Last Friday afternoon, I walked into Central Market on Lovers Lane for possibly the last time. And, in retrospect, I feel lucky I was able to walk out.
After picking up a few items, including a thoughtfully selected group of ingredients from the salad bar, I was making the circle around the prepared-foods case when suddenly I found myself on the ground. I had fallen forward, my left knee slamming into the floor. The basket I was carrying also flew forward, propelling salad in all directions. Confused and embarrassed, I picked myself up and told the fellow shopper who had to come to my aid that I was okay. When I turned around, I was still embarrassed but no longer confused. Behind me was a puddle — and I do mean puddle — of spilled oil. My left foot had hit the oil patch and flung me forward.
Eventually, embarrassment would turn to disappointment.
The first Central Market staffer on the scene was a man with a mop bucket. He promptly cleaned up the oil and set up a wet-floor sign. Shocked by the size of the oil spill (I would estimate that it was 8 inches in length and 3 inches in width), I say, “That’s really bad.” Mop guy responds with “Yeah, that’s bad.” Nothing else. No apology. Next on the scene is a man with a walkie-talkie. “Are you okay?” he says. I say yes. “Someone is coming to talk to you,” he says. Nothing else. No apology.
At this point, my knee has begun to throb. I realize I have oil spattered in various spots on my jeans. And the bottom of my left shoe is pretty much dripping with oil. While I wait for the mysterious “someone” to come talk to me, I imagine that it must be the store manager, eager to apologize profusely and try to win back my sure-to-be-waning love. I also spend this time trying to sop up the oil from my shoe so I don’t fall down again. It’s also worth noting that to do this, I’m using napkins I had just happened to grab from the salad bar earlier. No one has offered any help with this situation, and my basket is still sitting on the floor.
Finally, “someone” arrives. I believe her name was Courtney. She doesn’t reveal her title. For all I know, she’s the loss prevention manager or the deli manager or a random woman who likes to interview injured customers and jot down notes in a spiral notebook. Courtney, you might have already guessed, does not apologize.
Her first words to me: “Oh, flip-flops.” This, as I’m working my way through the stack of napkins. “This has nothing to do with flip-flops,” I say. “It’s the huge oil spill in your floor.” Things do not improve from here. Courtney then asks my name, address, and phone number. I spell my last name for her, but when I look over her shoulder, I see that she’s written down a wildly misspelled version. She asks me which direction I was walking when I fell. Um, north? I point. She asks me how the oil got there. I tell her that if I knew that, I probably wouldn’t have stepped in it. She tells me not to worry about it, that they would check the security-camera footage and find out where it came from. If there’s footage, I wonder, why am I being interrogated? She asks me on what part of my body did I fall. I tell her — even though the footage, apparently, can tell her the same. Sensing my irritation, Courtney says, “One of those days, huh?” I tell her no, my day was perfectly fine until I stepped inside Central Market.
When Courtney has gotten all the information she needs, she tells me that “someone” will be calling me in a few days to get more details about the incident. Realizing no apology — nor common courtesy — is coming, I look down at my oil-stained clothing and ruined salad and tell Courtney that I, too, am done. I will be leaving the store, sans purchases.
Courtney then smiles at me and says, “I hope your day gets better.”
Courtney, if you were wondering, my day did not get better. When I left Central Market, I had to venture to one of your competitors to fetch dinner — for the second time. My swollen knee turned multiple shades of purple and blue. It was — and still is — sore to the touch. I had to take aspirin to ease the pain in my knee as well as the stiffness I now had in the left side of my neck. I also discovered that I had sliced open the middle finger on my left hand. I must have hit something on my way down. I have no idea what it was, but when you check the footage, maybe you can tell me.
Central Market, I’m waiting for your call. I understand that you have more questions for me. I also have some questions for you.
