These realities of All falling down

The brain is enclosed within the skull. Yet, into his cereal, yet alone never, having experienced a day without s’ injuries somewise else. Guk. New shoeboxes containing Lara’s Cavern Casual Lines for this very month off this years’ equal one or more autogenerated severely deep papercuts for the uninitiated; a turn of phrase, thought down here, just because it seemed right. Not proper? Hey, proper? Not proper’s not proper here ‘n this house at this table, in his house. Or hidden under the pebbly brown surface of his cereal, who? Who? To what’s that question pertain, oh—him? Can’t be. The word him has never been used yet herea’ Von Beatrice; the word his has been used and just there three or four back has been used yet another. Time. And your question’s an ask-once throwaway, unlike—the big questions asked of every Dell’s shoe store salesman, of, do you have these in my size? Are these available in purple? How about brown—those fly, but not, Who? Not that way, nor this way, Who? Or who. Like, My God I can’t believe it! You still carry wingtips! Dr. Frankenstinian’s clobberclod’d wingtips? Either so, please lie down, take a dose or two of anything’s better than nothing, eh. Lie down, and listen. Lie down and. And listen lie down lie down and eh eh eh listen!

So, Prancie; and it does so happen always if not nearly so, that the type of papercut incurred varies accordiongilly to the time remaining in the workshift. When half through to all the way it is level one, which is, a minor; a minor which only hurts when; only hurts when first struck up with, and; may safely simply not be touched for the day of its remaindering, and quite likely will die off as though never was, but; when in the first half of the day incurred, it nearly always occurs in the web between the fingers, meaning; the busy hands all day will pain it up badly. Law of nature. Law of nature. Law of. Nature of ’ature ‘a’ tur’ ‘e=law of nature but; here ‘neath the brown of ‘is cereal it is not yet and thus—this ‘illysniding’s ‘ll parra-netherricall-l. Pup. That you were years in the Pup, risking your life, longsides o’ Sergeant Green himself, or that each morning after your bowl’s filled smartly to the rim with Top-Popsoil for loam-eaters, only available from skinnydown mule’s special observances rental-space center, yes that one, out ‘cross downtown; thusly, now the consumption of his cereal may begin. Yet alone never having experienced a day. A day without injury, up in spoonthrust after spoonthrust regardless, n’ this will not be no day without injury also, alone, experienced alone, by him alone, all day, once he gets there, to his allotted slot down Dell’s shoe store, which is not just any shoe store, but, a Dell’s, and not just any Dell’s, but the particular Dell’s containing his allotted slot Dell’s shoe store. The big his; alone. Lykes’, he complained a day back or three to she the spouse before her leave to go do her daily dancing, y’know—don’t get me wrong, this’s not against Dell’s, heaven forbid, but this; but this mine own carelessness. I am—tired of what amounts to my own jobwise carelessness. Like. Eh, ‘tunia. How can I change?

Examples would help, she breathed on back. An ‘e or two at least, you know.

Okay. Papercuts. The shoe store not being some clerical office might make this claim seem odd, I will grant you—but now and then certain brands of shoebox paper and/or shoe-show box padding give me in my haste to gain excellence, bad papercuts. That’s one.

Okay—she says ‘fter her cereal slid down again all a’ TastyKake. Else?

What else you mean?

What else would I mean? Old Pap. Go!

Okay, and there’s backache. There’s up, down, bend, try this on, try that on, all while hard-smiling. You know. Eight hours of strain. Stress ‘lated re’bachache. Und. Know?

Yes. I can see, but. That’s not an injury. How ‘bout ‘ne of those like the papercut.

Well—I suppose just—and no, I’m not complaining, don’t take it as complaining, Ru’, for Dell’s is the sole place for me and not just any old place for me, but T-H-E place, it’s just stress ‘nd strain. Strain, stress, and worry. As any normal job’s. Y’know?

No. I don’t know.

O-kay, then—yah here goes I slam my hand in the register drawer, one time in a whole. Maybe five, or twenty—

Be more careful.

I am careful, but, ‘tis a faulty drawer wh’ just ‘maticall’ ‘y slams itself shut once in a time and since even when it’s open, I or ‘nothe’er’s hear, hands ore-gone slammed-bloodied, quite often. Plus the slam ‘nd the bloods not no no—the blood must be ‘tomatically cleansed off the money, because, cardinal rule three of Dell’s rules, which we all memorize, says bodily fluids of any type spilled must be mopped ‘way in three clicks, if not less, if not sooner. Quite a lapse.

But, not your lapse. Dell’s lapse. That is for management to fix. It’s not to be put up with at all, e’en less so be put on the staff.

Can’t do it. No. At Dell’s such is not true. We are our own bosses. We are all drum-trained for eight weekends of personalized DNA based mastisticized one-on-one bootcampery, that we are self-managing. We are responsible for our own development. If laws have been broken, contact local law enforcement. Otherwise, as Everest stands on its own, so do we. Everest, as well as the great sequoia and suchlike ‘gout fornianianne-way—all that stand on their own by dry-nature are examples to even the lowest of the Dell’s shoe store chain staff.



Yeh—that’s ridiculous—but, anyway. Then get it fixed yourself. Seems blinkers to me.

We have no authority to disburse money outward. Only to gather it inward.


It is the training. Dell sets the rules, not me. Do not put the apparent stretch of any silly you’re perceiving, squarely down upon me. I am but a parrot.


Yes, but, ah, eh—here’s a good one.  We also all stumblefall regularly, over the shadowy poorly made doorlip between the back and front rooms. I have taken at least four full-out falls. The tallest among us, well—it cost him one or more cracked ribs. Purple!



I, ah—oh, Pappy—that would me the last string for this me set right here and now. But, howabout; I’m about to go to the studio. Can’t be late—n’ with that rising, she brought her shallowbowl to the sink, put it in, rinsed it down, and washed her hands. Over the rush of the rinsing, he said more, being, Yes, no, but; there’s more. For example; nearly once each day if not more, there’s this’n ‘nd that’un bandie-leg’d rat children gang ‘ll swarming the place, underfoot, and—being very small, they can run across fast before myself carrying a three-stack of bootboxes—which are the biggest ‘xes offal’l, and sometimes I have to stop short and down the boxes I go nearly not too swell afterwards can even—as I’ve seen our lone saleswoman go, down; on one knee, granted, but, down. Nevertheless, and. The reality of falling down does not part away behind like the swish-blankety push doors off old ‘f each every old west barroom movie, but. The pain does really remain. I.

The water stopped into silence sweeping out the rest of his concerns and. She said, I am going up now but it does seem that you ought to at least think about telling the manager.

Uh, haven’t I told you? I am the manager. I was taught so and must remain thinking as I was taught.  I cannot change that unless leaving Dell’s and, another job so grand as Dell’s, I cannot possibly achieve. Sorry.

That’s nonsense! Somebody high up you never see, must be watching over and running the place!


Okay here. Who pays the heat bill? Who set the place up to begin with? Who does the money go back to? Who gives you back your cut of it in salary? These things are above you, and do not do themselves!

Look down, up, blink, and then, I cannot think up such questions about Dell’s, as it would cause Dell’s to question my dedication to the job—I cannot.

Hand up, swept fast down, as she says, There! There you go! Who is it you fear would question your dedication to the job? That is who you must talk to. Would that not be a person?

Palm out to her!

No! I cannot think this way anymore, now. I am getting uneasy. No! Thinking this way, well—I do not want to myself begin to question my dedication to the job! No!

She leaned closer, point jabbing hip-high.

No no, keep quiet and listen! You also mentioned trainers. Who hired these trainers? Hunt down who that is and say out your problems!

It’s not mine to hunt people down. Being discovered would cause Dell’s to doubt me!

Dell’s? Okay—there! Who is the Dell’s person who’d be caused to doubt you?

One step back away headshaking, No, no. Dell’s is not a person. It’ a shoe store. And not just any shoe store, but. A Dell’s shoe store. And I am a salesman. And not just any salesman—but—

Up, fling.

Don’t say that again! Can that! Okay, okay. I give up, you win. Just be glad you have not gotten any serious head or spine injuries. Those are the worse.

Yes! Ah, yes! That indeed would be far worse. Spine, or head.

Sure. Eh, okay, I got to go dress.


Alone now after following the downscaling taps of her rising feet toward all gone, he reflected; that is right. At least it’s never been my head. Boxes off the top rack out back have fallen. But. Never on my head.

The slam of her car door, outside. Faint, faint.

Why is that? Who’s watching?

Why is that? Who’s watching? Why is that, who’s watching, who’s watching over me; yes it must be Dell’s. Dell’s something ‘r someplace must be watching over me. It could be my head quite easily, but it’s never been. But. It’s never been. Why not? Why not? Why not it’s never been? There’s a reason, some reason always, there’s always reasons, but, what?

Oh. No. The watch. Can’t be late. So, rise. So hurry; drink dress drive ‘nd get there; it’s can’t not ever be late ever either; not for any and every Dell’s shoe store salesmen, at all.



Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection’ (Mannequin Haus), “Understanding Franklin Thompson” (JEF pubs), “No and Maybe – Maybe and No” (Pski’s Porch), and “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer” (Optional books). Info at @jwmeirose