First let me admit that I had to spellcheck ruckus. It just didn't look right. Obviously, it's a highly under-used word. Will have to put that on my List of Things to Remedy, right after Inadequate Degree of Recline of Airline Seats.
So, this past weekend I was down in North Carolina. In the process of helping...perhaps I should say attempting to help...my sister return some duplicate gifts from her wedding registry to Belk's, this happened:
Though you can't really tell from the picture, not only the plastic case, but also the label and the actual featherbed have been pulled below the floor into the escalator's claws of death.
Here's how it went down:
- SmallBean and I were hauling the first load of items up the second-floor Bridal Department. (no, they don't sell brides. it's not that easy. you have to at least go to Russia!)
- As we stepped off the escalator, I felt the enormous, queen-sized, down featherbed being jerked out of my hand.
- I spun to the left and realized it was the Rolling Handrail of Doom and it wasn't messing around. It had grabbed the plastic packaging on the featherbed and was pulling it toward the floor.
- I tried! I pulled so hard! I was overcome! :(
- The CurlyHairDay vs. Escalator Deathmatch did not go well. As I realized I was making no progress whatsoever (that is to say, the ENTIRE FEATHERBED was being eaten), I flipped open the cover and pushed the emergency stop button.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that all this happened in approximately four to six seconds.
A store employee showed up as if called by God...what, they wear beepers for this, but no one's ever near the cash register?...and proceeded to try to pull the featherbed back out. (I know that I'm tougher than I look, but come on...a little credit.) Three more store employees showed up and proceeded to strategize, gawk and chuckle and try to get the escalator to reverse -- no luck. From what I eventually overheard, they will just have to call Tony, and it may take him 24 hours to get there. (Tony is obviously in high demand.)
Oh, and though I tried to explain what happened numerous times, somehow the store employees just kept assuring me that "Tha reason we cain't jes turn it bek own is whut if someone's haayund is een thar? *big eyes* You don't wan it to jes keep eatin' it up."
And I'm thinking, "Um, no, but you do want it to LET GO."
(And I'm FROM North Carolina so don't give me any flack for the spelin'.)
The good news is that the store didn't hassle us about giving my sister credit for the "returned" featherbed.
The bad news is that if--
**wait! disclaimer! I drove down (nine hours!) the previous day, slept for about four hours, got up at 5:30 that morning to help my sister with a yard sale -- in the rain -- sigh ...nevermind, it's still really no excuse**
Okay, so if, unbeknownst to me, a nearby customer happened to have a video camera and you can find out that person's name and address, you should go ahead and leave for Vegas and put money down on their win on next week's American's Funniest Home Videos. In the interest of full disclosure, I had on a grubby tshirt, an ancient blue hoodie, BRIGHT GREEN JOGGING PANTS, and my hair looked like a bird was going to nest, but, finding it too untidy, decided to keep looking. And I was wrestling. An escalator. For a featherbed.
Enjoy your prize money. Send me a postcard.
And do not let your children near those Conveyor Belts of Death!