. Scan. Hope to one day be as free as that “filthy animal”; as free as that brilliant bird!