Fight at the Store

I slammed the cash drawer of the till closed with a metallic smash. My manager, who unluckily was walking past at the time, turned and frowned at me. I gave the customer in front of me a bright, fake smile.

"Good afternoon would you like any help with your shopping do you have a store card have you seen our great in-store offers today sir?" I asked him in one breath. He scowelled at me.

"No, I don't have a card. No, I don't want any help. No, I don't want any offers. Speak more slowly and tell me how much I owe you."

"That will be... fifteen pounds and... twenty seven pence," I drawled, drawing out each word as much as I could without being rude. He gave me a sharp glance and reached across to snatch a carrier bag from the holder.

As he whipped the plastic backwards, a small child with fluffy red hair ran from the back of the queue and received a face full of scrumply white plastic. I gasped involuntarily, expecting an outbreak of wailing, but to my increduality the small boy swung round, balled his fists and punched wildly, hitting the old man's thigh with his small hands.

"Watch it, you hooligan!" yelled the man, showing a surprising agility as he side-stepped out of reach. "Who is responsible for this child?" he shouted, attracting the attention of customers from all directions.

The child's mother bustled up, bright red and jabbering accusations. Stunned, I watched as she pitched her remarkable array of expletives against the old man's refined anger. I knew that I should step in, stop them, try to calm the situation, but nothing in my training had prepared me for this sort of scene.

Inevitably the manager appeared, materialising in seconds at the end of my conveyor belt.

"Can we have some QUIET, please?" she screeched into the melee, but above the voices of the angry man, the affronted mother, the screaming child and the excited bystanders her voice was lost.

"You should have some respect!" a lady was repeating at the mother, stabbing a wrinkled finger at her shoulder and being totally ignored. "This man was a fine poet! He deserves some respect!"

"You tell 'im, babes!" yelled a youth from another checkout, his voice carrying in a pocket of quiet. "Stick it to the man!"

This brought a fresh outbreak of rage from the old man's supporters, and a second wave of fury from my manager. Suddenly realising I was on the brink of being fired for failing to cope with a customer situation, I began to flap my hands at the commotion in an utterly illogical manner.

"Please, please be calmer! Please stop shouting!" I begged them, keeping a wary eye on the ever-reddening woman who held the power to fire me. "Can't you please be QUIET?" I screamed, losing my temper.

Amazingly, a hush fell. For a second I thought I had silenced them, and was almost congratulating myself, when in front of my eyes the old man crumbled to the floor in slow motion.

Silence. There was a stunned stillness before a buzz of panic rose, and the woman who had been demanding respect fell to the floor beside the man's body.

"Call an ambulance!" she commanded, and three people immediately pulled out mobile phones.

"Don't be so stupid," spluttered the man in a forced voice. "Fine, I'm fine, I tell you I'm fine."

He attempted to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him. Spurred into action my manager grasped his arms and manouvered him gently into a sitting position, trying to look confident and in control.

"You'll be ok, it's alright, we'll have someone along in a jiffy. Move along there, nothing to see!" she added to the enormous crowd.

Turning to me, she almost snarled "Get back to work! Don't just stand there gawking, you've got a job to do!"

I jumped back to the till, calling out to the assembled mass of people for the next customer, please. Grudgingly they shuffled back into their lines, chattering excitedly and peering over the counter to see the old man being made comfortable. In the next few minutes I had to force myself not to turn and stare as a stretcher arrived to bear him away in an ambulance, and the mother of the red-headed child was taken aside to answer questions.

Keeping a fixed smile on my face I fielded questions from the queing customers, well aware of the presence of my manager.

"No, I'm not aware of whether he's a famous poet, I'm afraid," I told an animated couple who appeared to be contemplating asking for an autograph. "I'm sure he'll be fine," I reassured a worried looking teenage girl who had only seen the tail end of the crisis.

Eventually the rabble of customers who had seen the argument filtered their way out of the store and new ones arrived, oblivious to the events of the previous hour. Taking the opportunity to relax a little I glanced around to see where my manager was. It was going to be a long afternoon.