Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  “Six it is.”

  “See you, then.” He leaves.

  Brent coughs. “Have fun with that, bro.”

  Chapter Four

  Socializing is like a job. You work to make money, and you socialize to accumulate social currency. In both cases, you give up some freedom. Where you go, what you do, what you eat—these are things you negotiate with the person paying you. If the pay isn’t high enough, you quit.

  Agreeing to hang out with Ernie doesn’t feel like a very good deal. That wouldn’t matter to me, if I thought Ernie had redeeming qualities. But I don’t. I’m frustrated with myself for humouring him. He’s a bastard, and now my co-workers will probably associate me with him.

  Not that I care.

  I find Ernie sitting at a corner table, as far away from the bar as it’s possible to get. He has his chin stuck out, and his hands are folded over his stomach. He’s wearing a smug little smile.

  “Thought you’d get here sooner,” he says. “I ate a burger while I waited.”

  There’s an empty plate in front of him, smeared with grease and ketchup. At my seat, a Caesar salad awaits. I sit.

  “I bought that for you,” he says.

  “I can’t eat it. It has bacon bits.”

  “Oh. Shit. I’ll have it, then.” He slides it over. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’ll buy my own.”

  Ernie’s urge to pay for everything always made me slightly uneasy.

  We walk to the bar in silence, and order a beer each. Ernie leaves a tip equal to the price. We make the long walk back to our table.

  “So,” Ernie says once we’re sitting again. “How do you like Spend Easy?”

  “It’s all right. Eric kind of creeps me out.”

  “Eric’s a good man. Did you know he hires mostly underprivileged youth to work in Meat? He teaches them meat cutting—a marketable skill. He’s been on the news because of it.” I can tell Ernie really enjoys telling me this. His expression is getting smugger.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Are you aware that Cassandra also works at Spend Easy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is that hard for you?”

  “Why would it be hard?”

  “Well, everyone knows you’re in love with her.”

  “Everyone?”

  “You know. People we went to school with.”

  “I don’t talk to anyone we went to school with. Do you?”

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  “Then who are you talking about?”

  “Me, I guess.”

  “Well, for your records, I’m not in love with Cassandra.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” he says, “because she’s still with Sean. You’re finished your beer already?”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” I stand up. “It’s been great chatting, Ernie.”

  *

  I was grateful when Sam brought my MP3 player to the psych ward, because I thought I could use it to avoid conversation with the other patients. I was wrong. My second day there I was sitting in the common area, listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody”, when a man walked over and picked up my MP3 player from the coffee table in front of me. He was short, balding and wiry. I took out an earbud. “Hi.”

  “This device contains components made from cassiterite, wolframite, niobium, and tantalum. These minerals were almost certainly bought from rebel groups in the Democratic Republic of Congo, who used the money to arm themselves. Your purchase not only helped sustain the conflict there—in which nearly 6,000,000 have died since 1998—but also contributed directly to femicide, the systematic raping, beating, and killing of women.”

  I took out the other earbud.

  “Do you think karma exists?”

  I shook my head.

  “I hope you’re right. Because our society conducts itself on land acquired by murdering the original inhabitants. We pretend we’re much more civilized than our ancestors, but we finance suffering around the globe. We wear clothes made in sweatshops, we dump our waste on poorer countries, and we buy electronics bathed in blood. So I hope you’re right.”

  He put down my MP3 player and walked away.

  Another patient came over and offered his hand. It was very large. I only hesitated a little.

  “How ya doin’? I’m Fred.”

  “Sheldon Mason.”

  “I see you met the Professor.”

  “He’s a professor?”

  “He wishes he was. He doesn’t even have a degree. Want to sit with me during lunch? The food’s gonna be here, soon.”

  We walked to one of the cafeteria tables in the middle of the room. The second we sat down a woman wearing purple appeared, pushing a metal trolley taller than she was. “Wasn’t she an extra in The Hobbit?” Fred whispered to me. She left the trolley at the end of our table, and Fred pointed at it. “Let’s go there and back again.”

  Patients trickled in. There was little conversation, and a lot of shuffling. I found a tray with my name on it and followed Fred back to our spot.

  “Hey,” he said. “Isn’t she about your age?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl sitting on the couch over there, staring at you like you’re the last man left on Earth.”

  I looked, and she looked away. She was very thin, but attractive all the same. “This is the last place I’d look for a girlfriend,” I said.

  “Suit yourself.” Fred picked up a slice of turkey between two thick fingers and inserted it into his mouth. Next, a hard ball of mashed potato. He finished his meal in fewer than 10 mouthfuls. Then he looked at mine, untouched. “The nurses check your tray to make sure you’re eating, you know.”

  “I’m not hungry. You want it?”

  Fred pulled my tray toward him.

  *

  For the first 15 minutes of my shift, I front alone. Then Matt shows up.

  “I’m 20 minutes late,” he says.

  “Doesn’t concern me.”

  He looks down. “My shirt should be tucked in, too. We’re supposed to tuck them in.”

  I loosen my belt and stuff my shirttail into my pants.

  Other than volunteering the occasional piece of self-criticism, Matt is fairly untalkative, and as we front Aisles Two and Three I’m mostly left to contemplate myself.

  He does ask me what I think of the décor.

  “What?” I say.

  “Spend Easy’s colour scheme. Red, white, green?” He grasps his shirt with both hands and pulls it outward. “Yellow.” He grins.

  “It’s fine.”

  “So natural, isn’t it? So vital. The yellow of sun. The green of trees. The red of blood.”

  Cassandra comes by and asks if I’d like to take a break with her. I tell her I wouldn’t, particularly—but she’s already purchased me a salad. It’s difficult to refuse free food, especially when it conforms to one’s newfound dietary restrictions. So I follow her to the break room. It’s what anyone would have done.

  “You didn’t wave to me, the other day,” she says. “You didn’t wave back.”

  The first forkful of salad is already being masticated. This was a bad idea.

  “Are you upset with me?” she says.

  “Why would I be upset?”

  “You don’t have to snap. Ernie said you were upset last night, when you two were hanging out.”

  I stop chewing. “Ernie?”

  “He said he brought me up, and you looked like you were going to cry.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “He told me you stood up and left.”

  “I left because he makes me nauseous. I needed to go home and vomit.”

  “It’s okay to have feelings, Sheldon. It doesn’t make you weak. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

  “I’m not hurting!”

  “I do have a boyfriend, though, Sheldon, and I love him. You need to come to terms with that.” She sighs. “I think you and I should avoid seeing each other. I don’t think it’s good fo
r you.”

  “I don’t want to see you.”

  Someone is stomping down the hall toward the break room. Cassandra and I exchange looks. I try to think of who I would least prefer to walk through the door right now, but I can’t decide.

  The door swings open, and Matt stomps in. He places a two-litre bottle of pop in front of a chair and sits down.

  “Why were you making so much noise?” Cassandra asks.

  “I wanted to give you enough time to stop talking about me.”

  Her brow furrows. “We weren’t talking about you.”

  “Thank you for saying that. That’s really nice.”

  *

  Bernice the therapist attempts neither to conceal nor draw attention to her attractiveness. But that just makes her more attractive. I wonder if this is an issue with many of her patients.

  Today, her brown hair is swept back and held in place with a purple clip. She’s wearing a white shirt with black buttons, and a patterned skirt. She looks at me with an expression that isn’t quite bored, but isn’t quite interested, either. If I want interest, I will have to earn it.

  “So,” she says.

  “So,” I say.

  “Since our last visit, have you given any thought to what you’d like to discuss?”

  “I haven’t given thought to that, or anything else.”

  “No thoughts.”

  “None.”

  “Nothing’s on your mind.”

  “It’s very Zen.”

  “I’ll bet. Do you socialize much, Sheldon?”

  “Not much, no.”

  “Do you work?”

  “I got my first job last week. At a grocery store.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Your first job? How old are you?”

  “Mom earned enough for us both to live, so I kind of just…lived off her.”

  “Where’s your Mom now?”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.” She writes something on her clipboard. “Why didn’t you want to work, before?”

  “I was afraid my co-workers would end up being people I went to high school with. I didn’t want to spend any more time with them than necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them.”

  “It’s improbable they all disliked you.”

  “Well, I had two friends. But even they didn’t invite me to parties, or anything. I think people were wary of associating with me too much—afraid it would hurt their status, I guess. Their brand.” I give a dry chuckle. “I mostly felt invisible in high school. Except—that’s not exactly right. More like, I felt like a book with the covers ripped off.”

  “And there’s been no one you’ve connected with since high school?”

  “Well,” I say, and pause. “I did meet Theresa—she was in the hospital, too.”

  “Have you spoken with her since?”

  “No. She didn’t want to keep in touch. But I confided in her.” I take a breath. “I told her why I wanted to kill myself.”

  Bernice raises her eyebrows. “You did?”

  I nod.

  “Would you like to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Why didn’t Theresa want to keep in touch?”

  I shrug. “Maybe she didn’t like me enough.”

  Bernice thinks I “overgeneralize” when it comes to others’ opinions of me, and that I “magnify negatives”. She suggests that, next session, we start Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which is supposed to help overcome such “maladaptive behaviours”.

  I tell her I’m all for it.

  *

  Paul takes a box of Borax off the shelf. He hands it to me. “Check that out. It’s called the Droste effect.”

  “Huh?”

  “See how the girl is holding a box of Borax, which features another girl, holding another box of Borax? The idea is that it goes on forever—there’s an infinite number of girls, holding an infinite number of boxes. The Droste effect.”

  “If there’s a purgatory,” I say, “I bet it looks a lot like Spend Easy.”

  “I could have been working on the order, tonight, you know. But I volunteered to go fronting with you instead.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I’ve been reading the book you recommended. My Dad already owned it. You were right—it’s good. But I want to ask you something. King says to be a writer, you have to read a lot. So, can you recommend some stuff I should read?”

  “You mean, stuff that will help you write a book about a grocery store?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Does he know yet?” someone says from behind us. Paul and I turn to see a guy with wide eyes standing near the end of the aisle. He’s clutching a tattered magazine against his chest. “Have you told him, Paul?”

  “Go away, Tommy. You need a hobby.”

  “He deserves to know. It concerns everyone.” Tommy appears to be in the process of going bald, though I’m sure he must still be in high school.

  “Know what?” I say.

  “Jesus, Tommy,” Paul says. “Why are you here? You aren’t even working tonight.”

  “I’m quitting.” He takes out a piece of paper tucked between the magazine’s pages and holds it up. “This is my letter to Ralph, notifying him of my resignation, effective immediately. I’m leaving it on his desk.”

  “What about two weeks’ notice?”

  Tommy shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. “You don’t get it, do you, Paul? Nobody needs to worry about their record of employment, anymore. It doesn’t matter how neatly the shelves are fronted. You don’t have to waste any more of your time doing society’s busywork.”

  Paul sighs.

  Tommy opens the magazine and holds it in front of my face. He points at a headline, which is printed in bright yellow block letters: “SUN TO EXPLODE JANUARY 12TH!”

  “That’s in 178 days,” Tommy says. “The sun will go supernova in 178 days, a lot sooner than science predicted—thousands of years sooner.”

  “Billions, actually,” I say.

  “Exactly. Thousands and thousands of years. Anyway. There was an archaeological dig in Greece a few years ago, and they found one of the Bible’s lost books. It’s all in there. It matches up with Revelations, too, if you consider recent world events. The government’s trying to cover up the whole—”

  “Tommy.”

  Tommy’s eyes go even wider. “They wouldn’t publish it if it wasn’t true, Paul!”

  “That article isn’t even mentioned on the cover.”

  “They didn’t want to start a panic, duh. They say that in the article.”

  “It’s a tabloid, Tommy. They’ll print anything.”

  Tommy puts a hand on my shoulder. “Get right with God. Put aside old grudges, and contact those you’ve lost touch with. Tell your family you love them.” He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it in his pocket. “I gotta get going. I’m late for paintball.”

  Paul and I are silent for a moment after Tommy leaves.

  “Anyway,” I say. “Do you know Cassandra?”

  “Yeah, cashier, right? Hot?”

  “She’s all right.”

  “She’s sexy as hell. Pretty sure she’s taken, though—I’d ask her out if she wasn’t. What about her?”

  “Never mind.” I wanted to see how far Ernie’s gossip has spread, but I’ve lost all desire to talk about her.

  I find a banana rotting behind some boxes of baking soda, and I take it back to the warehouse to throw out.

  Eric is standing next to the garbage chute with one of the Meat workers—Joshua, I think. The chute’s door is open, so I guess they were throwing some stuff out, but that’s not what they’re doing now. Eric’s face is red, and blood streams from Joshua’s nose. Eric is gripping Joshua’s shoulder with his left hand.

  “What happened?” I say, and Eric stares at me, blank-faced. Joshua stares at the floor.

&nbs
p; “I opened the door too fast,” Eric says finally. “I didn’t realize he was standing there.” He shakes him lightly. “Joshua?”

  Joshua nods, eyes still on the floor.

  Chapter Five

  A shift at Spend Easy imparts an odour difficult to describe—not revolting, but not too agreeable, either. It’s the smell of product that’s been handled several times, packed into boxes, left sitting in warehouses, shipped long distances. The skin of the hands and forearms becomes papery. The odour is strongest, there.

  After a long, hot shower, I walk around the house to Sam’s apartment, where he’s playing Super Nintendo in his pajamas. He’s in the middle of a Grand Prix in Mario Kart, but once he snags first he switches over to Battle Mode, and we play till after midnight. He kicks my ass, repeatedly.

  I’m about to request we switch games when he gets a customer—Al. I recognize him from the dinner party. We go out on the deck, and Sam produces a joint. Al has a couple puffs and holds it toward me.

  Sam takes it from his hand.

  “That’s not for Sheldon.”

  Al lifts an eyebrow. “Getting stingy, Sammy?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What, then?” I say. “Out of curiosity.”

  “I don’t sell to 20-year-olds.”

  “Okay then, Mom.”

  We go inside, and Al plays video games with us for a few hours, until he feels all right to drive home.

  “Not sure why you’re so uptight about me smoking pot,” I say when Al leaves.

  “It’s not good for you.”

  “That’s such shit. You smoke it.”

  “I mean it’s not good for you. You, specifically.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think the Zoloft’s for, Sheldon? I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Al. But we already know your brain chemistry’s volatile. They prescribed you Zoloft to try and balance it out. Do you really want to add THC, and risk throwing it off again?”

  I stare at the TV, stuck on the game’s victory screen—Sam’s victory. I know he’s making sense, but I’m pissed off, so I don’t say anything.

  “I’ve smoked for years, Sheldon—I know I’m fine with it. Plenty of people are. For some it’s a painkiller, others use it for anxiety. Most smoke for fun, and never have a problem with it. But I’ve also seen a couple people go right off the deep end. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”