Philophobia

A wall used to be there, I'm sure of it.

I know this because I pay an awful lot of attention to the walls here at Wal-Mart.

Why? Because they're beige.

Sorry, I should probably introduce myself.

My name's Adelaide and I absolutely loathe the color beige.

Moreover, I also cannot stand the color of khaki pants.

What exactly would you call it? Khaki, you say? Well, I'd call it freakin' ugly.

"Do ya see the issue now, hun?"

My gaze casually drifted over to my Supervisor, existing as the lone focal point amidst the gaping hole in the previously unsightly wall.

"Not, really, no," I dismissed. I allowed my olive green orbs to bounce around the unorthodox scenery of my local Wal-Mart's Lawn and Gardening Department.

"Well, why the hell not?" Wal-Mart Supervisor, Barbera Jane Goodlett, hissed.

You know, five minutes ago when they beckoned for me with a commonplace utterance of, "CLEAN UP IN ISLE TWENTY!" I wasn't at all looking forward to the trek I'd have to make, all the way from the Storage Room to this aforementioned isle, my beloved, neon yellow mop bucket in tow.

But now? I don't know, unlike Barbera Jane, I'm feeling kind of optimistic about it.

With my gaze now resting firmly upon the mysterious, inanimate object that was lodged diagonally between shelves of plastic flamingos and namebrand manure, I grinned.

"Honestly, I think it's an improvement."

For added effect, I popped my gum.

Gotta love Berry To Mint.



"WHAT IN THE SAM HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU, DELLA MARIE?!"

Ever since I had made the mistake of speaking my mind, Barbera was constantly on my case.

"Now, honey, I know there's not much to do 'round here. But that don't mean you can crack wise about tragic situations like this one here!"

As if to further my irritation, Barbera's granny flats plopped right over the pile of plaster and dry wall that I had been prepared to sweep up. The added pressure caused it to crumble almost immediately.

"I'm really sorry, Barbera Jane. I swear that I didn't mean to mean to make you mad!" I assured her with complete honesty.

"Sure thing, darlin'." Barbera dismissed with a scowl.

"But, uh," I began, tentatively. "Why would you refer to this as a tragedy? I mean, we've got a brand spankin' new phonebooth and everything!" I pointed out cheerfully, gesturing to the aforementioned blue box placed half-hazardly in the isle.

"Because, Della, that damn "Police Box" has caused me thousands of dollars worth of damage!" Barbera screeched. To demonstrate her aggravation further, she saw fit to place a swift kick to the out of place communications kiosk.

"You're just the manager! Are you seriously the one that has to pay for it?" I interjected logically.

Wincing due to the world of hurt that she was undoubtedly in for having kicked the telephone booth, Barbera rolled her eyes.

"If not me then who? You?" She queried as she placed her hands on her pudgy hips.

Just in the nick of time, the door to the phonebooth swung open.

I would have pegged it as a delayed reaction to Barbera's kick if not for the fact that as the booth opened, a man came tumbling out.

"Ah, OUCH! That certainly smarts~"

The male was crumpled up on the dirty, off-white tile of my place of employment and seemed to be in quite a bit of pain.

But, besides that, he also seemed to be quite British.

"Well, how about him?" I suggested finally.

I jerked the end of my broom in the injured guy's direction.

"I think you may be on to somethin' there, sug." Barbera grinned.