The Adventure of the Gross Grocery

Chapter 7 - Tick Tock, Loading Dock

A sign on the swinging doors reads, "Stock Room, Authorized Personnel Only." I might get in a lot of trouble going back there, but it's worth the risk — especially if I find the wallet. With luck, the grumpy stock man won't be around, and I can quickly snoop around before he comes back. If he catches me, I'll just say I got lost. This all sounds good and reasonable, but I'm still pretty nervous. 

Slowly, I creak open the doors an inch. The room appears to be empty, but with so many stacks of boxes, I can't tell for sure. However, there's no truck parked in the loading dock, and the rolling door to the outside is closed. So it looks like the coast's clear, at least for now.

My every footstep echoes on the concrete floor. I stop and listen. Voices! They're coming from behind a large stack of banana crates. With great caution, I squeeze between the boxes and peer out. 

"What color eyes does she have?" asks the chalk imp. He's busy drawing a portrait of me on the concrete. 

"I'll tell you for five dollars," says the toad creature, who's reclining in a lawn chair with his hands behind his head. 

"Waste of chalk. Why not draw some fungus?" asks the onion creature, who's constructing snowmen out of dust clumps nearby. 

"Hello, fellows," I say, emerging from my hiding spot. They all jump when they hear my voice.

"You're not authorized to be here," says the onion creature. 

"And you are?"

"Well, no," says the chalk imp, "not technically."

"What're you doing back here anyway?"

"Having a tea break."

I put my hands on my hips. "So where's the tea?"

"None of us likes tea," says the onion creature, sticking out his tongue. "Tastes gross."

"Then why do you call it — oh, never mind." I slump against the crate, exhausted. Besides the lawn chair, the nook's equipped with a TV, microwave, and a radio. It's quite cozy actually. This is probably where the stock manager comes to relax and take naps. I jump to my feet. There's no time to spare. He could return at any moment. 

"Why did you draw a picture of me?" I ask the chalk imp. His sketch on the concrete is incredibly realistic. The little creature must have a photographic memory. 

"For fun," he says, blushing. 

"Well, you're gonna have to erase it. They'll think I drew it. And I'm not supposed to be back here."

"Sorry, very sorry," says the imp, scribbling flowers over his drawing.

"Now, have any of you seen a wallet around here?"

"A walnut?" asks the toad creature. "You're the only nut around here." This cracks the others up and I have to wait for them all to calm down. 

"No, a wallet...belonging to that old lady."

The creatures shake their heads vigerously. Well, maybe they'd just missed it. After all, there are lots of places back here to hide something that thin.

"Why don't you ask the blob?" suggests the chalk imp. "He's back here all the time."

"Where can I find this blob?"

"That's Mister Blob to you, young lady," says a deep voice rising from inside a box of watermelons. Looking closer, I noticed that one of the watermelons is smaller than the others and swaying slightly from side to side. Two eyes peer up from a jello-like creature.

"Mr. Blob?"

"Yes, how may I help you?" he asks.

"Uh, I'm looking for a stolen wallet. Have you seen anything like that recently?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? You're not going to tell me?" Great, the only witness back here is a class 1 weirdo. Just my luck. "Can you give me a  hint at least?"

"You're very cold," says the blob matter-of-factly.

Okay, so he wants to play that game. I move further into the stock room. "How 'bout now?"

"Getting warmer."

This is no time to be cautious. Rounding a pallet of granola bars, I walk straight into the center of the room. 

"Colder."

Okay, I move back against the far wall.

"Warmer, even warmer, hot!" The blob quivers with excitement. "Hot, hot, scalding!"

"Are you kidding me? There's nothing here." I have my back against the far wall. The only thing nearby is a small heating vent near the ceiling. Maybe he hid it inside.

 I push a few boxes underneath and - climbing up them - am able to peer through the grate. Bleh. There's nothing but hot air inside. Then I understand. "You're describing the actual temperature, aren't you?"

The blob grins. "Very hot up there, isn't it?"

"Ugh," I stamp my foot in frustration. "Did you really see that wallet?"

"No," the blob admits, "I have not, which is why I said I might have seen it."

I'm about to yell at the stupid blob when I hear a loud mechanical cranking; the rolling door to the loading dock is opening. There's no time to dash for the exit, so I duck behind the nearest crate and hold my breath. 

Good thing too, for the room soon floods with light. I hear a loud beeping and then the hydraulics of the grocery van pulling up to the dock. A door squeaks open and slams shut. I chance a quick peek.

What I see around the crate confirms my worst fears — the stock room guy has returned. He's unloading a pallet of noodles, which he kicks at angrily for no good reason. Then he begins counting the boxes inside, checking each item off a clipboard. Great, now I'm trapped. He's blocking my way back into the store. I have no choice but to wait him out.

Then a scary thought hits me. What if he returns to his hidden nook? He'd pass right by this crate and catch me for sure. No, I've only got one choice now — to escape through the loading dock while his back is turned.

 Taking a deep breath, I leave my hiding place. My feet echo on the concrete. Oh, no! I freeze.

 Luckily, he's too engrossed in his clipboard to notice. Tiptoe, that's the only way I'll make it. He seems to be getting near the end of his checklist, however, so I'd better hurry. 

Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. 

The stairs I need to exit are on the opposite side of the loading dock.  Halfway there, I feel a sneeze building up. Not now! I hold my nose and the feeling goes away. 

Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. 

I inch silently down the steps, squeeze past the grocery van, and emerge outside onto the street. Phew, I've made it. Sunshine warms my face and I smile. 

"There she is, trying to escape," says Mrs. Coldstone. She's standing on the sidewalk with a police officer at her side. A bloodhound sits panting nearby. 

Oh, no. I realize how bad this must look. Here I am fleeing out the back of the store with a bag of unpaid groceries under my arm. Great, just great.