#it came with a custom made magnet for the car where the previous owner had a picture of the patron saint of drivers. coincidentally it

[partangel]

friends! just got my first car packed with cds of the doors... perhaps i won? its a german imported mercedes from the 80s. still has the original first aid shuttle and everything. 🍷 my grandpa era arrived at the sweet age of 21

[lazuli-bloom]

Roses and Styx

Chapter 1 - An Inconvenient Attachment

Beetlejuice x Reader

Word Count : 5365

Sure life wasn’t always easy, it had it’s ups and downs, but you were doing alright for yourself. Mostly. However when you find a strange sight while on your lunch break one autumn afternoon, your life gets all the more unusual.

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--=--=--

The sun beat down on you, unobstructed by a single cloud in the vibrant blue sky. A pleasant breeze wafted by, chilling the heat of the sun’s kiss. Summer was in its death throes, but stayed determined to linger as long as possible. It gave an odd contrast to the scenery. The blazing warmth of a summer sun illuminating the turning leaves and tombstones on that early October afternoon.

You sat on a stone bench enjoying your lunch in the quiet peace of the graveyard. Most people avoided visits to the cemetery, not wanting to keep the company of the dead. You, however, frequented it. With few visitors and lovely Gothic inspired architecture, the cemetery made a relaxing place for lunch breaks. Plus, it was only a short walk from your job.

While there were benches throughout the graveyard, your favorite spot was one off in the corner and closest to the gate. That day, however, there had been a funeral held in that corner of the cemetery. So as not to impose, you picked a different bench to occupy. You tried to not let your gaze stay fixed on the graveside service, but the task proved to be easier said than done. The funeral repeatedly pulled your attention back to it by partly virtue of being an event you’ve rarely seen.

Many people, dressed in black, all focused on one grave. Most of the figures standing there were adults, but among the crowd were children clinging onto parents. The group was too far to get a proper look at any of the mourners, but there was one that stuck out. A man, slightly broad in build, wore a peculiar striped suit with wide vertical bars in black and white. You noted the clothing choice as strange, but tried not to judge. Perhaps he wasn’t able to get a solid black suit on short notice.

The strange pattern of the suit made it easy to pick him out against the other mourners. He didn’t stay still. He moved around, seeming to want to get other’s attention only to be ignored. The man’s bizarre actions, coupled with the indifference of the crowd, were major reasons you kept glancing back to the funeral.

You shake your head and check your phone, almost two o’clock. Time to head back to work. You grab your trash and get up with a stretch. With one last glance back to the funeral, you find the striped suit man looking back your way. You pay him no mind and check your phone once more before heading to leave.

To wring the most time and relaxation out of your lunch, you amble back to the hardware store. You turn to the next street where brick shops sat side by side. On the corner was a shop with a rounded, sun-faded green awning stretched over most of the front facade. Your eye glanced over the printed “Rose Creek Hardware” in yellow letters for what must have been the millionth time.

The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside. To your left an older mustached man stood behind the front counter. He wore a light blue button down under a green apron, both tight around his rounder stomach. He gave you a warm smile that you returned.

“Back from lunch already, Cass?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice out today, I can hardly believe it’s October already.”

“Hopefully, when I get the Halloween decorations up, it’ll give things a more autumn feel.”

“Can’t wait to see it, Mr. Turner! Oh, and is Sam still here? Or have they left already?”

“They’re still around. Sam was helping the new hire.”

You nod and make your way behind the counter to retrieve your apron. After you get the strings tied, you do a sweep of the store. You found Sam in the back corner pulling merchandise forward. They didn’t notice you straight away, so you softened your footsteps for your approach. You stayed at their back until they turned enough one way that you could slip around to their side and not get caught in Sam’s peripheral. Once close enough to the shelving yourself, you slap your hands down on a bare spot- “-Missed a spot!”

Sam seized up, grabbing the shelf for support. “Geez, dude! You trying to kill me?” A wide grin breaks across your face. You chuckle to yourself as Sam regained some composure. They took a breath, shot you a glare, and got back to work.

“Heard you were training the new guy.”

“Yeah, he left already.”

“What’s he like?”

“Eh. Kinda boring? White bread personified, if you ask me. Dude came in with a dress shirt and tie.”

You shrug and start helping pull forward items. While turning products to have labels front-facing you continue on with your conversation. “Sounds like all I’ll have left to talk to will be Mr. Turner.”

There was a pause in that moment, and a sting of sorrow poked at your heart. You do your best to smother the feeling and focus on your work. It’s better to cherish the moment. You force yourself to smile and keep your chat going.

“So, there was a funeral today-”

Sam groaned and rolled their eyes at you. “You went to that creepy graveyard again? How are you not haunted?”

“Hey! I told you, it’s close by and usually quiet. I enjoy taking my lunches there. Anyway, there was a funeral and one guy there was in a weird suit with black and white stripes. Kinda like the Hamburglar.”

“I swear. You’re a magnet for the weirdest shit. It’s all those shitty movies you watch that seep into your head. How the hell do you not get nightmares?”

You stay silent and look over the product in your hand as your mind wandered back to your most recent nightmare. Piercing blue dots masked in shadow, watching every move you made. You shake your head to dismiss the thought.

You huff out a small laugh. “Guess that stuff just doesn’t get to me.”

“Whatever. Just don’t let any of your weirdness rub off on my cat.”

You press your lips into a tight line and tap your finger against the pliers in hand. “You sure there isn’t anywhere else he can go?”

“Cassie, I already told you I checked.”

“I’m just worried. I don’t think this is a good idea. My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”

“It’s just for two weeks. I’ll pick him up on the sixteenth. Hell, that’s not even a full two weeks, just thirteen days. You’ll be fine.” Sam finished with their side of the aisle and took a step back. “When do you want me to drop him off?”

You breathe out through your nose and make a noise somewhere between a hum and a groan. “Seven should be alright. Donna’s always heads out to the bars on Saturdays, so it should be clear by then.”

“You need to lighten up and not worry so much. Maybe a cute roommate is exactly what you need.”

You don’t give a reply and go back to work. The two of you split off and start tackling other sections of the store. Time marched on, and all too soon, Sam’s last shift ended. Mr. Turner bid them a farewell with a handshake and handed Sam their last paycheck. You give them a small wave and focus back on your task. You knew full well you were going to see them later that night, so you didn’t see the point of having a drawn out goodbye right then.

Once Sam left, the rest of the day dragged on slower than a sloth on crutches. When there weren’t any customers needing help, you talked with Mr. Turner. It gave you something to do, sure, but time still crawled.

That day was one of the worst kinds you can have in retail. The kind that’s just slow enough you bored out of your mind, and peppered with enough customers that you couldn’t slack off and dick around on the store’s desktop. It’s like they coordinated to space themselves out to be the most annoying.

As grueling as it took to get there, five-thirty eventually rolled around. You and the boss took the last half hour to close the store. Sweep, wipe down the counters, count the till, all that good stuff. You were in the middle of dusting when Mr. Turner handed you an envelope. You thanked him and opened it to count the bills inside. Five whole Benjamins. With another thanks, you move the bills into your wallet and get back to dusting.

Once all finished, you headed out, followed by your boss. He locked the front door and walked with you around the side to the small parking lot. He hopped into his old pickup while you climbed into your little junker. The bucket of rust masquerading as a car was on its way out, but you planned on getting every mile out of it you could. Mr. Turner had driven off by the time you coaxed your car into starting. The car sputtered and hissed, but you got the clunker going.

The drive to your apartment complex was as mundane and silent as ever. Your only option for music was to sing it yourself, since the previous owner had beaten the hell out of the radio. CDs weren’t an option either as the owner before the last had stuffed the disc slot full of cookies. For what reason remained a mystery.

You drum your fingers on the steering wheel as you drove, watching familiar sites go by as you neared your apartment. Nicer well-kept buildings and streets slowly turned to the more rundown variety. The street grew more broken and in increasingly desperate need of repairs as you went.

Building after building, you passed by until finally it was time to turn off. You pull up to your complex’s parking lot, just as run down as the roads leading to it. Two buildings sat facing each other, both in contest for which one can be the most rundown. Your building nudged ahead of its twin with the recent addition of graffiti marring the exterior.

You park in your designated spot, managing to not bump up against the two cars encroaching on your space. You worm your way out without adding anymore dents to the black sedan, and head to the complex’s front door. Standing near the door with a cigarette between clawed yellowed fingers was a scrawny older woman with a perpetual sneer on her wrinkled face. Cold steel eyes narrowed at you as you dared to approach the harpy.

“Hi Donna. How are you?”

“Parker! Where’s the rest of your rent?”

You force a smile to mask the spike of irritation. This harpy is going to be the death of you. You clear your throat to help prevent your ire from bleeding out into your tone.

“Right here, Donna. I get my pay on Saturdays.”

“Not my problem. Rent is due in full on the first. Today is the third.”

“I tried paying you last Saturday, but you-”

“The first, you stupid child. Not Before. Not after.”

“Yes Donna, I know. I’m sorry, I needed to replace a flat tire an-.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. Just pay the rest of your rent and get out of my sight. You worthless leech, can’t even follow basic instructions.”

You press your lips into a tighter line to keep yourself from screaming at the horrid bat. It was best to bite your tongue and get the interaction over and done with as quick as you could. You pull out your wallet and hand over four bills. It was nice while it lasted.

Donna snatched the money from you and promptly counted it. Once satisfied, she took a long drag off her cigarette. She ordered you to leave while smoke seeped out of her mouth like a dragon.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried off to your apartment, climbing the stairs to the second floor and making a beeline for your door at the end of the hall.

You shut the door, leaning against it and breathed out a deep breath. After calming yourself some, you set your keys on the counter by the door and step further into your little abode.

You make your way back to the small living room and crash on the dingy brown love-seat, tossing your phone onto the stained coffee table. You lean back and stare at the ceiling. A boring white painted over heavy popcorn texture, collecting all kinds of dust. You close your eyes and let your mind wander, wanting to squeeze some relaxation time out of the rest of the day. Too bad your phone rang.

Sam called to tell you they were on their way with the cat. You told them to be careful and not let Donna see them on the off chance that she hadn’t left for the bar yet. Sam, however, brushed aside your concerns and told you not to be so worried. You pinched the bridge of your nose and groaned at that. Sam wasn’t the one that had to deal with Donna and hopefully never will.

It wasn’t until a long while later that there was a knock at your front door. A quick check through the peephole showed you Sam was on the other side with a backpack and pet carrier. You open the door and hurry them inside. Sam stepped in, stopping in the space between the kitchen and living area, and looked over the place.

“Wow. This place is shitty.”

“Thanks, hadn’t noticed.”

Sam set the carrier down on your couch, and the cat inside growled in a low tone. Sam took off their backpack next and handed that one over to you.

“Here’s all of Rigel’s things; food, bowls, litter box, toys. I’ll be back in town to get the last of my stuff on the sixteenth, and I’ll pay you then.”

“I thought we agreed half now and half when you got back?”

“It’ll be easier to just pay you all at once.”

You drum your fingers on your thigh and let out a sigh. “Alright, fine. It will be nice to get two hundred dollars all at once.”

“See! You fuss over the smallest things.”

You change the topic by offering Sam something to drink but they declined. Sam still needed to pack up a few more boxes before the end of the night. You nod and give a small wave goodbye, only for Sam to pull you into a hug. Your muscles tense up, but you did your best to return Sam’s sudden hug.

There was a unique funk around Sam that made the hug even more challenging to bear. An overly strong lavender tried and failed to cover some mix of sweat and burnt coffee. Sam left shortly after, telling you to just call them should you need anything. You nodded and waved them off.

Once they left, you turn to Rigel stuck in his carrier. His hissing got louder the closer you got to the carrier, and was full on slashing at the front when you reached down to open it.

You recoil and let him be for the moment, choosing to set up his things in the bathroom instead. While your bathroom was on the smaller side, it seemed big enough for one cat to stay in. You pack up all the various toiletries that a bored cat might knock down and set out Rigel’s things. Litter box in the corner across from the shower stall, while his food and water were against the opposite wall between the door and the sink.

With that set up you go get the carrier. You did your best not to jostle it too much, but Rigel wasn’t pleased and let you know. He let out some of the most chilling demonic screeches as he knocked against the fabric carrier, desperate to break loose and slaughter you. You set the carrier down in the closet, closing one of the bi-fold doors so he had a dark corner to hide in. You braced yourself with a few steadying breaths before swiftly unzipping the front. Once open, you pull your hand back and leave the bathroom completely, making sure the door shut behind you.

You did your best to salvage the rest of your night, enjoying your cup of noodles while watching a movie. It was a B-Movie slasher about a supernatural being going on a killing spree in Las Vegas. And this somehow led to the being going to space in the next film. Overall, it was pretty cheesy, but got a few laughs from you.

Soon you had to wrap things up and head to bed. You sneak into the bathroom to swipe your toothbrush and clean them at the kitchen sink that night, and probably for the next two weeks. With a yawn and a stretch you change into sleepwear and crawl into your bed.

Sleep didn’t come to you easily, but it wasn’t a night full of endless tossing and turning, either. The rest you got didn’t feel like enough, as the buzzing of your alarm woke you too early for your liking.

You sat up rubbing your eyes and checked your phone for the time. The small screen on the back of the thin flip phone showed the time was seven o’ two. You heave out a sigh and pull the warm covers off.

While your body went through the motions of your morning routine, your mind wandered back to the images you saw in your dream. An island floated in the middle of a dark ocean with storm clouds rumbling high above. The cold wet sand pricked against your bare feet like needles, yet you kept on walking. You had found yourself on a rickety dock at least fifteen feet above the violent waves below. There was nothing around you, but you knew you weren’t alone. Down below, lurking beneath the water, two hungry orbs of blue glared up at you, waiting. Expecting. When you didn’t move from your perch, the beast thrashed at the pillars of the dock. You lost your footing and tumbled down to the abyss.

You shook your head, forcing your thoughts to jump back to the present. Chills ran down your spine as the nightmare crawled around in the back of your mind, clawing its way forward. You stuffed it as far back as possible and carried on with your morning.

You soon were out the door and on your way to work. You grip the toilet paper wrapped over your forearm, letting the lines of blood soak into it so it can better rest on your arm. Rigel had given you a few nasty scratches when you got him fresh water, the ungrateful bastard. At least there’s a first aid kit at work.

The bell above the door chimed as you looked at the time on your phone. The damn cat almost made you late for work. You make your way to the back room to grab your apron, only to bump into a man turning the corner. It took a second to get your bearings and notice you ran right into Mr. Turner.

“Oh shit. Sorry, sir.”

He laughed and waved you off. “Morning Cass, see you’re in a hurry.”

“Ah- no, well, kinda. I hit every red light getting here and-”

“You’re fine, don’t worry. No need to rush. Just get your apron and I’ll introduce you to the new guy.”

You nod and scurry back to grab the green apron. It hung by itself on the hooks, speckled in paint and smudges. By that point the thing was overdue to get tossed and replaced, but the same thing would end up happening to the next apron.

You throw it on and tie it behind yourself before going out to the sales floor. Mr. Turner stood next to a man younger than himself but older than you. The boss was the first to notice you and gave another wave. “There they are.”

The new guy turned and flashed you a wide smile, showing off straight white teeth in a hollow smile. Tamping down the disquiet, you force yourself to offer a smile in return. The man strode up to you and held out a hand. “Great to meet you, I’m Brandon! Mr. Turner was just telling me how great of a worker you are-” He squinted at your apron before going back to that fake smile- “Art. Interesting name.”

“Thanks,” you said, and hesitated a moment before taking his hand for a brief shake. On contact that strange buzz of discomfort shot from your palm through the rest of your arm. Once your hand was free, you fight the urge to rub off the non-existent traces of him. There wasn’t anything there, nothing real, and you knew that, but more than anything you wanted that feeling gone and the only way for it to leave was to brush it off. Why did people have to insist on handshakes, just needless physical contact with strangers? It’s stupid, and you hated it.

For the first half of your shift the boss had you go over the day-to-day tasks with Brandon. There were few customers in the store that Sunday morning, so you mostly had the guy pull forward merchandise and clean some shelves. Brandon did the tasks, but they all came with questions. Most of the questions were mundane things about the products stocked, store hours, and what times saw the most customers. The problem came when Brandon veered his questions towards you personally.

“So, is Art short for anything?”

“Artemis.”

Your answer was short and pointed. You already didn’t like that he was the type to read name tags over asking for someone’s name.

“Interesting. So you from around here?”

A shiver shot through you, and you’re quick to stop that line of questions. You ignore the question entirely, instead cutting in to tell him to finish front-facing the aisle while you go check on Mr. Turner.

The day dragged on until finally getting to your lunch break. Brandon, thankfully, caught on that you weren’t one to disclose much about yourself to a new face. However, that didn’t make the morning smooth sailing. You grab your lunch and speed off to the cemetery, eager to get a break from Brandon.

Your usual bench was free, and you took your place to enjoy lunch. Munching on your meal, you take in the sights, finding a serenity in the quiet. The sun shined brightly, causing some of the glossier headstones to reflect the rays. You hum to yourself and scan over the graveyard. To your surprise, you spotted someone in the far corner opposite you. Your brows furrowed, perplexed by the other. You watched the figure, curious of what they’re doing.

They wandered from gravestone to gravestone, kicking at the earth with hands stuffed into pockets. The build of the figure suggested a man, and one dressed in monochrome. You squint your eyes at them making sure you weren’t mistaken; but no, that was the same bizarre suit you saw a man wearing the day prior.

You keep your gaze fixed on him, wanting to figure out why he might be here a second day in a row visiting completely different graves. Did the man simply like to visit graveyards and have a limited wardrobe? If so, you didn’t want to comment on the matter out of fear of shattering the glass house.

You ate lunch with glances at the man. You wanted to piece together why he might be there. He wasn’t mourning; he moved from one grave to the next as if searching for something. The man in the weird suit went down one row of graves, heading away from you, only to hit the end and turn back for the next row.

You forced yourself to not look at him for fear of getting caught. But your curiosity burned, and you chanced a look up. He didn’t notice you, too engrossed in whatever he was doing. Embolden by that, you continue to munch away at your food and sneak glances at him. That is, until you swallowed wrong and went into a coughing fit.

You got your breathing under control a minute later and checked to see if he noticed. And oh boy, did he notice. The man was staring straight at you. It was awkward enough to get caught looking, but you noticed the man closing the gap between you two. He was still at the far end with well over two hundred feet between you, but you didn’t want to stick around and have that plummet to single digits.

Nope. You scoop up your belongings and speed-walk straight back to the store. You didn’t even chance a look behind you. Eyes forward and keep moving. You weren’t sure if he was actually still following; you didn’t hear any footsteps behind you. So that seemed like a good sign.

You blew past the door, bell violently chiming, and you made a beeline for the back. Your heart pounded against your ribs, wanting to break free and make a run for it. You take quick breaths, forcing the next to be longer than the last to get yourself to calm down. In the middle of collecting yourself, Mr. Turner walked into the back area with worry knitted on his brow.

“Cass, you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Is there a man in a striped suit in the store?”

He gave you a puzzled look, but left to do a sweep of the store. He came back half a minute later, shaking his head. “No, no one’s in the store dressed like that. What happened?”

“Nothing really. I just saw him in the cemetery and it looked like he was starting to follow me.”

He frowned. “Well, you just come to me if any creep is giving you a hard time. I’ll knock his teeth out for you.”

You manage a smile and nod. You take a few more breaths to calm down before you grab your apron. Things were going to be okay. The guy might not have even seen what store you went into. Heck, that guy probably didn’t even leave the cemetery. And even if he did, Mr. Turner was there to help you out of a tight spot. You smile a little brighter and step out onto the sales floor where you see the stripe suit guy looking at paint chips.

A strangled scream catches in your throat. You step back, dipping back into the employee’s only area of the store before he could see you. What the Hell were you going to do now? You couldn’t hide back there all day.

You push aside the fabric curtain dividing the sales floor from the back, and get a look at the man. With him much closer, you could see his green hair and the distressed look of his suit. He leaned forward, looking over the paint colors. Maybe he didn’t know you were back there. If so, you could wait in the back for a few minutes for him to just leave.

You close the curtain and slip your hands into your apron pockets. Your fingers brush over cool metal, and your thumb flicks up the slider on the side. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than nothing. Box cutter in hand, you look back out.

The stranger stayed put in front of the paint colors. You take a shallow breath, prepping yourself to go out. In the middle of psyching yourself up, you see Brandon wander over to the paint section. Hope bubbles up in you. The new guy can take care of him for you.

Brandon scanned over the section. He pushed down some color chips, looked over the desk before looking your way.

“Art! There you are.”

Brandon’s voice bellowed in the small store, not only earning a squeak from you but also causing the stranger to turn and look. You yank the curtain closed, hoping the man in the monochrome stripes didn’t get a good look at you.

Brandon parted the curtain a moment later and looked you over with knit brows and lips in a thin line. “Art, what are you doing back here? I don’t think it looks very professional for an employee to skulk around in the back all day.”

“The guy over at paint followed me from the cemetery.”

Brandon raised a brow at you. “There aren’t any customers in the store, and certainly not in paint, I would have seen them.” He pulled open the curtain with a flourish to reveal the man standing just on the other side. “See, no one’s there.”

Your eyes dart between the idiot holding back the curtain and the green-haired man tilting his head some with a grin plastered on his face. Thought processing came to a crawl as you tried making sense of what you were seeing. Your gaze lands on Brandon in the end.

“You don’t see anyone there?”

He rolled his eyes and looked back out to the sales floor. He then looked back at you with brows knitted further. “No, there’s no one there, Artemis. Perhaps you should stop taking your lunches in the cemetery if they’re just going to put scary thoughts in your head.”

Brandon frowned at you before stepping out onto the sales floor, going right through the man in the striped suit. He stopped to shiver, only to keep walking a second later. Once he left, your wide eyes landed on the man still standing there, still grinning and showing off sharp yellowed teeth.

“Hi there!”

Nope. Nope nope nope. You grab your box cutter and pull it out to point at the guy. And without a word you push aside the curtain more and go around the man. The man whined at your action and followed you.

“Come on babes! Don’t ignore me, I know you can see me!”

You keep walking, heading straight for Mr. Turner. He turns to you at your approach and the small smile fades from his face. “Cass? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The gravelly laugh behind you sent shivers down your spine. You did your best to shake off the feeling and forced a smile.

“I’m not feeling too good. I was hoping I could go home early today.”

His lips sink further into a frown, but he gave you a nod. “It’s fine by me. But what about that man you were talking about that followed you from the cemetery? Are you going to be okay?”

The man behind you continued to laugh. You tighten your hands into fists, the metal of the box cutter pressing hard into the flesh of your hand.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay Mr. Turner. See you tomorrow.”

He nodded, and you handed over your apron while keeping the box cutter in hand. You offer one last quick goodbye and head out the door, the bell only chiming once. You march down the sidewalk and hear the strange man continuing to talk.

“So, babes, where are we heading?”

You pause at your car door. You take a few quick breaths and finally respond to this... person. “I’m going home. I’m obviously not feeling well and seeing things that aren’t there.”

You slip into your car and promptly lock all the doors. You heave a sigh and lean against the steering wheel as your brain sorts through all this nonsense. A groan rumbles in your throat and you lean back in your seat. In your peripheral, the man in the striped suit sat in your passenger seat sporting a sharp grin. Well shit.

[darkfurypolice]

The history of the shopping trolley

A trip to the supermarket wouldn’t be the same without the shopping trolley, a utilitarian piece of design that allows us to buy more than we can physically carry. Colin Bisset takes a look at the history of an invention that changed consumerism forever.

The shopping trolley is one of the most successful marketing inventions of the 20th century. It came into existence in 1937 as a by-product of a new kind of shopping experience popularised in the 1920s: the supermarket.

The trolley was the idea of American supermarket owner Sylvan Goldman, who dreamed it up as a way of encouraging shoppers to buy more items in his Humpty Dumpty chain of stores.

The frame was inspired by a folding chair and held two wire shopping baskets, one above the other, doubling the quantity of goods that could be carried. They were unpopular at first because they reminded women of prams and men considered them effeminate. To counteract this Goldman hired male and female models who spent their days pushing trolleys around his stores, leading to their gradual acceptance.

The next big innovation was made by Orla Watson in 1946. He came up with a design with a hinged rear panel which allowed trolleys to be easily pushed together for storage. The Telescope Cart was patented in 1949 and remains the model for most trolleys today. The 1950s saw massive growth of supermarket and mall-style shopping with huge parking areas, making a trolley an almost an obligatory shopping aid. The density of customer traffic made compact storage essential. In 1954, the further refinement of a fold-down seat for toddlers meant that parents were free to focus on the shelves.

Increasing store size has since created demand for larger shopping trolleys to cope with increased sales, and the arrival of self-scanning equipment attached to the trolley handle has simplified the checkout process in some places. In 2013, a jet-propelled shopping trolley reached 70 kilometres per hour in Britain, but the idea has thankfully not been taken up by supermarket chains.

The Edgemar shopping mall in Santa Monica, California, which was designed in the late 1980s by local architect Frank Gehry, has been home to a towering Christmas tree made entirely from shopping trolleys every year since 1995. Created by artist Anthony Schmidt, each tree is over 10 metres high. Although they would appear to be a most appropriate symbol for Christmas consumerism, Schmidt adds that they also remind us of those in the world whose possessions would fill only a single shopping trolley. The first tree's silvery shimmer was, he says, inspired by a friend's mother who had platinum hair.

While the wonky-wheeled trolley has long been a visual gag in film, the abandoned trolley is more often a symbol of urban waste, and many are dumped by roadsides or in waterways. More than one million trolleys are manufactured each year, adding to the millions already in circulation. Most supermarkets now make considerable efforts to retain their property, adding coin-deposit mechanisms to ensure their return in areas of high theft as well as wheels that lock when a trolley is pushed over a magnetic strip set at a mall entrance.

The scale of the shopping trolley has also grown and the supermarket model is now used for everything from furniture shops to pile-it-high discount stores. For some, Sunday wouldn't be Sunday without pushing a trolley around a hardware store or a wine warehouse. Thanks to the increased kinetic energy implicit in the larger size and weight, there have been reports of people being crushed, sometimes fatally, by trolleys. However, many supermarkets today also offer scaled-down versions so that small children will learn shopping habits early. Sylvan Goldman would certainly have approved of that.

Why Don't People Return Their Shopping Carts?

While some supermarkets are better than others, it's probably not unusual to find a few stray shopping carts littering the parking lot to the dismay of shoppers who may think that a parking spot is open, only to find that it's actually being used by a shopping cart. It seems like a basic courtesy to others: you get a cart at the supermarket, you use it to get your groceries and bring them to your vehicle, and then you return it for others to use. And yet, it's not uncommon for many people to ignore the cart receptacle entirely and leave their carts next to their cars or parked haphazardly on medians. During peak hours, it can mean bedlam. Where does this disregard come from?

Some supermarkets have tried to make this relatively easy: they have cart receptacles throughout the parking lot, a cart attendant to bring the carts back to the store, and some may even rely on a cart "rental" system where you pay for the cart and are reimbursed when it's returned. In the instances where there is no rental system, people may leave their carts stranded for some of the following reasons:

The receptacle is too far from where they've parked their car.

They have a child whom they do not want to leave unattended.

The weather is bad.

They have a disability that prohibitive to easy movement.

The perception that it's someone else's job to collect the carts.

They're leaving the carts for someone else to easily pick up and use.

Similarly, there are five categories of cart users:

Returners. These people always return their carts to the receptacle regardless of how far away they've parked or what the weather is like. They feel a sense of obligation and/or feel badly for the people responsible for collecting the carts.

Never Returners. People who never return their carts. They believe it's someone else's job to get the carts or the supermarket's responsibility, and show little regard for where the carts are left.

Convenience Returners. People who will return their carts if they parked close to the receptacle, or if they see a cart attendant.

Pressure Returners. People who will return their carts only if the cart attendant is present or if the adjacent car's owner is present, which means they don't have an easy avenue for abandoning their carts.

Child-Driven Returners. These are people with children who view it as a game to return carts, often riding them back to the receptacle or pushing them into the stacked lines.

Social norms fall into two general categories. There are injunctive norms, which drive our responses based on our perception of how others will interpret our actions. This means that we're inclined to act in certain ways if we think people will think well or think poorly of us. And there are descriptive norms, where our responses are driven by contextual clues. This means we're apt to mimic behaviors of others—so what we see or hear or smell suggests the appropriate/accepted response or behavior that we should display.

Shopping cart, bag or basket?There is no golden rule.

In any case, since we are talking about an e-commerce website, all you want to do is to reduce the friction in the flow and reduce the cognitive load of the user. Everything has to look familiar and work as expected. Or to put it in UX terms, the system must meet the user’s mental model.

But why is it that sometimes you see websites or apps using different terms for the same functionality, and which is the right one for each case?

The user‘s mental model.

Users form their mental models based on the physical world and the websites and apps they use in their daily lives. So they expect to see a similar functionality to the one that they are used to from their previous experiences, this can happen by using a metaphor to make it easy for the users to think of a concept they are already familiar with. In our case, shopping in a store. So the scenario would be something like this:

Walking into a store.

Adding the products to a cart.

One last chance to think if we got everything.

Go to the registry and pay.

If you think about the physical world, things make kind of sense. You use a home shopping trolley for larger objects, for example, electric appliances — a basket for smaller ones like groceries, and a shopping trolley bag for the smallest items, like clothes.

But why don’t we use the same patterns for digital experiences?

Finding a balance between innovation and familiarity.

What’s wrong with the ‘Cart’ anyways? Well, it just doesn’t fit with every kind of store. Some stores don’t use carts in their physical stores, so it might not make sense to use them in the digital one. Plus, it is also a bit ugly as an icon if you want a rather artistic opinion.

For some reason, the ‘Cart’ became the norm, and it seems that it is tough to break out of the norms. It was Amazon and Zappos in the late 90s that familiarized the idea of the shopping cart and users didn’t seem to have trouble understanding what ‘Cart’ means.The word ‘Cart’ has become the default word when it comes to e-commerce.

In fact, in some cases, websites that use a bag icon in their menu, use the term ‘Add to cart’ in the call to actions just because users are more familiar with the term. But that doesn’t mean that every website should use this. It could confuse the users even more, and you should avoid it.

Many fashion e-commerce websites broke out of that norm. Sites like Macy’s use the ‘Bag’ for years and many other websites followed that example. Nowadays the term ‘Bag’ has become the new norm at least for websites that focus on apparel and fashion. Even a tech company like Apple has shifted to the use of the term ‘Bag’ on their website.

[davidastbury]

August 2018 Summer 1958

A hot afternoon. Unable to decide whether to stay or go. Russell looking at me - those eyes - as biologically close to Caroline’s as it was possible to be. And she was in the next room practicing at the piano. I could actually hear the thud of her thumbs and imagined her splayed fingers - stabbing through the octaves - wrists arched, skin stretched. And the noise - it couldn’t be called music - the noise made my head spin until I had no thoughts at all - just the start of a strange, painless ache that would never get any worse - and would never go away.

Then

She had been his girlfriend for a few weeks and the boy decided to introduce her to his parents. They liked her instantly and soon she was frequently calling at the family home. More than that, they got along so well with her that the girl visited when her boyfriend was away - working in other cities and sometimes overseas.

When he was home, he invited his dad to meet up with the two of them in a nearby bar. They spent the evening talking - talking about everything. And then, this became a fairly regular thing; the three of them at a little table, drinking and endlessly talking.

Once, he said to his dad that we’ll - ‘see you later as usual’ - and his dad replied - ‘No, you don’t want me around. Let it be the two of you’.

The son replied - ‘Of course we want you to be with us!’

And so the dad did as he was told.

Something Wrong

I once saw a rabbit hit by a speeding car - it was thrown up in the air; then rolled; then settled at the side of the road. A few seconds later I saw his/her mate - ears raised, looking back, confused, aware something was wrong.

And then the realisation that he could not get up, or move - and their was world broken, as broken as the sharp bones in that scrap of warm fur.

On The Train

Nice young couple. He makes comments and she smiles - doesn’t actually laugh because that might be too much encouragement. Probably an embryonic relationship; they look at each other with affectionate curiosity and open minded interest. All nice and pleasant - before the elephantine looming of practical matters ... money, families and the seething smorgasbord of desires.

City Block Story ... #22

I had a friend who lived on the 28th floor of a block in town. I used to call on him from time to time and particularly enjoyed the views from his floor to ceiling windows. One day I shared the lift with two female students and a maintenance engineer. The students were enjoying some sort of joke - I picked up the last line - which the dark-haired one, choking with laughter, had difficulty saying - ‘ ... and I won’t have any student debt!’

I tried to figure out the bit that had gone before - the bit I’d missed - but of course couldn’t figure it. The two students, still giggling got out of the 28th and followed me along the short corridor. The dark haired one fumbled with her keys and went into the flat next-door but one, to my friend.

So there I was, sitting on my friend’s sofa, looking out of his window at the clear blue sky as if in some sort of strange aircraft. I told him about the two students and he understood who I was talking about - ‘The dark haired one is the tenant; the other is her pal. I don’t know anything about her other than that she’s studying architecture. She needed to borrow my phone once. That was our only contact. But there is something about her - she goes out quite late in night.’

‘What do you mean, “goes out”’? I asked.

‘I don’t know. She goes out most nights. A car comes for her.’

‘A taxi?’ I asked.

‘No, it isn’t a marked taxi, but she gets in the back seat as if it’s a taxi.’

‘So, she’s going somewhere?’

My friend was amused. ‘Look - I don’t know! Stop asking me questions. You know where she lives - go and ask her!’

He knew he had to be careful with sadness - you have to keep it at arms length. Sadness isn’t ever sorted out and put on the shelf; instead it hangs around in the shallows, watches you, looks forward to new additions, new griefs, new disappointments. It will leap into flame just when you aren’t expect it - when you are low over something, something in itself a bit trivial - but it is enough let loose a build up of sadness - a flood of misery.

So he was careful with sadness - always on his guard - always watchful - and never, repeat never, alone.

Britain and Europe. #1

I used to attend the biannual Oil Industry jamborees in Aberdeen. It wasn’t just European, oilmen came from all over the world, it was international - Arabs, Persians, Texans, Venezuelans, Norwegians - the lot. They looked like oilmen too - men who could cap a blazing wellhead or drill miles out at sea. Men who survive in the toughest conditions - all wearing expensive ‘outdoor’ clothes and the ubiquitous Rolex watch.

I used to attended some of the workshops - one I particularly remember was given by the sales manager of a British component manufacturer. We knew each other from previous industry exhibitions and trade shows. After he’d done his stuff the two of us went to the bar. I asked how he was getting on in his firm - I’d read that it had been ‘acquired’ by a French conglomerate - and his reply, given with sincerity, really shook me. There he stood, on the foothills of senior management within a European giant; who mixed with the best of the best....

‘Listen David - between you and me - if I could get a job on the bins, I’d leave tomorrow.’

After living in the flat for a few years we decided to make some changes. We started by smashing down an interior wall and when the dust settled we were amazed to find a secret room! It was really weird - fully furnished and very neat.

Then we remembered that we lived in a duplex.

R.

We knew each other for a few short weeks - right up to the time she left out little town forever. London was the magnet and I understood her reasons for going - I didn’t question any of it - I let the day come round and carried her bags and cases to the station - and I watched the bus take her away.

That was a long time ago. I heard nothing from her in the first few weeks and months - and then the months became years - in fact, nearly sixty years. And now others will have filled her life and they will see her as she is - but for me it is entirely different - I hold a gleaming fragment - fixed forever at that moment; how she had panicked over a last-minute confusion with her ticket - how she was cheerful and tried not to look at me - how she was heartbreakingly soulful - how she tried to smile and how hard she tried not to cry.

The Immortal Story

Once upon a time sailors were great storytellers - it was probably a way of getting through the boredom of long voyages. The stories themselves were usually fantastic and subject to the imagination and personal embellishments of the teller. One story was so popular that it was given the title ‘The Immortal Story’. It goes something like this ...

There was once a young sailor, his ship was docked for a few days in harbour somewhere in the Far East. He was alone one sticky, sweltering night - alone and getting drunk on the strong local brew - outside, he could hear the night chorus of tree frogs and monkeys. He was near a rickety bamboo screen, behind which the establishment’s girls waited for customers. He then looked up and saw a beautiful woman standing in front of him - she put a finger to his mouth and taking him by the hand led him outside and into her carriage. A servant took them to the woman’s luxurious home.

She said to the young sailor - ‘You must not speak’ - and he simply nodded his head. She gave him a night of extraordinary pleasures - leaving him weak and heavy-eyed. In the morning a set of clean clothing is laid on the bed and the woman told him that her servant had the horses ready to take him back to his ship - and that he must not speak or try to see her again.

The person telling this story must pretend that this really happened to him. He can dress it all up in anyway he likes, as long as he is convincing.

But somewhere, there would have been a sailor telling the Immortal Story, and in his case it would true.

The school bag.

The hotel allocates a space where departing guests can leave items for which they have no further use. Four or five shelves brimming with things like deluxe swimming goggles, piles of books and magazines, inflatable alligators, straw hats, sun creams, flip flops etc. Anyone can take what they want.

I saw a girls school bag; lots of pockets, pink shoulder straps - a bit knocked about - ‘well used’ is the phrase. The interior was scuffed and marked by felt-tip pens, which the owner had not capped - and traces of stickers, unsuccessfully scratched away by her thumbnail. I held it upside down to shake out the sand and the flap swung open revealing a drawing on the underside - a childish image of a kitten in a bow tie, surrounded by bunches of marijuana leaves. I had to smile.

And then, under the picture of the unfeasibly cute kitten, she had neatly stencilled her name ... Lucie Wider.

I put it back on the shelf.

‘O Master of the Universe!

God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Unfurl the canopy of Your protection

And Bless the life of Lucie Wider.

Lucie Wider

Lucie Wider.’

[itsworn]

This 8-Second 1981 Malibu Beats the High Cost of Racing

Scotty Stites has the high cost of racing beat with this 8-second budget bomber.

Getting involved in the sport of drag racing usually isn’t a wise financial decision. It costs money to build (or buy) the car, and then it’s an endless money pit with maintenance, repairs, and general expenses of racing such as entry fees, fuel, and race track cheeseburgers. But if there was ever a car that perfectly exemplifies budget-friendly drag racing, it’s this 1981 Chevy Malibu owned by 39-year-old Scotty Stites of Ripley, Mississippi. The car is all business, from its satin blue DIY Plasti Dip paint job to its naturally aspirated small-block engine, but the car’s simplicity doesn’t mean it’s slow. In fact, the car runs quicker than the roll cage specifications allow, but the tech guy at his local track doesn’t seem to mind.

Scotty bracket races the car, running in the Super Pro division against tube chassis cars and dragsters. Despite the weight and horsepower disadvantage, the car is consistent and performs well on a regular basis. Scotty also runs in the local 6.0-second eighth-mile index class, which is specifically for door slammers, but the field is typically packed with lightweight, tube-chassis cars. Nothing pleases Scotty more than to put those high dollar cars on the trailer.

Scotty bought the car from a friend who had started the project several years ago. The previous owner had built a new back half, consisting of narrowed rear frame rails, big wheel tubs, and a narrowed rearend. Scotty got a great deal on the car, and started troubleshooting some of its issues. He tracked down a few problems in the driveline, and made quick progress to get the car running better.

The car’s exterior—a non-descript flat blue—came out of a spray can, and is arguably the Malibu’s most memorable feature. “This was just a cheap option,” says Scotty. “I had checked into some vinyl wraps, and a guy was supposed to come wrap it, then he never showed up. We figured out something cheap, and it just worked out, you know, for less than $500 you can do the whole car. It’s just a flat color, there’s no shine to it, but it works.”

While Scotty’s Malibu spends 100 percent of its time on the racetrack running deep into the 5s in the eighth mile (approximately high 8s in the quarter), the bracket machine is not particularly stripped-down for the track. All the lights and accessories work, and the full interior (sans passenger seating) could easily be returned to street duty in a day’s time, should the need arise. “It’s got steel doors and roll-up windows. It’s nothin’ fancy, but it works for me.”

Scotty reports he has only about $15k in the car, and much of that is due to the simple combination under the hood. Keeping the cost of racing down is a 434ci small-block Chevy with conventional 23-degree heads, a 950cfm alcohol carburetor, and 12:1 pistons. “It’s nothin’ exotic. It’s got 20-year-old parts, but it’s a good combination that makes good power.” Running methanol fuel, Scotty reports a best eighth-mile e.t. of 5.53 at 120 mph. “I bought it with this engine, but it didn’t run very well. I changed a bunch of stuff, took weight off here and there, and got it faster and faster just tinkering with it. It’s about maxed out now. To go any faster, we’ll have to spend about $5,000.”

Scotty has a great support system at home, thanks to his wife Sharon and his 16-year-old son Caden, who can often be seen helping out in the shop and at the track. He also received a helping hand from his brother-in-law Jason Hutcheson—not only is Jason his employer (Hutcheson Transmission; Ripley, Mississippi), but he also helps on the race car, so that’s a win-win.

We met Scotty at the Outlaw Street Car Reunion in Bowling Green, Kentucky, where he was competing in the 32-car Super Pro Shootout. Scotty made it to the semi-finals on Friday night, before his opponent ran dead on the dial in with a .001 reaction time—an unbeatable run. Scotty would get another chance to race the following day, but rain moved in and cancelled the event all together, so Scotty, Caden, and Jason made the five-hour trip back home. He plans to race as often as his schedule allows, both at his home track Holly Springs Motorsports Park, and at other tracks in the Southeast.

With a background in hot rods and drag cars, Scotty is right at home in the driver’s seat of his wheelstanding G-body. The car has run a best of 5.53 at 120 miles per hour in the eighth-mile, which comes out to 8.60s in the quarter mile if the car was geared differently. Since Scotty’s local tracks are mostly eighth-mile, he has it geared accordingly (4.71:1), so it uses every ounce of horsepower as it goes through the lights. Scotty admits that the car is lighter than it looks, but that it still has all of the original glass in it and plenty of room to shed some more weight if he chooses to take it to the next level. We wouldn’t change a thing because his simple combination offers big time fun on a working man’s budget.

Tech Notes Who: Scotty Stites What: 1981 Chevrolet Malibu Where: Ripley, Mississippi

Engine This conventional small-block Chevy starts with a Dart SHP block machined by Barnes Racing Engines to accept a four-inch stroke. The Eagle 4340 crankshaft is mated with Eagle six-inch H-beam connecting rods, and slings a set of Ross pistons. With a hefty dome on the piston, the final compression ratio is 12.0:1, when combined with the Brodix 10X aluminum cylinder heads. The extensively worked heads were previously used on a sprint car engine, and feature 2.150-inch titanium intake valves and 1.600-inch stainless exhaust valves. The camshaft is a Comp Cams solid-roller with a custom grind, featuring 274 degrees intake and 286 degrees exhaust duration at .050-inch lift, and a max lift of .753-inch on the intake side and .721-inch on the exhaust. Other Comp Cams components include a belt drive, 1.550-inch valve springs, and pushrods. The valve train is finished off with a set of Jesel shaft-mounted rocker arms with a 1.6:1 ratio. Engine electronics are handled by an MSD 7531 box, accompanied by an MSD Pro-Billet distributor, coil, and flying-magnet crank trigger. The car’s exhaust consists of Hedman headers (1.875-inch primary tubes) leading to 3.5-inch pipes and Dynomax bullet mufflers.

Induction Atop the small-block is a Brodix single-plane intake manifold, which features a 4150 flange. The carburetor is a Quick Fuel 950cfm unit, set up for methanol. It draws fuel from a Magnafuel 275 pump.

Transmission Since Scotty spends his days building transmissions, he jumped at the chance to modify the Powerglide in his Malibu. Along with all new hard parts, he installed a BTE valve body with a Pro Brake. The custom eight-inch torque converter stalls to 6,000 rpm on the line. A Wiles Racing aluminum driveshaft handles the shock of the high-rpm launch.

Rearend Out back is a Quick Performance 9-inch rear end. It features an aluminum center section, packed with a 4.71:1 Motive ring and pinion, a spool and Moser 35-spline axles. Scotty’s specialty is reducing mass in the rotating assembly (he’s a transmission expert, after all!), so he got to work relieving the ring gear mass around the attachment points using a Bridgeport machine.

Suspension The previous owner replaced the rear frame rails with 2×3 rectangular tubing, and installed a Competition Engineering ladder bar suspension. Scotty tweaked the suspension to his liking, and has the Viking double-adjustable coilovers dialed in. The front suspension features QA1 R-series coilovers with 250-pound springs. A rack and pinion was added by Laverne Ferrovillat at 5th Avenue Race Cars in Mobile, Alabama. Braking consists of Aerospace Components front discs and Wilwood rear discs.

Wheels & Tires The Malibu rolls on Weld Alumastar front runners, which measure 15×3.5 inches and mount to a set of Mickey Thompson 26×4.5-15 tires. Out back is a set of Billet Specialties 15x12s, mounted to Mickey Thompson 315/60R15 Pro drag radials.

Body/Paint The body on Scotty’s Malibu is mostly stock, aside from the Glasstek four-inch cowl induction hood. Scotty straightened up the body and gave it a satin blue finish using low-cost blue Plasti Dip.

Interior It’s a pretty basic setup inside the Malibu, but it serves the purpose. Scotty says, “Aluminum interior panels and Lexan windows are great for weight savings, but I hate that stuff.” He loves the fact that he can still roll the window down on the return road to get some fresh air during those hot Mississippi summers. Scotty is surrounded by a 12-point mild steel roll cage, and hangs on to a Grant steering wheel and B&M Pro Stick shifter. He’s strapped into a Jegs racing seat, using an RJS cam-lock harness.

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