And away they go

Posted Sep 24, 2009 by Mike Winter

Updated Sep 24, 2009 at 12:16 PM

They came out of the small appliance aisle as if launched from a cannon. The girl was sitting inside the basket, screaming at a frequency usually reserved for train whistles and birds of prey while an older boy, presumably her brother, held on to the back for dear life. It was one of those shopping carts shaped like a racecar, red plastic with flames painted on the side. It was also, apparently, the only shopping cart in west central Florida that didn’t have a misaligned right front wheel that either spun like a pinwheel the entire time or remained permanently fixed at a 35 degree angle, thus forcing a shopper to circumnavigate the store in a slow spiral every 12.2 minutes.
  The pair zoomed past in a blur, the suction from their back rush threatening to pull me out of my shoes, and disappeared around the corner. I thought I heard the screech of rubber on linoleum and the POOF of a drag chute being deployed, but it was hard to tell, what with the sonic boom and all. When the coast was clear I ventured out from my shelter near the coffee makers, expecting a member of the pit crew to come chasing after the two speed demons, an angry father shaking his fist, a frantic mother waving a checkered flag.
  But there was no one. At least no one obvious. Was the woman chatting on her cell phone and drifting in the same general direction as the dissipating vapor trail a relative? Was the man strolling by with an armful of Hawaiian shirts a parent? Maybe I should have organized a search party. Maybe, somewhere in the distant recesses of automotive or the dank corners of garden accessories a responsible party was sprawled senseless on the ground with two tread marks down the center of his or her back. After all, adrenalin junkies like the ones that just raced past weren’t above plowing over loved ones in their infernal quest for the next rush.
  Then I remembered the bookstore orphans, those mysterious waifs who seem to materialize out of the ether every time my family visits. Since it’s one of my daughter’s favorite places, we go there often. While one parent browses, the other hangs out with her in the children’s section, practicing hand puppetry skills and pushing the wooden train around the track until the caboose derails. Invariably during these occasions, the Others appear. Sometimes, there’s only one – a girl who wants to argue the merits of glow-in-the-dark stickers, a boy who insists on demonstrating his newest magic trick. Sometimes two or three materialize, eager to assimilate into whatever activity my daughter and I are engaged in. All of them appear to be strays, unencumbered by either parent or guardian.
  And yet they all seem perfectly content with their situation. No panic. No pleas for a speedy reunion with mommy or daddy. I have to assume they live at the book store, subsisting on a steady diet of café muffins and mocha frappicinos. For a guy who never lets his kid out of his sight when they’re together, it’s all very disconcerting.
  So I did nothing after the Andretti siblings disappeared from view, assuming they would eventually rendezvous with their team captain. And they did. I saw mom (I presume) and offspring together in the checkout line, refueling with sodas and Reese’s Cups for a victory lap around the parking lot.
  Now if I can just find homes for all those bookstore urchins. Consuming muffins and high-caffeine drinks day after day can’t be good for them.