Martha and I are stomping around in Macy's, taking advantage of their Going-Out-of-Business sale. It is a sad day for Martha. Macy's is her absolute favorite store. She is in deep crisis over its closing. But there is nothing to be done about it so she is the first to see the benefit in the reduced prices.

There is a warehouse atmosphere inside the store. No beautifully arranged displays; no smiling, elegant sales ladies behind sparking counters; no order, no organization. Everything is chaos. Rows of checkout counters have been established at all the exit doors on the first floor and that is where payment is rendered. Within the store is a free-for-all.

I am only there because I need a suitcase. I am rapidly becoming a world traveler, it seems, and I am already tired of lugging luggage through airports. So I have decided to buy one o' them new-fangled suitcases on rollers. Yessirree, I can just picture myself tooling through even the most intimidating airport with ease and aplomb, pulling my belongings behind me. No more aching shoulders, no more strained back, no more hassle.

I find the suitcase first, of course. One always finds the biggest item first. I stash it in an out-of-the-way spot and we go rummage among the clothes. I find a couple of sweaters I can take to Oregon next month. Martha is not so lucky. She is looking for a nightshirt but the only sizes left are too large.

We go back to the luggage department and retrieve my suitcase. Martha wants to pick up a cream and sugar set so we zip over into household stuff and secure that. She selects several candles, too. I run across some cool drinking glasses that speak to me. Drinking glasses are something I have needed forever but never bought for myself. I can easily drink out of a jar if I have to, so I just don't worry about 'em. But at this moment I realize I'm really tired of those Houston Oiler glasses I got free for gassing up the Dream at the Shell station one summer about a million years ago.

Hell, I don't even like football. And the fucking Oilers are leaving town, anyway, in search of greener pastures.

I choose one set each of eight-ounce and four-ounce glasses. Beautiful slim, square crystal glasses with just a tiny bit of etching at the corners. "Mozart", they are called.

By now the arms are filling with heavy objects so Martha and I decide to stash our goodies inside the suitcase. This is a good test, I figure. Everything fits with room to spare. I tie down my purse on the outside with the little strap provided for extra bags. Very cool. Off we go, pulling the suitcase behind us. It maneuvers beautifully. I have made a good choice.

We take the escalator downstairs (the suitcase is even friendly with this monster) and prowl all over the first floor. Purses, hats, shoes ... Martha finds more treasures and we stash 'em in the suitcase. Finally we stand in line at the checkout, unload the suitcase, pay for everything, load the suitcase up again and wander back out into the mall.

"Want to stop at Luby's Cafeteria and get a glass of iced tea, smoke a cigarette or two?", Martha asks.

"That sounds good," I say.

We trek through the mall, the suitcase following faithfully behind. She is a joy to tote. I am feeling very pleased with myself. Very pleased, indeed.

In Luby's we find a long line of folks waiting to get food. Luby's has this "move ahead" policy, though, where one is encouraged to move around others in line if they are ready to check out. It helps speed up service.

Martha and I figure this policy applies to things like iced tea, too. There is a large gap in the line of folks between the iced tea and the entrees, so we slip into line in back of a couple of ladies who are ready for the cashier. They have only stopped to get coffee.

I reach for a glass of tea. I grasp it and lift it off the shelf. Suddenly it slips out of my hand.

KEE-RASH!

It falls right on the tray of the lady in front of me, soaking her cornbread with tea and ice. Miraculously, the glass does not break.

"Ooops," I say. "I am so sorry!"

She glares at me. She is not amused.

"Ohmigosh," I go on, "I'm not normally this clumsy (*lie*); I don't know what happened, please forgive me."

She glares in stony silence.

I am trying to help. I pick up the little dish of cornbread swimming in iced tea and dump the ice back into the ice thingy. One of the servers behind the counter, a very nice young man, reaches out to take the cornbread from me and get the lady a new piece.

I hand it to him.

He has it, I think.

I let go.

KEE-RASH!!! Again. Only this time, the plate falls squarely on top of her glass of water and totally destroys her tray. The glass breaks, water goes everywhere -- all over her, all over her food. There are shards of glass in the chicken cacciatore, in the broccoli, in the mashed potatoes.

If looks could kill, I would not be alive to tell this story.

"Ma'am, I am so VERY sorry," I blather.

But honestly, what can I really say at this point? I mean, I have totally destroyed her lunch which she has stood in line for, and with her only seconds away from checkout. Does "sorry" really suffice? I think not.

I back away from the counter, completely out of the serving line, and hold up both hands.

"Just let me get away from all breakable objects."

Martha is doubled over with laughter. "You don't want any tea?", she manages to croak.

"No, no tea for me, thank you, I'm sure the glass will self-destruct in my hand. I'll go find a table."

The woman whose lunch I have just destroyed is seething. She glares at me, her dark eyes flashing with fire, her aura black and menacing. How can I tell her that something has just gone amiss with my Pluto energies and I don't know what it is, therefore I have no control over it?

Wagging my trusty suitcase, I flee to the dining area and choose a table. Martha joins me moments later, iced tea in hand and a big slab of pie. She is laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

"'Here, let me totally destroy your lunch,'" she mocks. "'I only got your cornbread the first time.'"

I think it is funny, too. We are both giggling when the lady comes by with her replacement tray, kindly furnished to her by the nice young man. She gives us one parting shot from those angry eyes and moves on.

Martha will never let me live it down, I'm sure.

But I got my suitcase. And a fine suitcase it is, too.