Nestled amongst the glowing bottles of canola oil in the supermarket today was a member of a genus that I find quite...horrifying. It starts with a "C", although its nickname begins with "R" and it rhymes (more handily if you're spelling its slang name) with the word "coach". Dead. Not something I want to reach over as I select my canola oil.

Happily, one of the members of the store's industrious cleaning crew happened to saunter by at just that moment. This is the ensuing convermotion (conversation + frantic hand motions):

Me (in hebrew): There's something you need to take care of! (Motioning frantically in direction of box.)

[Note: The gentleman's mother-tongue is probably Amharic]

Him (broken Hebrew): What?

Me: Look!!! Look!! (Punctuated by further frantic motions.

Him: Take away box?

Me: (Make the motion of a crawling insect, through dexterous finger movements. Try my luck by switching to English) Bug!! Bug!!

Him: (He's a nice guy--you can tell he wants to help out.) Where? Take away box?

So finally I overcome my squeamishness and point directly to the crumpled corpse, so utterly close that I feel a need to autoclave my pointer finger afterward. He leans in for a closer look. And then...precious! The dawning light of comprehension! Eureka! We have successfully reached the pinancle of communication. He beams. I beam. He rushes off to get his garbage bag. I rush off to get my barf bag. Veni. Vidi. Vici.

Have you ever noticed that two people can be communicating but they're not speaking the same language? Even if they're both speaking the same language. Communication is such an art. As for me, I think I should have been awarded some sort of prize for saving other customers from the trauma of happening upon El Roacho. I'd settle for a free canola oil.

 

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