By Arne Myggen

I go to the supermarket every Friday morning. It is my duty to push the steel-meshed shopping cart behind my wife as she collects what is needed for the week. Later I am also useful for lifting the groceries into the car.

But it is not easy.
My trials begin the moment I hear the "clunk" from the automatic door. I immediately experience a pulling sensation around the jaw followed by uncontrollable desire to yawn. First I fight it off. Later I politely cover my mouth - until the final phase, where I not only yawn wothout conceal, but accompany my yawning with a lonely, moaning sound, similar to a door in need of oil, slowly being opened by a soft breeze.

But nothing helps.
It can amuse me momentarily to see the surprised expressions of the passing house-wives, but their interest quickly fade when they realize my little opera has ended. Perhaps I could keep them captive a little longer with a medley from Faust or even a bit of tap-dancing, but I don't have the energy.

Comatose I wheel the little wagon after my wife, while she lets cans, carrots and green napkins fall from her hand.

Not too long ago I piloted a cart with one front wheel vibrating strongly during travel. That was a good day. My mind brimmed with speculations why this little wheel acted so peculiarly. I tried going slow, quick & medium speed - and the wheel corresponded with quick, slow and medium vibration. I was able to squeeze out a half hour of solid entertainment on account of this wheel, whereas one can deduce that I - by nature - am a man of modest needs. It does not take much to keep me happy.

But this Friday I finally fell asleep standing straight up. I had been parked next to a tall stack of tuna-cans, and only by divine inspiration did I awake just in time to prevent an embarrassing disaster. This episode, however, gave me suck a jolt that I realized something had to be done.

An angel of inspiration must have kissed my receding hairline.

I looked around. Nobody was watching. Then, quickly, I grabbed a can of sardines and hid it in my hand. Now, we customers are allowed to do that. There is no law against it, and it is in fact the whole idea behind self-service markets, that people take things off the shelves by themselves. But my plan went beyond this concept.

As my wife stood some ten paces away, apparently memorizing the content of a jar of Norwegian Kipper-Snacks, a woman entered the scene from the right. She was pushing the cart in front of her, while her trained eyes scowered the shelves for possibilities. I stepped out of her path, but the second she passed me I "accidentally" dropped my can of sardines into her cart.

She didn't see it! She continued down the isle, took a bag of rice and placed it on top of the sardines without noticing.

Now I was wide awake.

My wife came over with a bag of apples. She sent me the usual it-won't-be-long-now- Dear look, and I tried my best to look unconscious. Then I checked the perimeters with a look I have learned from the gangsters on late-night black & white movies, and when the coast was clear, I took a big jar of red Chilean pepper - and waited for a taker.

My prospect appeared in an impressive fur-coat. She did not have cart. Instead she - with gloved hands - was carrying a basket containing, so far 4 cans of Alaskan caviar.

Now it is one thing to put a can of sardines into a cart. It is quite another matter to transfer a large jar into a basked carried by a real live human being. I was going faint from excitement. She came closer and closer, and in a flash it was all over: She had passed my by, and I was still holding the pepper. Courage had failed me in the last moment. I cursed myself quietly and swore that the pepper was going to find the caviar if it was the last thing I would do that Friday. My cart and I raced around the deep-freezers, past soda-pops and dairy-products - and, with a stiff stare towards the shelves, I aimed my cart directly at the fur-coat. She stepped to one side, put her basket down for a moment, and there was the opening: Touchdown!

Over the next seven minutes I was able to distribute a jar of blackberry currant to a lonely gentleman with a mustache and an allergy. A hot-house cucumber found a new home in the basket of a pretty young nurse - while six medium-sized eggs went to an illegal immigrant, who until now had only a clove of garlic in his cart.

Then I expanded my thinking.
One fresh, fragrant loaf of bread went to a mother who had momentarily lost her child - and six tenderloin steaks were eased into a cart carelessly parked by the freezers. Finally I crowned the good day's work by heaving an enormous, stone hard, deep-frozen duck into a cart belonging to a woman of the more-in-law type. Until my arrival, her only purchase had been a box on Tide and root-beer, and - I mean - going into the week-end with only Tide and Root-beer?

"All right Dear, I'm ready", my wife announced - and we started towards the exit together.

No sooner had we gotten in line, before I heard a lady say, "I have no idea where it came from". I could not hear what the clerk said, but the voice of the customer was clear enough, "I can't tell you what I don't know, can I?" Therewe was a bit more mumbling from the register, the the customer said, "Oh Heavens, then, let me pay for it."

"What do you think that was all about?", my wife asked.
"Chilean pepper" I said.
She didn't seem surprised. She is used to me saying strange things.
Shortly after there was trouble again.

"I think that's a mistake.." someone said. Then there was a bit of mumbling. Why can't tellers speak up more? "Could it have fallen in by accident?" My wife was starting to become interested. This time I didn't wait for her question but immediately pronounced: "Surplus bread". She looked puzzled but did not pursue her thought. A moment later, however, it was my turn to wonder because of the bearded gentleman up ahead. Without a moment's hesitation he placed the blackberry currant in front of the teller with the rest of his purchases. It did not occur to him at all that anything was out of the ordinary. I imagine that some men shop by simply coasting down the isle, collecting items at random intervals.

But my wonder turned to utter dismay when I saw the young nurse - with considerable certainty - as if she was passing a scalpel to a surgeon - deliver the hot-house cucumber to the awaiting scanner, along with the rest of the repertoire. I was shaken.

Directly in front of us was mother-in-law in the fur coat. Mother-in-law with the duck. I was more than curious. How would she explain to herself what was in her cart? I mean, you hardly collect an ice-rock without thinking..?
Her hand stopped in mid-air over the cart. I could see her face: Deep wonder played across her every feature. "Well my soul be.." she said, and slowly removed the item as though it was an un-exploded bomb. Shen then started reading the label, presumably looking for an explanation there.

The clerk was waiting with interest.
"Ahem, ah.. I.." Mother-in-law said.
"Yes?"
"This isn't mine"
"No?"
"I have never seen it before.. I have never touched it before. I have no reason at all to get a turkey"
"It's a duck"
"It is?"
"A duck, yes - it's on sale today. You are sure it's not yours?"
"It's so cold"
"Yes, ma'am it's frozen"
"Well, that's what I mean, you don't just plop a deep frozen turkey into your..."
"Duck.."

Mother-in-law had stopped listening. Once more she was reading the label - there had to be an explanation somewhere. And there it was stated that this magnificent, cornfed, and - prior to it's untimely death - also energetic and happy duck, had been reduced by twelve dollars on forty-six cents.

"Do you want your duck, ma'am?" the teller prompted.
"My duck?"

The teller made a vague gesture of retraction. How does one refer to something in no-man's-land, economically speaking? But as mother-in-law slowly emerged, an idea had formed inside her: "Of course, I could invite my daughter and her new husband..."

I wished I had thrown in a bottle of chablis as well.

As we were on our way to the parking lot, a somber looking gentleman in his late fifties wearing a pin-striped suit, came out from the market. With the understated manner of a classic Italian Mafioso, he put a hand on my shoulder and softly said, "Could I have a word with you please..?"

I followed - weak in the knees - behind the suit, through a side-door, up a staicase, down a corridor, around a corner and into an office with a desk the size of a ping-pong table. I politely declined the seat offered, and watched as he walked over to a little window overlooking the store.

Looking through the window with his hands clasped behind his back and said, "I have made it a habit to keep an eye on things from here.." He turned and looked at me for a while, and then said: "I was wondering if you could come back tomorrow. I've had the hardest time selling those damned ducks..."