Surviving an underground shopping gauntlet

I was trapped between a giant, velour Santa and a bird cage. A

swarm of edgy shoppers in coordinating Christmas cardigans were

headed down the makeshift aisle in my direction.

Stuck in the subterranean level of a major department store at 7

a.m. the morning after Christmas, I was in trouble. Tables, boxes,

tubs and baskets that held left-over holiday embellishments -- for

half their original price -- littered nearly half the level.

I could hear glass breaking as anxious shoppers forcefully shoved

useless ornaments out of the way in search of that perfect one.

Behind me were a flock of giant fake Christmas trees -- with a

variety of trimmings from bows to toy drums -- and in front of me was

a table bolstering five large bins of nothing but tiny pink fluffy

sofas embellished with rhinestones and red roses (I kid you not).

The swarm of ornament addicts was getting closer. Their leader

spoke:

“Cheryl, honey,” said a woman dressed in a Scottie dog sweater,

with jingle bell earrings that really rang, “tell me if you see any

French horns. Gold French horns. My tree in the family room has a

French horn theme, and I have got to find some more to fill up the

gaps.”

“There’s a bin over there with musical instruments, but I’m not

sure if they are French horns,” Cheryl answered. “I think I saw some

harps. Do you need harps?”

“Where’s the bin?” the fearless leader demanded.

“Over near Bonnie. Bonnie, Bonnie, yoo hoo,” Cheryl hollered

across the store.

A garland shot up like a flare from an aisle in the southeast

corner of holiday Hates.

“Over there,” the leader said and charged forward.

They were heading straight for me. I had nowhere to turn. I

pressed myself into the branches of one of the pretend pines and held

my breath.

Somehow, the mob of over-zealous shoppers made their way past me,

but not without one of their sleeves catching on of the bogus

branches, which snapped back and tagged me dead in the face.

It was a minor injury compared to the trauma I could have suffered

had I stood in the way of the unbending bargain hunters.

How had I gotten in the middle of this, I asked myself. One minute

I was looking at clearance picture frames, then I stepped to the

right to make way for a stroller with a sleeping (lucky) baby.

Another step to steer clear of a frantic employee trying to push a

cart full of go-backs, and then a quick pivot to avoid a teetering

toddler on a leash, and I found myself in the middle of post-seasonal

purgatory.

I am a tough kid. I played sports all my life and I am a pugilist,

for goodness sake, but this was just too much.

At least in boxing, they give you a mouthpiece, head gear and a

minute’s rest every now and then. In the blood-thirsty sport of

post-Christmas bargain hunting, I was unarmed and alone. I hadn’t

even stretched.

I paused to plan an escape route.

If I went down the fluffy pink aisle, I would get tangled with the

mile-long line for what I think was the cash register -- although you

couldn’t see the actual register from where I was standing.

Wandering down the musical instrument aisle could have meant

another encounter with team Cheryl, and that was just too risky.

I had no choice but to take my chances in the angel aisle.

Hopefully, the heavenly forces at work there would keep me from harm.

From there, the exit sign above the door to the subterranean

parking flashed like a beacon of hope on the horizon.

The only thing that stood in my way was a smartly dressed man --

wearing a freshly starched shirt, untucked over designer jeans, and

fabulous loafers -- who was hording the end of the angel table with

his four baskets of holiday booty.

He was slapping away grubby hands who dared venture into his

personal treasure troves.

“Anything in a red basket is mine, people,” he said to the

surrounding women, who were looking longingly at his collection of

heavenly ornaments.

“Excuse me,” I said to the man and flashed one of my biggest

I-don’t-want-any-trouble-smiles.

“I don’t want any of your tinsel or glass bulbs or snow globes,” I

thought to myself. “I just want to get out of here.”

So I squeezed my way past him and finally made it to the useless

kitchen gadgets section, which was all but deserted because everybody

in the store was shopping for themselves. I was never so happy to see

a combination salad shooter/alarm clock in my life.

I took a moment to collect myself and then headed toward the door.

I was empty handed, but I didn’t care. At least I was all in one

piece and, for the most part, unscathed. Sigh.

If I start training now, I might be ready for the day after

Christmas sales next year.

* LOLITA HARPER covers Costa Mesa. She may be reached at (949)

574-4275 or by e-mail at lolita.harper@latimes.com.