The mumbled sound of indistinct voices in a crowded place. People shoulder to shoulder, back to front, front to back. They slide by, they side step, they push through. Make way for the vegetable carts, the old women, the families shopping together. Children scamper through the interstices, knocking into legs and hips. Indiscriminate. They look up and hold out a hand full of plastic bags. Only ten cents. Venders hawk their wares, giving prices and guaranteeing quality. The yell to their cohorts asking for change, for weights, for bags. Buyers prod and poke, smell and taste, check for firmness, freshness. They argue prices. They walk away. They come back.
The thud-thud sound of vegetables piled on top of one another. A kilo of this, two of that. Put the potatoes on bottom. Dirty and heavy. Don’t squash the tomatoes. The peppers. Carrots slide vertically along the walls. Pile the rest up. It’s been a month, maybe more. Kitchen is bare. The vegetables pile and the weight increases. Heavy bag. Shoulder dips. Pile grows. Almost done.
The creaking sound of woven plastic fibers straining. The result of years of tension, pulling, stretching. Untold loads of products, hefted about. Carried here and there. Each causing a little more strain on the aging plastic fibers. They’ve held strong thus far, but. Tearing. The tension breaks. The fiber snaps. An unheard ‘pop’. Two released ends wave freely in the air. The pressure released is divided and spread among the others; their workload increases. For the neighboring fiber, the added strain is too much. Another ‘pop’. The weight is divided again. Now the avalanche. A cascade of tearing moves through the remaining fibers. Rip. Rip. One more. One more. Lasts only a second. It’s over.
The snapping sound of a plastic handle breaking in two. The shoulder rises imperceptibly with the momentary lightness of free falling food before it dips again with the violent jerking of a sudden shift in weight. The head turns, the free hand swings round. Reflexes too slow; the eyes can see that which the hands cannot save. Broken strands of handle hanging limply from the fallen side of a woven plastic polygon. Greens and oranges and browns levitating. Inches off of the soggy ground.
The plop-plopping sound of vegetables landing in new mud. Peppers, carrots, potatoes. Sticking out of the ground as though they had never been picked. The tomatoes land on drier ground and roll into the crowd, under feet, under stands. A half empty woven plastic bag placed in the dirt. Kneel down. People pushing, bumping. Stepping over hands. On hands. The struggle. Bending, looking, finding. Reaching, straining, grabbing. Vegetables wiped and put in their spots. Some left for the dogs. And donkeys. The last vegetable placed. Stand up.
The disgusted sigh of annoying. Muddy.
That’s the breaks.
1 comment:
Your versatility as a writer is commendable.
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