My mom has a number of health issues stemming from a car accident over a decade ago, mostly involving her spine. She's had three surgeries: one for a herniated disk, one to remove a bone spur jabbing into her sciatic nerve and one to fuse vertebrae in her neck. As such, the walking required to handle daily chores is not exactly the high point in her life. However, the doctors say she needs to walk to retain mobility and re-build her stamina.
For long shopping trips through the big chain store Windso Foods, we let her have the cart and she uses it like a walker for support. Note: she has progressed past needing a cane for most daily walks, but through big stores, it's just better for her to have something to lean on.
We're trundling along at a slow walk, going down the list of food we need and a Meth Bitch comes flying out of nowhere while my back is turned, cuts RIGHT past Mom, so close she nearly sideswipes her into the shelving, cuts in front of her and stops.
"Excuse YOU!" Snarls Meth Bitch, snatching something off the shelf and shooting off at a reckless speed that should have resulted in a Speeding Ticket-- 55mph in a 3 mph zone. Her Whore Horde trots along after her without even acknowledging our existence.
I clench my fists but choose to take the high road, figuring Meth Bitch is going so fast that she'll be way ahead of us in no time at all. This turns out not to be so.
Meth Bitch's shopping strategy is to circle an aisle at least twice at full speed, then brake abruptly, snatch something, throw it into the cart and continue as though momentum and kinetic energy are theories rather than laws. I wonder how that bunch of bananas liked being slam dunked into the cart... Also, food whiplash something fierce. I know we are mean to devour food, but I do not beat the everloving fuck out of it hours or days before it's eaten. That's just cruel and unusual punishment, even to fruit.
We get to pass Meth Bitch and her Whore Hoard as they natter over whether to get this thing or that thing and pitter pat our way to the fresh fruit. Mom and I debate about getting apples and I go ahead to get a bag: our shopping strategy is to send me ahead to bag stuff so that by the time mom catches up, I can just put it in the cart without her needing to stop and stand in place, waiting.
I free a bag and start to bag the apples and spot Meth Bitch charging me at full speed, her head rotated 180 degrees to face directly behind her at the Whore Hoard. I make a desperate dive out of the way, like a matador evading a charging bull. Meth Bitch plows straight through the place where I had been standing to pulls up with a screech of cart brakes against the cold vegetable display against the wall.
Cursing like a sailor to myself, I bag the fruit and turn to put it in the cart. Mom tells me in a mutter that Meth Bitch had nearly slammed into her. I said I knew and that she needed to watch where she was going.
Our voices where too low to be heard, but Meth Bitch's radar was in hyper drive and she stalks straight over to us and leans into our personal space, blatantly trying to listen in. Her face is so gaunt it's skeletal and she's missing several teeth, displaying a few rotten stumps where some teeth were just left after breaking.
I look her in the eye and said "Hi. You need to watch where you're going. You almost hit Mom and damn near plowed into me."
We scowl, turn the corner, and move on to fresh veggies. I start snagging and bagging the salad bits for a fresh, green salad, coming back to deposit them in the cart as I go. Here comes Meth Bitch, careening around the corner like she's on the Indy racetrack and aiming right for me.
I've had enough. I lift my right foot to just the right height, brace myself and stiffen my leg. I send a silent prayer of apology to Carty as I prepare to give Meth Bitch a rude awakening. The bottom shelf of the cart, reserved for cases of soda and the like, slams into my braced foot full force, rocking me in place. The bottom of my foot stings and starts to throb lightly, but Meth Bitch got the worst of it.
Since her head was turned 180 degrees behind her again, she did not expect the sudden stop and the hand bar slams into her gut with the force of a car accident. Her breath whooshes out of her lungs and she wheezes as she stares at me in disbelief.
"Watch. Where the fuck. You are going." I tell her, lowering my foot gingerly back to the ground. I twist-tie the bag shut and manage to walk back to mom's cart without limping.
Meth Bitch and the Whore Horde made themselves scarce and we never saw them again that whole shopping trip.
May all your customers be nice,