NDE in the Fred Meyer Parking Lot

Not a NDE of mine, mind you, but that of a little, blond, Fredmeyerling helping a lady load groceries into her SUV. A NDE, in case you don't get my Dennis Milleresque acronymizing, is a Near Death Experience.

Note to California readers: there is a peculiar little custom here in the Pacific Northwest, in which almost every grocery store offers free assistance with loading your groceries into your car. Safeway is the most, how shall I say, overbearing, in their offers to help you. See, it's part of the protocol at Safeway to offer help out to everyone. I can't count the times I've come through the express lane buying a magazine, loaf of bread and some milk just to have the Safewayling ask,

"Would you need some help out today, Mr. Rainey?" (they know my name because I signed away my soul for a Safeway Club Card - saving pennies on the grocery bill so mega-corporations can know my every purchasing decision).

Some help out today.

Okay, most of you know that I'm a (reasonably) fit, 35-year-old man. No visible disabilities, no stoop to my walk, nothing. The first time someone asked me that, my response was,

"
."

Um...yeah. Anymore, the query is met with a sly, conspiratorial smile that comes from having worked for a mega-corporation (Blockbuster Video, or Ballbuster Video, as Troy was so fond of saying) and knowing what kind of tripe I was forced to say to every single customer who came to my counter:

"Good evening! Would you like to pre-order a copy of Forrest Gump for six times what you'd pay for it at Wal-Mart?" and the like.

Anyway, I was walking across the Fred Meyer parking lot, returning to my truck after an abortive attempt to get a lamp cord switch at Radio Shack. (Go figure Cellphone/RC Car Shack would have something so pedestrian as a switch you actually wire in yourself). I was walking up behind a Ford Explorer, the owner of which was in the process of opening up the rear hatch. The aforementioned Fred Meyer serf was standing, dutifully, next to a shopping cart filled with, I kid you not, no less than six cases of Rainier Beer and at least as many bundles of firewood. (Gonna be a romantic evenin' up in Orchards tonite, I betcha!) (Sorry, I'll drop my Fishers Landing snobbery and get back to the story). As the woman raised the tailgate, I stared directly into the eyes of Satan himself.


Or at least the biggest, toughest, ugliest, slobberingest Rottweiler/warthog mix I've ever seen.

Satan was trying to come over the rear passenger seat, surely to take the soul of the poor Fred Meyer employee. He was tethered, Revelation 20:2 style, to something big and heavy inside the Explorer, which was good for the sake of the driver's insurance company. Still, he was able to pull at least half of his snarling, saliva-spewing bulk over the backseat to growl and snap menacingly. (But, really, my brother's dearly departed Rott Julius aside, is there anything a Rottweiler does that isn't menacing? I mean, Rottweilers even poop scary. And, lemme tell ya, that's some scary, uh, poop).

The capper was what Satan's keeper, I mean, the lady who owned the SUV, said to the girl from the store, who was slowly backing away from the truck.

"Oh, he's okay, he won't bite! Just let him smell you!"



Just for kicks, we should all visit our local orthopedic surgeons and ask them how many of their patients who have been fitted with prosthetics heard those very words just before losing an arm or leg.

A goodly sum, I'd reckon.