Enzymes.

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Enzymes.

Suppose you were to find yourself in the store one day, and the next item on the list is detergent. So you drag Mr. Squeaky, the friendly shopping cart with a squeaky wheel for your convenience towards the stinky aisle.

You know that aisle, it smells of strange things that sat in vinegar on a sunny porch for too many summers. Plastic bags burnt in the ever burning fires of Hell. The faintest whiff of sarin gas. The stinky aisle.

With watering eyes you scan the shelves. Extra plus versus Ultra plus. Improved vs. Specially Formulated. Tough on Stains vs. Soft on Colors. This has enzymes, that has "surfactants". Very enlightening. What's a surfactant, a dude that pretends he's here for the surf ? I can almost picture it, a surf-actant, unsteady on its feet, with the debris of his ex-surfboard still stuck in his shorts, going "Hey, awesome duuuude" to a peaceably sunbathing, nearby enzyme.

Aren't you afraid of that, by the way ? Enzymes.

Tricky business, enzymes. They're that part of living cells that digest ... well... other parts of previously living cells. Ever heard the horrible cough of a long time smoker ? Enzymes did that. Also, cancer. And lupus. Enzymes are the thing a spider injects flies with to liquefy their guts, enzymes turn food to shit and ever wondered what gives garbage it's distinctive odour ? Enzymes.

If you wake up one fine morning missing a leg at the knee, or with liquefied brain pouring out of your nose, odds are enzymes did it. And now, aren't you slightly worried ?

You go to bed, right ? Put on your pajamas, or hand knitted woolen socks with fingers, or whatever you sleep in and hop between the covers. And you go to sleep. But you've washed those covers, haven't you ? And the pajamas and the socks and everything else. In the washing machine, right ? With detergent. Right ?

And you're going to sleep. Enzymes aren't. Enzymes never sleep. Enzymes digest.

Oh, you're thinking, but these are friendly enzymes, friendly detergent enzymes that eat stains.

Oh, do they. What if they get tired of stains ? What then ?

Suppose one fine night, about two am, there's no moon, the sex marathon neighbours finally went to sleep, and the enzymes get bored. What then ?

What if it's, "hey, enzyme-pal Bob, I wonder what his upper elbow tastes like." What if they eat your fucking elbow straight out of your arm ? What will you do, go around without an elbow for the rest of your life ? Your arm will fall off !

Aren't you worried in the least ?

So I was just about to walk away, when it occurred to me I should probably get some qualified help. I should, shouldn't I.

So I stopped the next person in store uniform that innocently, unsuspectingly made the mistake of idly passing by.

"Miss, do you have a degree in psychology with a master's in behaviours of very sick people ?"
"Umm ? No, I don't."
"That'll be splendid then. I do and it's making it pretty darned impossible to pick a bag of detergent. Do you mind helping me out ?"

She looks at me like I'm serious for a moment. Then she looks at me like I'm kidding, for a moment. My reaction is about as flat as a knee cap the enzymes just ate out. This exhausts her momentary reserve of womanly guile and social know-how, so she doesn't know what to do. Or how.

Which means she absently arranges the line of her stockings and starts walking towards the stinky aisle. Mr Squeaky hums along right behind her, something about pretty young things in pretty short skirts. I'm starting to like Mr Squeaky.

"So what about this one ?"
"What's a water softener ?"
"Well, water can sometimes be hard, and that's bad for ..uhhh..."
She's really visibly bothered for some reason. I have absolutely no idea why.
"Hard is bad ?"
"Well, for the water machine."
"For the who ?"
"The water machine, you know, you wash your clothes in the ..."

She suddenly realises it's not called a Water Machine, good lordy, and her face turns an apoplectic shade of purple. I'm trying to decide which brand of detergent comes in color closest resembling the poor girl, and sure enough, it has enzymes in it.

She's just standing there, catatonically breathing, so I rather casually grab her by the arm and lead her down the aisle. She puts a hand on the cart to make herself useful. A trait I admire in other people. Mr Squeaky is squeaking an infernal crescendo, and I'm thinking I'm simply going to stick the cart in the trunk atop the groceries and take it home.

A middle aged woman passes us by, her ample bosom comfortably resting inside the child seat of her shopping cart. Hey, ever wondered why all the child seats in all the shopping cart have a perverse "don't seat children here" logo and text ? She looks at me, looks at the girl pushing my cart (what, of course I let go by now, I'm not one to play the chaperon, let the kids have their squeaky fun, I always say) stares at the girl's uniform, looks back and me, puffs and rolls away. She kind of resembles the little train engine that couldn't avoid sweets, actually.

We reach the end of the aisle and mechanically turn around it and into the next one. This one is cosmetics. Mascara, lip gloss, three girls in three booths ready to demonstrate whatever products. They're staring at us. Strangely enough, they're all the exact same height. They're staring piercingly. There's a fourth booth. Empty.

I turn around enough to notice a very very mottled girl pushing my cart right next to me. She is also the same exact height.

The poor girl, she must have went out for a pee and ran into me on her way back. Thinking about it, I figure that if I drop her off now, she will probably have to quit. So I keep walking, but something bothers me. And Mr Squeaky. Eventually it's too much to bear, so

"Have you washed your hands afterwards ?"

I can distinctly hear the familiar sound of eyeballs popping. My friendly companion fails to answer, so I entertain her, for the remainder of the walk down the aisle with a quaint lecture on the benefits of hygiene, the importance of washing one's hands, and the dangers of bacteria lurking in the urinary tract.

We stroll down towards the check-outs, I prop her forehead against a sound steel pillar, she's sort of resembling a curvaceous mop in that position, I pay for my stuff, I take it outside, stick it in my trunk, put the cart atop it all, and take off to the faint sound of a man in an uniform saying "Mister, mister..."

12 store clerks keep small zenofeller voo-doo figurines.

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