by D. M. Guay
All righty then. Who was I to question when the place was so deluxe?
Ricky wrung his hands and, despite the chill, his underarm sweat rings spread so far they basically drenched his entire shirt. “Don't be fooled by all of this. Never forget who you're working for. Everything has a price.” His eyes darted back and forth as if he was letting me in on some huge secret. “Be alert. The graveyard shift guys don't last long. First Kevin, now Carl. You're the third new guy.”
Ding. Chef hit a small metal bell. A tuna melt with a side of both potato and macaroni salads sat on a clean white plate on the counter in front of the grill. “Wow. Thanks!” I snatched the plate up. It was just the way I liked it. Tuna melt on rye with provolone. Bacon in the potato salad, little bits of mayo and green onion clinging to the macaroni. A-fucking-mazing. “You're the man, Chef!”
I put up a hand for a high five, but Chef ignored it. He stood still, swaying slightly behind the grill as if I weren't there. He didn't smile. He didn't react. He wore dark sunglasses inside. Maybe that was like a Stevie Wonder thing. Not my business. Chef did look a little green like he was coming down with something. “Uh, is that guy okay? He doesn't look so hot.”
“Just don't touch him. Not ever. They say he's not contagious, but I don't believe them,” Ricky said.
“Uh, okay?”
Ricky ushered me and my side dishes to a round, red booth in front of the massive TV. He sat me down in front of two papers neatly arranged side-by-side on the table.
“Read these and sign them. When you're finished, watch the employee orientation video. Then, put your personal items in your locker.” Ricky pointed to a set of glossy black lockers tucked into a cubby next to the coolers. One had “Lloyd” written neatly on the front placard. “Then, go out on the floor with DeeDee. Everything else you need to know is in your employee manual. If you haven't read it all the way through, read it. ASAP. Memorize it, okay? It's life and death information.”
Uh, yeah right. Keep telling yourself that, Ricky. We worked at a convenience store, not a hospital. Restocking beer and making change wasn't rocket science.
Ricky grabbed my arm again. “I'll ask you one last time: Are you sure you want to do this?” He was shaking all over now, jiggling like Jello. “Once you see the things you see here, you can't unsee them. And those things...they'll be able to see you. There's no going back.”
“Relax. I'm cool.”
“Godspeed then, Lloyd.” Ricky let go of my arm. “I'll pray for you.”
He looked at his watch, because, you know, he was that guy who still actually owned one, and not like a Rolex for status, a cheap one. It probably had a Mickey Mouse on it. “Dear baby Jesus.” He crossed himself really quickly. “I lost track of the time. I gotta go. I have to be out of here by sunset, and I haven't restocked the tampons yet. Oh, and remember, you can use tampons to stop the bleeding in a big wound. Good luck, Lloyd. And remember, there's no shame in running away.”
Which is exactly what he did right after he said that. Ricky was legit weird. Or just sad. I couldn't decide. Welp. Only one thing to do. I took a big bite out of the tuna melt, then challenged myself to see how much macaroni salad I could fit in my mouth at one time. I played that game with various foods until my plate was munched down to crumbs. I patted my belly. Hellz yeah. That was delicious. I could get used to this. Yawn. Man, I'm spent. Too many carbs always made me tired.
I hopped up and grabbed a soda out of the cooler. “Great sandwich there, Chef. Loved it.” I looked at him, waited for a reply, but got nothing. He didn't respond at all, although I saw his greenish nose move in my general direction and start sniffing the air. I noticed he had some sort of collar around his neck. I could just see the top of it above the neckline of his crisp white chef's jacket. It looked like a dog collar. Chef must be punk rock. Although, it looked more like an electric fence collar than a studded leather one. Maybe he had a hot dominatrix at home who zapped him when he got out of line. “Whatever you're into, dude.”
He just stood there, swaying, staring into space. I think? Who knew? Those sunglasses were super dark.
I shrugged and decided I couldn't put off the paperwork any longer. There were two sheets of paper on the table. A red gel pen sat between them. I wiped the crumbs off of them and got to work. The first was a short list of rules. The second was my income tax withholding form. Blech. Forms. I already felt overwhelmed. I shouldn't. I'd had so many jobs and filled out so many of these I should be a master at this. Okay, so I've had a lot of jobs. And so what if I can't keep 'em for long? Do you know how hard work sucks out there for a young man in America without a college degree, especially when all you can get is minimum wage? Even the baristas at Starbucks have Bachelor's degrees.
I filled out the tax form and signed it. Red seemed a weird ink color choice, but whatever. The IRS probably didn't care. Then the rules. Apparently, I had to initial each line, then sign at the bottom. Blah blah blah. Better tear this Band-Aid off quick. There was a free slushy waiting on the other side.
I, Lloyd Lamb Wallace, agree to abide by the following rules in my duty as an employee of 24/7 DM, Inc., portal agent of Transmundane Gate 23, upholder of Celestial Order in Sector 17.
Huh. I'd heard of job title inflation, but this place took it to a whole other level. Skim. Skim. Skim. Okay, rules.
1. Never let anyone else touch or wear your name tag.
2. Never share, copy, or leave your employee manual unattended. It is for the eyes of current employees only. Violation of this rule could result in eternal darkness and unleashing of unspeakable terrors upon an unprepared world.
3. Doughnuts are to be consumed only in emergencies, and only when said emergency rates above level 23 as per the employee handbook “Emergency Rating Scale Index.” Full doughnut impact is unpredictable and varies from entity to entity.
4. In the event of an armed robbery, secure your name tag. Give the offender the money. Tell him or her to have a nice day. Let the offender walk outside. Do NOT call the police. Stay very still, and justice will be served immediately.
5. Know the location, identification, and best use of all 24/7 DM, Inc. provided tools and weapons. Match the appropriate weapon to the task at hand. Fight smarter, not harder.
Soooooooo... Does anything about this list seem a little weird to you? Did you fill out something like this for your job? I mean, maybe this is standard wording now? I wasn't employable enough to be up on this sort of thing.
6. Sexual relations between human employees and unearthly travelers are not expressly forbidden as long as both parties consent without force or enchantment, and employees are aware that these relationships frequently have unintended, sometimes fatal, consequences.
Okay, then. Don't sleep with crazy customers. Didn't know that was enough of a thing to warrant a mention.
Please be aware breaking the rules can lead to immediate termination in addition to plunging the world into eternal darkness and infernal chaos. Please read and commit to memory the guidelines on portal/gate usage in your assigned district. In exchange for competent upholding of duties, you will be paid $66.60 per hour. Payday is every Friday.
My jaw dropped. Sixty-six bucks an hour to stock beer and sell lottery tickets? Dude. I was hoping for a buck or two over minimum wage. Sweeeeeeeet!
Bonuses for excellent work include $13 per hour in additional pay for the shift where excellence occurred, plus perks and rewards management deems reasonably appropriate for level and quality of service and/or degree of crisis averted.
Medical treatment for any and all injuries sustained on company property will be provided free of charge by our on-staff practitioner. Training in all martial arts, including Choy Li Fut and Krav Maga, are encouraged and available free of charge to all current employees via Bubba's Yoked and Choked Kick Ass, Take Names training center at 1313 Cemetery Boulevard.
Dude. Why the hell would Ricky try to talk me OUT of this job? Free food, free slushies, fat paychecks, plus free gym membe
rship and healthcare? Woot! I pumped my fist in the air. I'm so in I'm behind myself already. Okay. I just need to sign and initial this bitch and I'm done.
I clicked the silver tip of the red gel pen. Ouch. Shit. What the...? A bead of blood emerged from the tip of my thumb. I examined the pen a little closer. A tiny silver needle had shot out of the pen clicker. It had my blood on it, and it looked like it was sucking the blood into the pen. Welp. That's probably not normal. But oh well. I wasn't gonna let a little cut stand between me and some fat cash. I initialed all the little boxes. The red ink was darker, thicker than on the tax form. I could swear it looked like blood. Nah. Couldn't be. I signed my name at the bottom.
The orientation video started up on the massive, nearly wall-sized television right as I finished writing the “e” on Wallace. The impossibly handsome Faust appeared on the screen. He stood, designer duds head-to-toe, in front of the Beer Cave. “Welcome to the team, Lloyd.”
Wow. Personalized. Nice touch.
“This is your introduction to essential job duties. Pay careful attention,” he said. “Let's start here. This is no ordinary Beer Cave. It's what makes this store unlike any other.”
Boom. The video ended. Okay. It didn't. It just ended for me, because I switched into nap mode almost immediately thanks to all those carbs. Plus, you know, my brain being tired from having to show up for a job and talk to Ricky for twenty straight minutes. I snort-snored myself awake. The screen was black. My head was tipped back onto the plush booth, my mouth was open, and a trickle of drool had made it all the way down my cheek and dripped onto my shirt. And my pec was tingling where the name tag was pinned on my chest. (I say pec, but that implies muscles, which I'm sure are under there somewhere, but I ain't rockin' the definition like Thor, that's for sure.)
I stretched my arms and looked around for a clock. “Oh, shit,” I yelped. “Dude. You scared me.” Chef was a few feet away. Behind the counter, still, but at the part that was the absolute closest he could get to me. He loomed there silently, aggressively sniffing the air around me. “You can't sneak up on people like that.”
Once again, he said nothing. He grunted, then he sniffed harder. So then I sniffed. What's got him all worked up? Gas leak or something? I didn't smell anything weird. Hmmm. Oh well.
The clock was right behind his chef's hat. 12:15. Oh crap. I must have seriously conked out. Time had zoomed. I stood up and tried again to smooth out some of the wrinkles in my shirt. (It didn't work.) I checked my breath. (Fishy. Note to self: Filch some mints off the candy rack.) All right. Go time. DeeDee was about to be wooed by my limitless charm and style. I glanced at my mismatched socks. Okay. Charm it is, then. Time to dial it up.
I adjusted my name tag. It was really warm, and I could feel the heat through my shirt. Stupid thing. I wondered if it might be made of some weird tainted Chinese plastic that had been recalled. Then the tag started pulling on my shirt. Or, more accurately, pulled away from my shirt? All I knew was that the darn thing was floating away from my chest, holding my shirt out. Then, it pulled me forward. What...the...fu...
I stumbled, trying to keep up. It led me out of the lounge, through the pathway between the plastic tubs, out into the store. It let up, dropping back to my chest as soon as I stepped between the pop-bottle pyramids.
“New guy!” DeeDee screamed. “Don't let him out!”
She pointed at a dude in a black trench coat and fedora moving quickly toward the exit, so fast and so smooth he looked like he was slithering?
“Don't just stand there, grab him!” DeeDee yelled. She was digging around in that cabinet again by the beer cave. “Whatever you do, don't let him out that door. He stays inside, no matter what. Got it?”
Uh... I'm not a bouncer, but okay. I jogged after him. “Hey. Mister. Stop right there.”
Trench-coat dude ignored me and sped up. “Hey, man. I said stop.”
I figured he'd stashed a couple of forties under his coat and was making a run for it. I decided to make a good show of stopping him in the interest of a good impression on my first day. I put my hand on his shoulder. His body writhed and coiled under my hand. He—and this is gonna sound crazy—began to stretch out like Plastic Man when I touched him, longer, higher, until he was nearly ten feet tall, towering above me. He twisted around to face me, and he wasn't a he at all. Men have faces. This thing was an it: A coil of black undulating scale-covered cables, twisting and slithering, with a fedora teetering on top of it all, like buttercream icing swirled on top of a turd.
Naturally, I screamed.
The trench coat fluttered open, revealing a row of yellow eyes, each with a mouth lined with fangs. The mouths opened and hissed at me, teeth bared. Jesus Christ, this dude was made of SNAKES!!
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I fell backward into the hot dog station, elbows first.
Sssssssssss. And no, that wasn't snake hissing. That was the sound of my skin melting on the hot dog rollers. Ow! Ow! Ow! That thing was HOT. And now, on top of two burned elbows, I had, oh, about thirty snake heads, fangs bared, prepping to bite me.
“Hold him off, new guy!” DeeDee yelled. “I need another minute.”
“Hold him off? Are you kidding?” Uh, I didn't know what she expected me to do, so I panicked. I grabbed a handful of hot dogs and tucked and rolled behind the hot food station. The snake heads followed me. One lunged. I jammed a foot-long, super fat all-beef dog right into its throat. It ka-kacked, choking, and turned away. Okay then. That worked.
A second head struck, and I did the same. And that happened again, and again, and again, until the dozen or so hot dogs I'd grabbed off the warmer were all deep-throating snake heads. But the dude still had, like, twenty more heads. He was wriggling and shaking, knocking stuff over as it tried to upchuck the hot dogs. Thwack. It knocked the ketchup bottle off the food station, right onto the top of my head. Boom. The spork cubby clanged to the floor, sending sporks sliding in all directions across the linoleum. Fwap. Mustard fell open, tip down right on my shirt. Man. That was definitely gonna stain.
Another one of snake dude's heads came at me. Shit. Shit. Shit! I scooped up a couple of sporks, one in each hand, and stabbed the snake right in the eyes. It stopped, just short of biting me, and shook its head back and forth, blind, trying to dislodge the sporks. I grabbed the handles and wedged them in deeper, trying to spoon out some eyeball while I was at it. Man. Ten points for sporks, you are no longer the joke of the utensil world in my book.
“Uh, I could use a little help here.” I called out. Where was DeeDee? We could use that flaming sword right about now. Plus, snake dude had already broken the handle off one of my sporks and shaken it loose. One eyeball dripped blood, the other had a white plastic handle poking out of it. His other faces didn't look happy.
“Got it!” DeeDee said.
The sound system crackled, and the muzak stopped. A second later, a song came on. A gruff, vaguely familiar white guy blues voice sang something about steel bars. The snakes reeled, like someone had poured acid on them, shaking and undulating at every word the guy sang. I had to admit I felt it, too. Blech. Easy listening.
The voice was familiar, like the songs my grandma used to play in the car when she drove me to preschool. I had a vision of a spectacular blond mullet. “I'm your prisoner....bound forever....” white mullet guy sang. I could picture the guy, but nope. The name wasn't coming to me.
One thing was clear, though. Snakes for heads hated that singer, like hate with a Capital H. At least I had hands and could cover my ears. He wasn't so lucky.
DeeDee jumped behind the angry, undulating snake thing, legs apart, knees bent, bracing herself. She held a plastic Michael Bolton CD case in her hand, opened it, and said something that sounded like “sarpa vallaka usetee dah-tee.”
Duh! Michael Bolton. Spectacular mid-90s mullet guy! Yep. That's him. My grandma loved him. But seriously? A CD jewel case? Who the hell still had those anymore?
Wind kicked up inside the store. No. Not wind.
A sucking, like a vacuum. The black tray of the Michael Bolton CD transformed into a swirling yellow cloud, like a vortex in Fortnite. Or a yellow cloud swirling down like a tornado in the middle. My hair fwap fwapped against my face, and I felt a strong force pulling me forward. The disoriented snakes uncoiled, one-by-one and peeled off of the single snake dude like string cheese. Each one detached, then got sucked right into the case. Each snake body spun and thrashed like a noodle being crunched up by the garbage disposal. The remaining rows of eyes and fangs turned to look at the CD and then wiggled toward me, trying to escape. But they didn't. They couldn't. One by one they disappeared into the middle of the swirl, powerless against the vortex and the rasping Top 40, white-boy blues of Michael Bolton. Except for one. A fat black thing big as a python, the core of the snake guy, managed to bite-grip the hot dog station then catapult himself up and over DeeDee. It was making a run for the front door.
“Go get it!” DeeDee screamed, holding on white-knuckled to Michael Bolton's liner notes. “We need all the pieces or he'll reform somewhere else. We would have to start over.”
Start over? Oh. Hell. No.
Before I could say “Nope, I'm out,” which is what I should have done the minute that guy Plastic-Manned into a snake, I dove past DeeDee, blocked the front door and grabbed snake guy right as he was jumping for the push bar. It coiled up my arm and squeezed. Oh boy, did it squeeze.
It turned its yellow eyes on me. Then came the fangs. It lunged, ready to bite. I punched it in the nose. I mean, that's what you're supposed to do right? I'd watched plenty of Discovery Channel. No wait, that's what you do if a shark bites you. Doesn't matter, because it seemed to work. Its eyes crossed and its head lulled in dizzy circles. If we'd been in a cartoon, it probably would have had a halo of stars. Before it could recover, DeeDee had the CD right next to it, and it was getting sucked in. At least the butt half that wasn't coiled around my arm went in. Its beady yellow eyes were open again and staring right at me. It squeezed me so hard my hand felt like an over-inflated balloon.
