Super Store

Super Store

He shot right past us while I was wallowing in my mire of self-doubt and loathing. Cycling by as though he seemed in his natural element, a bird taking to flight. I on the other hand felt like a pig in shit. Spending my day walking though the main drag of town sucking in the fumes of Highway number one that were assaulting the precious tissues in my lung, I guess my “Winny-Blue” didn’t help either, but that was my choice.
I had the family in tow, the 3 year old moaning every step of this arduous journey. What I saw reflected on that chrome B.M.X bike was the future that might be. A white Aussie male in his late twenties or early thirties crouched over and peddling madly on a bike made for a 13 year old. He wore the uniform of our underclass; skin-tight stretch jeans, the denim could only be described as cheap and definitely vile. His jacket was standard blue-collar workmen’s drill, the kind that has the safety fluro orange colour lining, all 100% synthetic, he had stock standard favorite checked flannelette shirt underneath. It would have all been worn day after day, till you get that sweet piquet smell of the uncaring unkempt.
I think it must be the combined body secretions mixed with the fungi that feed off it, that creates the unmistakable stink of societies most in need. He didn’t care less as he flew past, the tails of his mullet flapping in the wind.

We were walking to town, even though we had no money to spend. We had just left the car at the tyre super center; using up the last of the saved money to replace the bald pieces of rubber that once were tyres.
The walking was probably doing us good, it might get rid of the fat gut that I have. It has always been a stubborn mother; mine has always been difficult to loose because mine is not a beer gut, all fluid. Rather mine is made of sturdier things like chocolate and lard all mixed with cheap sausages and mash.

The pits of my arms are still playing up, I never remember them being so sweaty, and they constantly stink now: perhaps that is a symptom of the situation I find myself in. Unemployed: I guess my workman’s jacket doesn’t help, my arms can’t breathe, I’ll make a note to look for some anti sweat, anti smell powder at the cheap new chemist superstore when I go past.

“Gee’s can’t that kid of mine walk two minutes without the tormented bemoaning.” Susan intends going to Spotlight again. I told her we don’t have money for any more craft; she is obsessed with the Spotlight superstore. Today she wants silk backing for a baby blanket she is making for a friend who is expecting. I suspect it’s her release from having her husband home under her feet 24.7. I’ll let her have her release, as little as it may be. I think she is just beautiful; the way she asks, it isn’t even for her; she worries about it as though it were for her own. I look down at the pram she pushes with the masterpiece that keeps our new baby son warm. I don’t know how many visits to Spotlight that creation took. I do know that there won’t be any more blankets made in our family, we just can’t afford the cost of quality yarn.

We have just enough to scrape up for our special lunch. I order the burger meal deals, I save by not upgrading to large, instead steal extra chips from my boy while the kiddy toy in the burger pack distracts him. Across the street we see the “Office World Super Store” that’s under construction. Three weeks ago I went for the interview to become their “Team Member.” The young Human Resources girl asked me questions like “ How did you overcome problems in the workplace and what steps did you take when confronted by another difficult team-member.” I thought long and careful; telling her the answer that I thought would see me selling stationary in a pleasant and cohesive work environment. My answer must have been wrong; I got a rejection letter in the mail last week. I am not going to be working at Office World.

I stuff in the remaining fries, refill all the drinks at the self serve and head back for the long walk to the tyre super center. We stop and spend quite a while at the chemist, I look at the twelve different varieties of deodorizing talcum powder and don’t buy any. We continue to walk. “For Christ’s sake! Will you stop your winging and complaining, just keep walking; we’re nearly there.

Super Store


Joined November 2008

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