The Blood Was on My Hands

It is a dreadful day. The weather speaks of nothing but drear memories of the past. The customers in the market appear to have recently received terrible news.  My co-workers sigh.  My boss rants. And I. I am trying to keep a smile on my face. 

"Hello, Sir! Will that be all?"

"Yeah."

"Ok! That will be three dollars and two cents!"

The customer is a man, fairly young with round spectacles and shaggy hair. He looks to be a nice sort of fellow. He hands me a credit card so he can pay for his loaf of bread and get the heck out of the market full of dread.

"Oh. Sorry. We have a five dollar minimum on credit cards. You could.....buy an apple or something..."

"What?"

"You maybe could buy an apple to bring the total up to five dollars. We have a minimum. Sorry bout that"

"I can't believe this. I'm not going to buy a stinkin apple! I have a right to buy this loaf of bread with this credit card!"

"No sir. You don't. We have a minimum. It says that on the sign when you come in the door."

"Right! Oh this is really rich. On the sign. Ok. Well I'll tell you something. Its against the law to do this to people. AGAINST THE LAW. READ THE CONTRACT."

The man chucks the loaf of bread at me. I catch the thing and stare in wonder as the man is swallowed up by the dismal gust of wind that hits me in the face as he slams the door. 

"Wow." I say to myself. This is proving to be a fine day. 

-Three Hours Later-

After numerous run-ins with equally hateful customers, I have given up on smiling. I am angrily sorting out moldy muscadines from the good ones.  I throw each muscadine into its proper paper back with great angst.   As I complete this task, worthy of the title "mundane" I hear my boss tell the woman to whom he has just sold some groceries, 

"Mam, can I help you out with those bags?"

"No. You cannot" is her curt reply.

The woman is old. Very heavy set. Walks with a walker. I notice that she is struggling to get out of the door. Her walker is propped up on top of her shopping cart and is teetering to one side.  I walk over to the woman and gently put my hand on her elbow saying "Mam, let me help you."  The woman yanks her arm away from me as if I have leprosy and says for all to hear, "I said I don't want any help!"  Naturally, I back away.

But just as I start to turn and walk from the door, it happens.  The woman pushes the shopping cart one last, forceful time and it lurches forward too quickly. The walker that was propped on top goes crashing sideways into a bushel of butternut squashes, followed by the shopping cart, followed then by the woman who slams her head on the side of the porch stairs after squashing a basket of miniature onions.  It all seems to happen in slow motion but after the shock of it all ends I rush to the woman's aid who is muttering "Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!"

"Mam, don't move. I'm going to let you rest your head on my hands until you figure out where you are hurt"

At this point my boss, who has the heart of dead pig, yells for Damon, the preacher/mortician who does fruit market work on the side.  Dwayne the boss stands with arms folded, watching me try to calm down a woman who is laying in the doorway, piles of yellow onions cheerfully surrounding her robust figure. Damon arrives and immediately takes the woman's hand, telling her everything will be alright. 

"Please don't call an ambulance. I don't have no insurance!"

"Mam, do you know anyone who could come get you?"

"No! My husband is eighty-one years old and caint drive. Jus gimme a minute. I'll come round"

"Ok. Well do ya think you can sit up?"

"I've fallen before mister and it took three men ta help me sat up"

"Mam, I'm jus gonna tell you I'm a mortician and am used ta liftin people biggern you that're dead weight. I'll get you up."

"Oh Lord! Why'd you go an tell me that?"

During this exchange of words I am still holding the woman's head in my hands. I begin to feel my hands becoming very moist.  I pull one hand out from under her head and to my dread, see that it is covered with blood.

"Oh! um. Oh. great. Damon. Her head is bleeding!"

"Oh my LORD! My head is bleeding? Is is busted? Oh my goodness!"

"Mam, please try and stay calm"

Damon sees the look of terror on my face and decides that we better get the woman sitting up before I vomit everywhere. 

"Alright. On the count of three. We're gonna set you up. One. Two. THREE!"

Damon and I strain with all of our strength and finally the woman is sitting up. I run to the back room to start scrubbing the blood off of my hands. Visions of what my life will be like with HIV run through my mind as I still try to keep from ralphing everywhere. I put some rubber gloves on and grab the first aid kit, knowing that I can't just let the woman sit there and bleed all over the place.

"Mam, I'm gonna try and clean up your head a little Ok?"

"Ok. just go easy!"

The woman's hair is thinning and her scalp is easy to see. The cut is not bad, just a scratch, but is bleeding heavily. I stop the bleeding finally and clean her head. The woman's white hair is now pink from the blood. 

"Well. You're hair is now pink but I think it looks great!"

The woman chuckles.

"Maybe my husband will like it. I'll tell him I got it done at the salon. Thats where I was headed after this anyway!"

We all laugh and Damon says

"Well I guess I should ask you if you know what day it is?"

"Its Saturday."

"Alright...um whats you're name?"

"Elizabeth Taylor"

Damon and I look at each other, not knowing if the woman is kidding. Damon finally speaks.

"Well, I hate to dissapoint you but I'm not Clark Gable"

"Ha! My name really is Elizabeth Taylor. No one ever believes me!"

The woman pulls our her driver's license and shows us.   Sure enough it reads "Elizabeth Ann Taylor."

Elizabeth Taylor, Damon, and I looked at each other and laugh. The woman looks at me and says, 

"Its not everyday you get to have Elizabeth Taylor's blood on your hands is it?

"No mam. I guess not."

Oh boy. What a day.