An infinity of dropped peas

Time was when supermarkets had freezers like sarcophagi. You had to lean over and rummage in their little arctics. But now sarcophagi have given way to cupboards with glass doors, the better to display the lurid packaging, the images of the ideal.

Peas were at eye level, presumably because they are popular. I hesitated a moment over baby peas, but couldn’t justify the extravagance. Thus it was, dear reader, that I reached this morning for a packet of Wattie’s garden peas, unminted. It is always out of clear skies that bombs fall.

The packet flopped in my hand and suddenly peas were bouncing on the sleek synthetic floor of the supermarket. It was hard to absorb what was happening. Momentarily I stared at the pea cascade in a wild surmise, as stout Cortes is said to have stared at the Pacific Ocean, ‘‘silent upon a peak in Darien’’.

In youth I struggled with the concept of infinity. I accepted that something could be very big indeed, but not that it could be limitless. I argued with a physics teacher who argued back. He should have just opened a packet of peas. There are infinite peas in a packet. When dropped they go to every place there is. Plus 1. The peas reminded me of the time a puppy of mine ripped open a bean bag. The only way to stop finding more polystyrene beans was to move house.

The packet was split across the top. Why I cannot say. I hadn’t caught the bag on anything. I hadn’t squeezed the bag. I was not guilty. But boy, did I look guilty. I was standing alone amid a sea of peas. They might as well have been blood spatter, the packet in my hand a dripping cleaver. A woman carrying a carton of milk took in my situation at a glance and passed by on the other side of the aisle. I did not blame her. We all shy from crime and disorder.

Human beings are reluctant to accept that stuff just happens. We seek meaning, cause and effect. It is both our strength and our weakness, the source of both science and religion. The rational, like Isaac Newton, discover such forces as gravity. The irrational, like myself, invent such entities as fate.

For my first thought was ‘‘why me?’’ Why had fate decreed that I out of all people should choose this packet out of all packets? Why was fate so cruel?

Statistically, of course, I was being unreasonable. I was ignoring the thousands of times I had picked up a packet of peas and it had not split. But religious belief is always unreasonable. These were the peas of god.

The employee on the nearest checkout was about 17. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ I said. And then I was stumped for words.

‘‘I’ve spilt some peas,’’ would have implied guilt. ‘‘Some peas have spilt themselves,’’ seemed needlessly legalistic. And ‘‘I’ve got a pea problem’’ was open to appalling misinterpretation.

‘‘There are peas on the floor,’’ I said, which left something out but did the job. To underline the message, I waved the packet. More peas fell and scattered.

The youth fetched a pan and brush on a stick and refused to let me help with the cleaning up. ‘‘It’s a break from the monotony,’’ he said.

I stayed to watch out of a sense of duty. I was amazed by how swiftly infinite peas can be removed from all places plus one, if you’ve got youth on your side and the right tools. And then I went home for a think.