"Hairnets! Clean nails! Clean utensils!"
Panic spread through the store like wildfire.
It was annual health inspector day—the one day of the year when even Mr. Adams couldn't stay hidden in his office.
He rushed from the deli to the bakery, then to the butchery, making sure everything was spotless. Staff members scrambled behind him like headless chickens, trying to keep up with his endless demands.
"Are they here yet?" Mr. Adams called out nervously, his voice sharp with panic.
"No, they're not here yet, Mr. Adams," replied Calvin, the butchery manager.
Calvin stood casually at his station, pretending to pick his nose.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
This was his chance for revenge.
Mr. Adams spun around just in time to see him.
"Calvin!" he barked.
Before Calvin could answer, Mrs. Adams stormed forward.
"The health inspectors are coming down, and you're picking your nose? Look at your shirt—it's not even ironed! And where is your hairnet?"
Calvin shrugged carelessly.
"I do these things every day, Mrs. Adams, but nobody seems to care. I make sure the butchery is clean before I leave. I make sure only quality meat is displayed for our customers. But all you care about is game and the shelf packers."
The words hit harder than anyone expected.
Mr. Adams pointed furiously toward the staff entrance.
"Go home, Calvin! I'll deal with you tomorrow. I'll stand in as butchery manager myself if I have to, but I'm not letting you shut this store down."
Calvin smirked.
"All the best, Mr. Adams. Just remember to pay me for a full day—you're the one sending me home."
Without another word, he walked out.
Mr. Adams turned to the rest of the staff, his face red with frustration.
"Attention all staff members!"
His voice echoed through the store.
"Everyone is required to wear hairnets today. We have a very important store visit. From today onward, this will be a permanent rule for all service-area staff. We cannot afford people like Calvin trying to close us down."
Hairnets were handed out immediately.
We all stood waiting, tense and uncomfortable.
I felt like I was back in school, waiting for a teacher to inspect my nails.
Cleaners mopped furiously across the floors, swapping dirty water for fresh buckets every few minutes. Every surface gleamed.
The whole store looked unnaturally spotless.
Then Gammie called all the shelf packers for a quick meeting.
"Team," he said, lowering his voice, "I need to know—have all the shelves been cleaned? Has every expired item been checked and removed?"
Before anyone could answer, Lance spoke up.
"Gammie, that's the least of your worries."
Gammie glared at him.
"Can you please leave? You work in non-foods."
Lance folded his arms.
"I may work in non-foods, but pests don't care about departments. Unless you forgot about the cockroaches... and the mice."
The color drained from Gammie's face.
Without another word, he bolted out of his own meeting.
"I have to warn Mr. Adams!"
The rest of us exchanged looks.
"In five minutes," someone muttered, "we're all going to become pest control."
That sounded about right.
A few moments later, Serena came storming toward us.
"Has anyone seen Mr. Adams?"
We all shook our heads.
He'd been sprinting between service areas all morning.
"If you see him," she said breathlessly, "tell him they're here. And they're all in the canteen surrounding France."
Then she hurried off again.
The health inspectors had arrived quietly.
Their first stop wasn't the bakery.
Or the deli.
Or even the butchery.
It was the canteen and the staff toilets.
It seemed they cared more about whether staff were being looked after than whether the shelves were perfectly packed.
The entire canteen was inspected.
Food samples were taken.
France stood proudly at her station, her hairnet secure, nails short and spotless, hands freshly washed.
The canteen was immaculate.
For once, there was nothing to criticize.
Well done, France.
After that, the inspectors barely looked around the rest of the store.
To everyone's shock, we passed with flying colors.
As they prepared to leave, one of the inspectors, Mr. Thomas, frowned.
"Where is the store manager, Mr. Adams?"
The staff exchanged confused glances.
Nobody had seen him for some time.
Then a voice came from the distance.
"I'm the store manager for today, Mr. Thomas."
We all turned.
Standing confidently at the entrance was Calvin.
"My name is Calvin Fortune."
It seemed Mr. Adams had called him back to stand in as store manager.
And then gone home himself.