The Broccoli Nazi...

The nicest way to describe her is to call her the Broccoli Nazi. That's the best that I can do on short notice. She's the one in charge of the entire fruit and vegetable section; it's her duty to make sure that none of the customers are testing the grapes for their sweetness. Or pilfering the peanuts...

I'm leisurely strolling around the supermarket, my arms are leaning over the front of the trolley and I'm having an animated conversation with my little Son about the Matchbox car he's just picked out. This one's a purple race car. It even has a small driver sitting at the steering wheel; or at least his yellow helmet. I always cave in and buy him something when we go shopping. Lately, he's wanted Two of these cars every time- throwing a tanty if I dare put one back; so I'm feeling quite happy that I've gotten away with only having to buy him one today.

I recognise the Broccoli Nazi from before today. She had a chat one day with my little Son, while he was helping me to pick out some mushrooms. She seemed nice enough then, I suppose, just not very clued-on. I suppose she's been working there since she left high school; back when Adam was a boy by the look of the crow's feet around her eyes- or maybe she just looks old for her age. I don't know and frankly I don't care.

Today she is standing near the pyramid of oranges she has carefully built- it threatens to collapse every time someone selects a piece of fruit other than the one's She's perched on top. I'm on the other side of the vegetable display- I choose a small head of broccoli to cook with our dinner and just as I am attempting to snap the long, inedible stalk from the base, and am still talking to my Son about his new car- just as I am heading my wonky-wheeled trolley towards the checkouts, she loudly calls out to me from across the store to Stop Breaking The Broccoli...

I look up- mid-task- obviously busted, but I don't realise that she is being deadly serious until I see the expression on her scowling face.

She informs me that this is the way that broccoli is sold in this supermarket, and not to tamper with the stem because that is where the shop will get it's profit from, but I'm not listening anymore and am rolling the trolley away from her; escaping. As if nine-ninety-eight a kilo wasn't enough of a profit already. I can get broccoli heaps cheaper at Woolies or Coles. I'm doing her small shithouse supermarket a favour just by shopping here.

I turn the corner, out of her view, and snap the stem defiantly- then I stash what's left of it behind the shelf of Caramello Koalas. I wouldn't normally do that- normally I'd put the stem in the bucket where all the other normal people throw the lettuce leaves that have wilted that they give away to people's pet Guinea Pigs; but I figure if the Broccoli Nazi is so vigilant- and she obviously is- then she'll be able to find the stalk before it decomposes too badly...

I linger too long at the deli; where the young girl behind the counter offers my little Son a cocktail Frankfurt to eat while she wraps up my ham; on the house, I might add. I decline her offer because he only likes them when they are warm, but it was the thought that counted- in my opinion anyway.

Eventually I make my way over to the checkout. She's there; bagging groceries. I've never seen her away from the vegetables before. It's obvious that she's stalked me here, to make sure that I haven't ignored her earlier, friendlier warning. There's quite a queue of customers forming behind me by the time I reach the head of the line, but that doesn't stop the Broccoli Nazi from embarrassing me in front of Them All.

In a voice for everybody to hear she asks what I did to my piece of broccoli, so I haughtily tell her that I snapped off the inedible part because I didn't want to pay for something I wouldn't use. She then asks what I did with the part I broke off and I consider telling her that I ate it- just to see what her reaction would be- but I tell her I put it back with all the other pieces of broccoli; I'll let the dumb bitch figure the truth out for herself later...

If I didn't have to pay for my little Son's Matchbox car I wouldn't even be standing there anymore. He'll kick up a stink if I try and walk out of here without it. I just want to leave the other groceries behind- but the other checkout girl has already scanned them. The Broccoli Nazi tries to be nice to my little Son, so I flatly ask her not to speak to my child. She's still carrying on about the 'lost profit'- explaining herself; so I tell her that I don't want to buy what's left of the broccoli anymore, either.

I'm angry and panicked now. Angry because she's made a spectacle of Me over a piece of stem- of all things. I know heaps of people who walk around the supermarket eating stuff they have no intention of paying for. I bet she doesn't pick on the old grape-testers and peanut-peckers. So I'm angry that she tried to make me feel like a thief when I'm not.

And I panicked because I hate being made aware of my actions; and because she publicly pointed me out in front of Strangers. I hated that part the most...

I haven't been back to that supermarket since- I reckon I've spent at least five thousand dollars on groceries in the meantime- elsewhere- just because she was trying to save the company she worked for their twenty cents worth of profit. Sucked in, Broccoli Nazi.

And you know, if the stalk had been cut shorter it never would have even happened...

So let that be a lesson to Fruit and Vegetable growers (and sellers) everywhere.