CELERY FOREST

A week later I’m back in Stan’s queue at the supermarket. This time I’m turning up the heat.

52 loose mushrooms.

20 red peppers - 4 orange, 2 green.

4 unwrapped broccoli, 16 loose carrots.

That’s just the first wave.

He hasn’t seen me yet, joking with other customers full of good cheer as the old couple fill their bags with more waste than food.

After the carrots, I’ve taken the time to snap off 72 individual sticks of celery, the plastic coating with barcode saved to hand Stan one by one to remove that potential reason not to serve me. The pale green stalks stand vertically thanks to strategically placed cartons of chopped tomatoes, like a forest.

At the back of my produce is a Greenpeace information pamphlet detailing the projected drop off of species as a direct result of plastic pollution. I have to believe that Stan will understand why I’m working on him, visit by visit. I’m fully aware that this is not his fault; nor is it the responsibility of his line manager, or even the store MD.

This is apathy, the sloth of every citizen who tosses a bunch of plastic-wrapped celery into a basket without question. But if Stan has to be the first sacrifice, so be it.

Break Stan and they’ll begin to see the power of the dissatisfied customer.

The couple in front thank him and peel away to the chairs by the supermarket notice boards before Stan, still smiling, hits a button to start a new transaction. He says hello without making eye contact. Only when the first of the mushrooms rolls off the edge and into his crotch do I see a flicker of recognition ghost across his face. He sighs and looks up. The cheeriness of two minutes ago evaporates as he stands and looks over the forest of celery.

“Oh come on, how am I supposed t-“

“You tell me, Stan. We’re all busy mate. This is the second Sunday in a row that you’ve run out of the little paper bags for the mushrooms and still no sign of taking the plastic off the celery.”

He presses a button. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m calling a manager, you can’t snap off celery like that.”

“But I’d like to buy it, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?”

He says nothing, still on his feet, peering beyond the other customers for some backup authority. “Isn’t it? Answer me Stan, do your job!”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is pal, I’m just trying to earn a living.”

A young man packaged in a more important looking uniform appears behind Stan. “Did you buzz?”

“Yeah, this customer has torn up the celery and expects me to put through all these loose mushrooms.”

“Is there a problem with that?” I ask them, keeping my eyes on the manager, who cannot be older than 25.

“We have the packaging on them for a rea-“

“Which is?”

“Sorry?”

“What’s the reason?”

“Well, conveni-“

“Not good enough.”

“Well I’m sorry, but it’s-”

“The way it is?”

I snatch up the Greenpeace leaflet and thrust it into the manager’s palm. “This was for Stan, but since you’re here, you can share it, maybe on your tea break. It’s unacceptable to keep producing more unnecessary waste and someone needs to spea-“

“Oh fuck off pal! Some of us have got stuff to do!” A red-faced bald man a few places back in the line shouts, enraged. Several other customers mumble in agreement but I’m not having it.

“Take it, read it and sell me my celery, please.”

“You’re acting like a prick and making this harder for all of us, what’s your problem?” The bald guy asks, veins jiggling under the fatty skin on his neck. I’m about to explain the issue when it dawns on me I won’t get through. I stay quiet. Reluctantly, the manager lets me take the celery for free.

“Write it off as damages this once.” He says. Stan looks upset but does as he is told by a manager half his age. They gather up the rest of my goods between them, both clearly irritated by this defeat. As I’m wheeling my trolley away, I hear some kind of insult from the meathead, so I gather up a mushroom and pelt it at his head. It hits him just above the ear with the most satisfying ‘pock’ I could have hoped for. He starts to give chase, but the lady he is with shouts him down and I run off with my trolley, giggling under my breath.