Off Balance - Chris Callaghan

Cerise fell down in the Wal-Mart this morning. She didn’t trip on the spill in aisle four where the yellow collapsible wet floor signs had been set up. Nobody had accosted her, no screaming out of control children had run into her legs. She just fell down.

She’d been near the pharmacy area scanning the shelves for a miracle cure for her dizziness. For a week now she had had that swirly feeling inside her head like she’d been on the big Wheel of Danger ride at the carnival too many times.

As a kid she and her friends would actually pay good money to be herded up the rickety ramp, inserted into those coffin sized slots and stand there gripping the bars in anticipation as the bored Carney guy came around and clipped the safety belt on (which she’d finally realized was patently ridiculous as the thing was at least a foot away from her body).

Thirty years later in Wal-Mart she was getting that same weak-kneed feeling for free. Now she would have paid to have it disappear.

Glad that she’d worn her purple muumuu which puddled gracefully around her butt and old lady chicken legs, she sat on the concrete floor and tried to get her eyes to focus on the band-aids and Bactine in front of her. Her fellow shoppers just walked around her like she was invisible. Weirder things had happened at Wally World than an old brown lady on the floor, she guessed.

Cerise recognized an employee by his distinctive blue cotton shirt and name badge racing past her towards the check out counters. He kept yelling, “Code 24, code24!” which probably meant “shopper down” in Wal-Mart vernacular.

Would they call an ambulance? God, she was so humiliated. If she could just get this dizziness under control and get up she could move over an aisle and act like it was somebody else on the floor before the manager got to her.

A little boy stopped in front of her and stared deep into her eyes. He scrunched up his nose, put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Lady, you all right?”

Cerise shook her head. “Dizzy, can’t get up.” The boy sped off around the corner and for some reason she felt deserted.

The band-aid labels were coming into focus, the dizziness was draining out of her into the floor. If she could grab a hold of the shelving, maybe she could get up.

Suddenly the little boy was back dragging a man by the hand. The man had tattoos all over his arms and looked dangerous. Cerise flinched. But he leaned down and said, “Need a hand?”

“Yes, thank you,” she told him. And he stood behind her, put his arms around her chest and picked her up like a sack of flour. When she was on her feet her head felt clearer.

“Do you want to sit down? There’s a bench over there in the pharmacy.” He said.

“I’m fine now,” she said. “If I can just get to my car, I’ll be okay.” So the scary strong man linked her arm in his and gallantly escorted her out into the parking lot to her old beige Chevy Impala and handed her into it.

Cerise had giggled when they passed the manager heading towards the pharmacy with two paramedics in tow.

She buckled her seat belt, waved to the man to show she was okay and started the car. As she drove out of the parking lot, she vowed to call her doctor as soon as she got home and make an appointment to find out what the dizziness was.

Cerise never wanted to fall down in Wal-Mart again