Be Careful What You Wish For
Be careful what you wish for… you just might get it. This is a phrase bandied around a lot by people who tend to be really good at saying really annoying things. Other phrases these people favour include ‘I told you so’ and ‘How good is Two and a Half Men?’
‘Be careful what you wish for’ is meant to act as a cautionary tale, designed to warn you that your ‘wish’ may not actually be granted in the form you intended. It’s also used as a means to irritate the shit out of you. I’ve never seen myself as the type of person who would say these kinds of things (don’t get me wrong; I am a dick at times, it’s just that I chose different methods) but then it happened.
Late last year, while shopping in Melbourne, I walked into a clothing store to buy some jeans. I found a pair I liked and decided to try them on. When I took them to the counter, I was met with… nothing. No one. Nowhere. I was alone in the shop.
I glanced over at the door and saw that it was closed, which was strange because I distinctly remembered it being open when I walked in. When I attempted to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked. I looked down at the sign pointing towards the street and saying ‘back in five’, and realised I was locked, alone, in the shop. I figured I’d only be a retail prisoner for a few minutes while the store person grabbed some lunch and so I meandered around, entertaining myself by singing ‘Jailhouse Rock’ at an unnecessarily loud level.
A crowd of wannabe shoppers had gathered outside and once they realised the door was locked, they signalled for me, who was by now swinging my hips Elvis-style, to open it. I pointed to the ‘back in five’ sign and waved my hands in a ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, buddy’ kind of way, which obviously looked to them like I just couldn’t be stuffed working for a bit and would prefer it if they could just hang about outside in the blazing heat until I was ready to end my little sabbatical.
The people outside became furious with me and so I hid behind a clothing rack until the store person returned. After fifty-five minutes had passed, I started to feel like one of those survivors who becomes stranded after their plane crashes, and began thinking about which of my own limbs I’d gnaw off first if my retail imprisonment continued much longer.
Another ten minutes later – after one hour and five minutes in total – the store person returned.
‘Excuse me, mate,’ I said, while jumping out from behind the clothes rack and waving my right arm, which had faint teeth marks, ‘You locked me in your shop!’
At first he seemed startled at my aggressive tone – which I may or may not have combined with my Elvis drawl – and looked like he was ready to punch me in the face. I then explained the situation, and how he had locked me in the shop for over an hour.
‘Shit, man, I’m sorry… I wonder when that happened?’ the store person asked. I explained that it most probably happened when he left the shop and locked it. He apologised several times and told me that he felt so bad he’d be inclined to offer me a discount on any item. I told him I’d love a discount on my jeans and he said that that wasn’t possible.
As I was leaving the shop, he pleaded with me not to say anything to anyone about the incident because of his fear of losing his job. I promised I wouldn’t say a word. I said nothing, however, regarding writing about it.
A week later, I was shopping with a friend who was becoming increasingly irritated with the crowded store we were in. As hordes of people crammed into the small and smelly sweatbox dressed up as a trendy boutique, she grabbed my shoulders, positioned her face only inches from mine and shouted something indecipherable.
It was clear by that stage that she had reached boiling point and, as sweat poured down her face, she looked just like a picture out of a magazine – glossy. I asked her to repeat what she’d said and, as a look of defeat spread across her face, she announced, this time rather clearly, ‘I wish I was alone in this fucking shop!’
What I should have done next was comfort her and suggest we leave. But I didn’t. What I did was put on my best Elvis voice and slur, ‘Be careful what you wish for, darlin’…’
But, hey, at least I still hate Two and a Half Men.
Daniel Moore is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian who runs a weekly comedy room called ‘A Mic in Hand’, on Smith Street, Fitzroy, Melbourne, Thursdays from 8pm. Visit his website.
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