The Oblivion Society

by Marcus Alexander Hart

  “It’s all over the tabloids.”

  Vivian turned to look at the newspaper rack that ran along the side of the checkstand. It was stuffed with an assortment of wilting tabloids, and each one featured its own grainy, blown-up telephoto picture of the president of the United States embracing a full-figured intern in the White House rose garden. The headlines screamed such off-color remarks as “Oval Office Becomes Oral Office! Nation Outraged!”

  “Apparently the president has been shoving the little commander in chief into one of his favorite interns’ pie holes,” Sherri said. “They’ve got a dress covered in his man gravy and everything.”

  Vivian winced. “Sherri, have you no filters at all?”

  “I can’t believe this bullshit is supposed to be news, ” Sherri continued. “It’s not like somebody sucking off the president could possibly have any effect on the rest of the world. But the sensationalist press jumps all over this irrelevant shit instead of telling us what a good job he’s doing.”

  Vivian raised an eyebrow.

  “So you actually think our president is doing a good job?” she asked. Sherri paused.

  “How the hell should I know? The only news I’ve heard this whole year has been Nostradamus-Y2K-End-of-the-World bullshit. So what’d you think of the Hummer?”

  “The way you keep talking about it, I’m beginning to feel like I was there.” Sherri blinked.

  “No, I mean the one in the parking lot,” she said, tapping her bottle. “Fascist Fuel, or whatever.”

  “Oh, that guy,” Vivian groaned. “I wouldn’t take his stupid energy drink, and for some reason he took that as an invitation to ask me out.”

  Sherri looked out the window at Nick harassing an elderly passerby. “So what did you say?”

  “Well, what do you think I said?” Vivian smirked. “I said no!” Sherri drained the last of her spiked bottle and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “Well, if I were you, I’d fuck him.”

  “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Vivian scowled.

  “You know. You with your cute little red Airwalk sneakers, and your cute little Old Navy capri pants. You two are so Dharma and Greg. You could have cute, capitalist children together and you could all sit at home and listen to Len CDs and watch Third Rock from the Sun. You’re the American fuckin’ dream.” A humiliated blush burned through Vivian’s cheeks.

  “If you like him so much, why don’t you go have sex with him?” Sherri recoiled as if she had been slapped.

  “Oh, shit no. A pretty boy like him couldn’t find my G-spot with a flashlight and a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. ”

  A snarling voice crackled through an interruption in the Muzak.

  “This is not a sewing circle, ladies. Quit yakking and get to work!” Sherri’s eyes darted back and forth between the camera enclosures in the ceiling. She spotted the one that was staring her down and extended a pair of bony middle fingers to the lens.

  “I saw that, Becquerel! That’s strike one!”

  Sherri held up her hands and wiggled her fingers in the air as if to say, “Ooooh, I’m shaking. ”

  Vivian looked into the spying cameras with a dull sigh. She didn’t know if there was a God, but she knew that there was always a colossal being watching her every move from on high.

  Schlunk.

  The glue-encrusted nose of a price gun scraped over the surface of the jar, depositing an orange sticker marked “$10.99” in its wake. Vivian set the tagged product on the shelf. She reached into a large plastic-swaddled shipping crate and picked up another jar of Beta Burn capsules. She tagged it too with a schlunk and set it on the shelf. Then she repeated the process.

  This is how Vivian had spent the bulk of her morning.

  Her pace wasn’t exactly slothful, but she didn’t progress with any deliberate speed. Vivian knew that if she finished her work ahead of schedule, Boltzmann would accuse her of doing it wrong, but if she finished too late, she’d be chastised for being lazy. After years of trial and error, she had finally worked out the exact pace at which she had to work in order to keep him out of her hair.

  The rhythmic schlunk of Vivian’s price gun was interrupted by a high, sharp whistle that slashed at her eardrums. It was exactly the kind of whistle that you would use to call your German Shepherd home from across the wide-open prairie, but Vivian knew it had been meant for her. She looked back up the aisle to find a square-faced old man in a sun-bleached United States Marines baseball cap. His faded pantsuit was easily older than Vivian, and his skin was as weathered and gray as the top of her old convertible.

  “Hey princess,” he barked. “Whatsa price on these Geritols?” The old man picked up a tiny box from the shelf and held it in the air.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Vivian replied dryly. “It should be marked on the box. On each and every … stupid … box.”

  The old man exhaled heavily and derisively.

  “Well, I can see that, buttercup,” he growled. “I forgot my eyeglasses out in the car. I swear to Christ you make the tags smaller on these sons of bitches every day. Whatsa price on that?”

  The ex-Marine chucked the boxed jar of pills at Vivian. She made a clumsy grab to snatch it out of the air as it bounced off of her chest.

  “Five dollars and ninety-nine cents,” she said with commendable restraint. “Plus tax.”

  “Five dollars and ninety-nine cents. For the love a’ Christ,” the old man fumed.

  “When I was your age a fella could have a pretty good weekend in Vegas for five dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  He picked up a second box from the shelf and wandered toward the front of the store, grumbling to himself.

  “You’re welcome,” Vivian muttered. She watched the man march out of the aisle and up to checkstand two.

  “Hey Morticia, Halloween is over,” he heckled.

  “Yeah, well so is the Taft administration.”

  “I heard that, Becquerel!” the overhead speakers crackled. “That’s strike two!” With a tiny smile, Vivian picked up her price gun and continued tagging the seemingly endless supply of bulk builders.

  “Oooh, look out! Red’s got a gun!” a deep voice boomed. “Put down the gun and step away from the shelf. Don’t make me have to get physical, because you know I will. Hahaha!”

  Vivian’s shoulders leapt to her ears as she swiveled toward a perfectly cut statue of marketing-man-meat in the aisle behind her.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be bothering people outside? ” she muttered.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, lady,” Nick smiled. “I get a ten-minute break every four hours. I just came inside to feed the rush! ”

  He held up a two-liter bottle of SURGE and smiled, and for just a moment he looked exactly like a Coca-Cola-sponsored print ad, but with less personality.

  “Listen, Red, on a day like today a girl as hot as you needs a dude who is cool to the core. How about when you get off work I take you for a ride in the HumVee? Give it a try and I think you’ll get hooked on cruisin’ in one of those bad boys.” Even though they were sheathed behind the reflective gold lenses of his wrap-around sunglasses, Vivian could tell that Nick’s elevator eyes were stopped three-quarters of the way to her penthouse. She crossed her arms violently across her modest chest.

  “Sorry, I can’t tonight. Real busy. You know, washing my hair and whatnot. So

  … bye.”

  She bent down and began collecting another armful of jars from the packing crate with a blunt shove of body language that said, “Move along, folks. Nothing left to see here.” Nick caressed her chin in his broad, perfect hand and gently pulled her upright, turning her head until their eyes met.

  “Washing that beautiful red hair, huh?” he smiled. “That’s cool by me. After you’re all clean and pretty, why don’t you come out with me for dinner? I’m dying to know if you’re a natural redhead.”

  Before Vivian’s knee could appropriately respond to Nick’s proposal, a barking voice boxed her ears. />
  “Vivian! What the hell are you doing?!”

  A winded, panting Verman Boltzmann waddled heavily into the aisle. In a flash, Nick took his hand from Vivian’s face, stuffed it in his pocket, and leaned raffishly against the shelves with an innocent grin. Vivian’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men as her tongue tried to find its words.

  “What am I -” Vivian snapped. “This guy keeps trying-”

  “Shaddup, Vivian,” Boltzmann sneered, waving his hand in her face. “Jesus Christ, I swear you just talk to hear the sound of your own voice.” Vivian’s face screwed itself down against the front of her skull as Boltzmann put his beefy hand on Nick’s broad shoulder.

  “Is this girl bothering you, son?”

  “No sir, not at all,” Nick grinned. “I just came in to slam a SURGE. I always like to shop in the stores where I work. You know, give a little bit back to show my appreciation.”

  “That’s great; that’s really great,” Boltzmann oozed. “That pop is on the house, just to thank you for coming over here today.”

  “Hey thanks, Mr. B!” Nick beamed. “Just another perk of being a promo model. I love going to new places and meeting new people like you and Red. And that’s what makes me a champion!”

  Without warning he balled his hand into a fist and threw it at Vivian’s face!

  “Bam!”

  Vivian’s shocked recoil was just a second too late, but it didn’t matter. Nick’s knuckles stopped six inches from the bridge of her glasses, proudly displaying a thick gold band wrapped around his ring finger.

  “That’s right, I’m solid gold, baby! There’s only platinum level above me, and that dude is nailing the boss’s daughter, so he doesn’t count.”

  Boltzmann grabbed Nick’s fist and pulled it toward his doughy face, squinting at the glimmering gold ring.

  “Gold Level Sales Champion 1998,” he read aloud. “That’s pretty goddamn impressive! You should be proud of your achievement, son!”

  “I am, sir!” Nick gloated, tapping his ring. “This little lady means the world to me. She’s not coming off my finger till death do us part.”

  “Oh, give me a break,” Vivian scowled. “That thing is just your manager’s way of rewarding you without actually giving you anything worthwhile.”

  “You shut your mouth, Vivian,” Boltzmann hissed. “Keep up that crap and I promise you you’ll never be employee of the month!”

  Vivian rolled her eyes.

  “Whoa, no way! ” Nick exclaimed, noticing the shelf for the first time. “You’ve got Beta Burn for $10.99?! I’m totally stocking up here! They’re charging seventeen bucks for it over at Publix. This stuff is incredible! Feel those guns.” Nick curled the bottle of SURGE as if it were a thirty-pound free weight. Boltzmann squeezed the bulging bicep and nodded enthusiastically, but Nick’s self-assured gaze was fixed firmly on Vivian, who wasn’t watching.

  “No shit,” Boltzmann said dreamily, not lifting his paw or his eyes from Nick’s firmly flexed muscle. “Seventeen bucks, eh? Vivian, what are we charging for these things?”

  “$10.99,” Vivian muttered indignantly.

  Boltzmann’s voice hardened.

  “Speak up, missy.”

  Schlunk.

  Vivian extended the price gun and tagged an adhesive “$10.99” on the side of Nick’s perfect arm in front of Boltzmann’s nose. He turned on her with a low boil in his beady black eyes.

  “Don’t you get smart with me,” he seethed.

  His voice had a forced calmness to it, like a mother who didn’t want to beat her own children in front of company. With a great, gasping effort he bent over, tore the packing slip from the side of the Beta Burn shipping crate, and gave it a wheezing once-over.

  “God damn it, Vivian!” he roared, thrusting the paper in her face. “It says clear as day that the price on these things is supposed to be $16.99! What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you follow simple directions?”

  “I can follow simple directions,” Vivian growled. “And apparently that is what’s wrong with me.”

  Boltzmann leaned his stubbly, glistening face as close to Vivian as his prohibitive circumference would allow.

  “Vivian, if you like your job, I suggest you quit your bitching and moaning and start taking a little responsibility for your own screw-ups.”

  Vivian raised an eyebrow.

  “If I like my job? ” she asked incredulously.

  “Just shut up and retag the goddamn boxes $16.99,” Boltzmann snarled.

  “Whoa, hey, you know what you oughta do?” Nick said.

  “What’s that?” Boltzmann asked.

  In two tiny words his voice somehow did a cartwheel from brimstone to butterflies.

  “Instead of putting new tags on every single box you oughta just put one big sign on the front of the shelf with the price on it. That would be waaay less work, you know?”

  Boltzmann bared his tiny teeth and gave Nick a hearty slap on the back.

  “Well, that’s great-that’s just a really great idea,” he pandered, squeezing Nick’s shoulder. “I like the way you think, son. We’ll start doing that right away. Maybe then lazy little Vivian could actually get something done in a day! Har har haar!” Vivian slid her fingers under her glasses and violently rubbed her eyes with her palms. This was a nervous habit that she’d acquired at Boltzmann’s Market, and it manifested itself whenever she was especially grossly wronged.

  “Rockin’ cool,” Nick said. “Rockin’ cool. Well, I’ve gotta get back outside, so thanks for the SURGE, and-”

  “Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Boltzmann interrupted. “Here, I’ll walk you out to your Hummer.”

  “My HumVee, ” Nick corrected proudly. “The civilian models are called Hummers.”

  “Oh, yeah yeah. Right, HumVee, ” Boltzmann agreed obsequiously. “Vivian, quit tagging those jars and find some real work to do! I’m not paying you to loaf around here all day like a little princess!”

  With that, Boltzmann clapped his porcine hand on Nick’s back and escorted him to the end of the aisle and out of the store.

  Vivian slowly raised the gun to her head and shot a price tag into her right temple. The blade of Vivian’s Swiss Army Knife snapped through the heavy plastic bands that bound together a stack of afternoon newspapers. She slipped the tool into her pocket, but before she could begin stocking the news rack she saw something troubling out of the corner of her eye. An old man was bent over the crate of decaying “fresh catch,” sifting through the remains in search of a worthy supper. Vivian sighed impotently.

  “Whatever,” she thought. “I tried. It’s not my problem.” She pulled a handful of newspapers from their binding and dropped them into the wire rack in front of her, thrusting the day’s top story directly under her own nose. Red tide superbug! State health officials now report that the mysterious red tide bacteria is not killed by cooking, freezing, or irradiation. Side effects from consuming contaminated seafood could be severe, especially in the elderly. Vivian’s gaze returned to the old man, who was now pulling fish after rancid fish out of the cloudy ice water and piling their remains into his shopping cart. She rolled her eyes in disbelief.

  “Oh for the love of …”

  She marched up to the makeshift display case and put her slender palm on top of the old man’s gnarled hand. The stink pouring off of the fish was incredible, like a rotten cabbage salad dressed with bilge-water vinaigrette.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Vivian gagged. “You don’t want to buy this fish. It’s spoiled.” The old man gingerly sniffed at a headless redfish and shook his head dismissively.

  “I think you’re the one who’s spoiled, young lady,” he grunted, dropping the fish into his cart. “Nothing is ever good enough for you kids today, is it? You’ve never had to live with hardship!”

  Vivian numbly adjusted her uniform vest.

  “I beg to differ,” she muttered.

  The old man reached into the crate for another fish, but Vivian thre
w out a defensive arm.

  “Sir, please. These fish are infected with some kind of bacteria from the red tide. Eating them could be lethal.”

  The man pushed Vivian’s hand away and grabbed a seaweed-entangled grouper.

  “Get away from me, kid. I lived through the Depression-I can certainly live through a little bit of gamey seafood!”

  Vivian’s eyebrows knitted in disbelief. Had the whole world gone mad, or just this store? It was time to turn to Plan B. If the old man didn’t care about his own health, she knew what he would care about.

  “All right, sir. I see you’ve made up your mind,” she said cheerily. “I do have to make one small correction, though.”

  She rubbed the butt of her fist over the chalkboard, erasing the “$5” and replacing it with “$7.”

  “Hey!” the man snarled. “What’s the big idea?!”

  “Sorry,” Vivian said sweetly. “Nemo tariff. The state makes us apply it to anything that comes from under the sea.”

  The old man looked at the pile of ex-ocean-dwellers in his cart and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Eh, it’s still a bargain,” he shrugged.

  Vivian wiped out the “7” and replaced it with a “12.” The old man’s bushy brow furrowed.

  “Now what in the-”

  “Ahab tax,” Vivian said sympathetically. “I know, it’s completely insane.” The old man’s lower jaw quivered as he looked at Vivian, then at the inflated price, then back at Vivian. Finally he turned and stomped away from his cart, cursing under his breath.

  “Damn bureaucrats,” he muttered. “They never could have got away with this when FDR was in office!”

  Vivian smiled and exhaled a long, relieved breath. She watched the old man as he resumed his hunt for culinary bargains, shuffling past checkstand two and a wall of giggling, jiggling, yellow and purple uniforms.

  The register was packed four deep with pretty, blond, dangerously popular-looking Stillwater High School cheerleaders. Sherri was price scanning a seemingly endless cluster of nail polish bottles with an overstated boredom. Each bottle had the name of a different shade printed on its cap, but to the layman they were all indistinguishably “pink.”