The Things I Wish I Had Said

Some of your most vivid memories are those that seem to happen in slow motion, aren’t they? I’m seventeen years old, and I’m working at my first job in the grocery store, stacking shelves. It’s coming towards the end of the week and that’s the time we need to switch over our special promotions, which are displayed on the ends of each aisle. So every Friday, it’s my job to work “the ends”.

I exit the warehouse with a large storage trolley, made of cold, battered metal. I’d wager it’s not just older than me, but it’s as old as my parents. It runs quite well in spite of its age; you just need to course correct every so often as it pulls slightly to the right. I pilot it - yes, I have decided that I pilot the trolley, not push it - to the furthest of the ends, opposite the delicatessen counter. Orange juice.

There, an older man stands casually in a light t-shirt and faded jeans on the customer-side of the glass display cabinet, a red basket in one hand, containing a punnet of tomatoes, some cucumber and a carton of orange juice from the promotion. He’s talking about sports to the server on the other side of the counter. I’m not sure which sport or teams they are talking about because I’m already thinking about something else.

I begin taking the boxes of orange juice cartons off of the shelf and start stacking them neatly on the trolley. The customer checks with me that his carton of orange juice is still on promotion, to which I confirm that it is. I decide that I can take what is left of display in one run back to the warehouse, so I put the final three boxes on the top of my piles and begin to manoeuvre the trolley.

That’s when things begin to slow down, in my head at least. As I turn, the towers of orange juice begin to lean. I can see immediately what I had done; I had created three vertical columns of orange juice, rather than stack them like a large, liquid game of jenga. But unlike jenga, they aren’t coming down because I’ve pulled out the wrong one. No, here I’ve defeated myself, aided and abetted by gravity.

The trolley lurches in the opposite direction of the falling orange juice. The customer and my colleague haven’t even seen what is unfolding next to them; they’re laughing about something some sports player has done. I’ve grabbed the trolley rather than try to catch the cartons or warn them to move out of the way.

As the cartons smash on to the cold, hard floor, a tsunami of orange juice is unleashed into the grocery store, waves crashing against the delicatessen counter and the display shelves from whence they came. When the scene calms down again, the laughter has stopped abruptly.

I see a puddle of orange juice around the feet of our customer, and a damp patch is obvious on the bottom of his blue, faded jeans. It is from this point that I wish I had said something other than what I did say.

“These jeans cost me two hundred bucks,” he exclaimed.

“Two hundred bucks?” I replied sarcastically.

Or at least that is what I wish I had said. I didn’t. I meekly apologised to him and explained that if he got them dry cleaned and brought back the receipt that customer services would re-imburse him.

“But I’m going to a wedding tonight,” the emphasis very much on the “tonight” part.

“You’re wearing jeans to a wedding party?” I questioned.

Or at least that is what I wish I had said. I didn’t. I repeated my embarrassed apology and pointed him to customer services, before scuttling off to find a “wet floor” sign and a mop. The store manager shook his head as I walked away.

I think the guy was trying it on with his jeans, but I have never decided whether he was, or he was being serious.

I awake from my daze with a shudder, a physical reaction to the cringe I am feeling at the memory of that incident, and the thought of the sickly sweet smell of the cheap orange juice. I’m back in the room for the Teams call with the client on how we are going to market their new range of own-brand drinks. The client - the grocery store I thought I had left behind.

I do not have fond memories of that store; in fact I often go back to recall my first visit to the shop and my job interview. Thomas Thaxted was the store manager. He was a large man with no hair and a goatee, and his store uniform was always immaculate. I’m not sure whether he ever needed his rounded spectacles; whether or not he wore them seemed to be an indicator of his mood rather than his need to read.

I was surprised to be invited in for the interview, and the nerves kicked in almost immediately after I saw his commanding presence.

Mr Thaxted met me at the customer services desk and walked me back through the warehouse to his small, corner office. On the walls were various whiteboards with targets, performance indicators and stock loss figures in different colours and on the desk sat a desktop computer with one of those chunky monitors.

There were three old chairs, one behind his desk and two on my side of it and he invited me to sit down. As he did so, he reached out his hand.

I took it and shook it as firmly as I could, without gripping it too tight.

Or at least that is what I wish I had done. Instead, I said “oh, great, thank you,” took off my coat and put it in his hand. Time again slowed down as he looked down at the coat, and then looked up at me, shaking his head.

He turned around and put it on his coat stand on the far wall, and told me firmly to sit down. In fairness, he didn’t say another word about it. I promised myself that I would never go back there after I left. I haven’t physically been back to the store since I left to go to college. I was that awkward that they thought I would never leave. But I also didn’t want to keep going back to the memories of my time there, because of what happens when I do. Right on cue.

The shiver was involuntary as I again wake from my daze; my boss Tom asking me if I am cold and if I am ok. Blast it, I had left my camera on. I unmuted myself.

“Yes, thanks, going to go and grab a sweater after this” I replied, jokingly.

Or at least that’s what I wish I had just said. No, I said it was the excitement of being able to work on a new launch for a client, with a little too much enthusiasm than I intended. I wasn’t the only one who was appalled at my comment; I could see my colleagues on the call twitch at my response too. Even though we’ve known each other forever, Tom still lifts his circular glasses off of his nose and puts them on his head. As if he is sitting in judgement.

Another one to add to the loop in my mind, which will probably sneak up on me every time I get an email from this client. Perhaps I should just resign now and take my shame somewhere else. I have been plagued with these moments throughout my life.

The earliest one I can remember is the school play, when I was eleven years old. It was the last time we would all perform together before we all moved to different schools and just days before the end of the school year. I had played the role of a narrator. At the end of the performance, it was my job not just to bring the play to its end, but also to list all of those we needed to thank. It was the first and only time I would go off script, being more effusive with each of the on stage and off stage roles played by the students, parents and teachers than my manuscript dictated. I reached the last name on the list.

“And the last thank you, and the most important one of all, is to Mrs Ashford, for being the best teacher and director in the whole wide world.”

Or at least I wish that is what I said. What in fact I said was:

“And the last thank you, and the most important one of all, is to Mrs Ashford, for being the best teacher and mom in the whole wide world.”

That’s right, I said “mom”. For a child, one of the most embarrassing things you can do is to accidentally call your teacher “mom”. But I didn’t just do it in front of the whole class. I did it in front of the whole school and assembled parents. My friend Tom fell about screeching with laughter on the floor. Even my dad couldn’t help but chuckle.

As I scream internally again at recalling this story, I notice that everyone on the Teams call is saying what everyone says at the end of these, even if they didn’t take part. Variations of “great meeting,” or “thank you, good to see you all”.

I click the red telephone symbol in the top right hand corner of the window, get up, and go and get myself a glass of orange juice. The waves crash against the inside of the glass as I pour it. As I put it to my lips, I am instead put off by the sickly sweet smell and put it down on the counter.

I hear the familiar sound of a call coming in on Teams. “Tom Thaxted Junior,” it announced. My boss. The digital trolley rolls on, course correction needed.