“Under a tree, actually. They tore down the woods near my house for a subdivision, and left the fallen trees lying there for months. I found a hollow in the ground with a metal box, and inside it there was a bronze horse sculpture, a G.I. Joe, and this ring.”
Gilbert is highly suspicious of our new co-workers. It turns out one of them, Randy, is Frank’s son. Another is named Patrick, who’s deaf, which he indicated by writing “I’M DEAF” on a piece of paper. But Gilbert didn’t believe that until he spent two minutes screaming into Patrick’s ear as he restocked popcorn.
A couple hours into his first shift, I encountered Randy near the case count binder and tried to make small talk. I asked if he was attending school, and he said no, he’s taking a year off before going to college. I asked if he’s worked Grocery before, and he said yes, but the store layout is different and he’d probably need help locating product.
And then we sort of looked at each other for a few seconds.
“Wow,” said Gilbert, who was loading his cart nearby, “Do you feel that? You guys just completely ran out of things to say to each other. It’s palpable.”
For most of today’s shift, Gilbert sits behind us on his cart, which he pushes along with his feet as Donovan and I front our way up and down the aisles.
The store closes at five on Sundays. Six minutes before that, two prepubescent boys wearing Halloween costumes walk past us carrying four cartons of eggs each. They’re almost past the bottles of pop when Gilbert shouts, “Hey!”
They freeze, and slowly turn around.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sorry,” one of them says.
“Put those eggs on my cart. Right now.” They do. “Now come with me.”
He brings them to the Dairy section and puts the eggs back where they were. “Those were medium-sized eggs,” Gilbert says. “You guys are going to want extra-large. They’re in the blue cartons.”
Two abashed frowns are replaced by two devilish grins. They grab the eggs and run toward the front end.
“Happy Halloween!” Gilbert calls after them.
*
“Hey, Sheldon,” Fred whispered once the purple-clad lady was gone, having wheeled in the trolley holding all the patients’ lunches. “You want your lunch today?”
“No. You have it.”
“You’re a good guy, Sheldon.”
“Thanks.” He walked over to collect it.
Another patient was sitting on the couch next to mine, staring at me. I stared back.
“What do you do?” he asked. “What’s your job?”
“I don’t have a job.”
“You must get one. If you don’t, they’ll crucify you. Quickly—what do you enjoy doing?”
“I used to like writing.”
“Writing what? Poems? Essays?”
“I wanted to write novels.”
His eyes went wide. “God. You’re not going to put me in a book, are you? Is that your plan? Put me in a book? People would think you’re a real ass, putting a mental patient in a book. I don’t want to be in your book. I’d be upset.”
“I can’t put you in a book if I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Methuselah.”
“You don’t seem very old.”
“You don’t need to be old for your name to be Methuselah. You just need a nutcase mom. Isn’t that right?”
“I guess so.”
Sam arrived, holding a takeout bag in one hand. “Thought you could use a second lunch. You’re looking skinny. What are they feeding you, in here?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll have it,” Methuselah said.
Sam said, “I bought it for you, Sheldon.”
“Fine.”
He took out a burger and onion rings and set them in front of me. “I came up with another inspirational message.”
I unwrapped the burger while chewing an onion ring. “Yeah?”
“The secret to life is shut up, look, listen.”
“Not bad.”
“I thought you’d like that one. Do you like the burger?”
“Can I have an onion ring?” Methuselah said.
“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He stood up, took three, and walked away. Sam watched him go.
“The burger’s tasty,” I said.
“You like it? It’s veggie.”
“Really?”
“I don’t eat meat, so I can’t justify buying it for others.”
“You’re a vegetarian?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long day.”
“Well, when I was a kid, my uncle lived in the country, and he owned two pigs. I loved visiting, because it meant I got to see them. I named them Oink One and Oink Two, and I spent hours playing with them. Pigs are extremely intelligent. They’re like us, in a lot of ways. One day, in spring, my uncle had the whole family over—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, the whole clan. I spent the afternoon searching for the Oinks, but couldn’t find them anywhere. During supper, I asked my uncle where they were. There was an awkward silence. And I looked down at my plate.”
“Oh my God. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, at first. I stared at it with a lump of masticated pork still in my mouth. Then I spat it onto the table. I ran to the bathroom, and threw the rest up. And I never ate meat again.”
A woman standing at a nearby bookshelf looked over. “Hey,” she said. “If vegetarians eat only vegetables, then what do humanitarians eat?” She chuckled, and walked away.
Sam looked at me, frowning slightly. I shrugged.
*
Five guys are scheduled in Grocery tonight, which seems like a lot for a Monday. We’re gathered around Ralph’s desk, in the warehouse. “He left instructions,” Gilbert says. He picks up a piece of paper covered with neat cursive writing in blue ink, and clears his throat. “‘Ernie: continue working the overstock racks.’”
So much for that—Ernie went home at four, complaining of a stress headache.
“‘Tommy: front the store 100%—two deep.’ He underlined ‘two deep.’” Gilbert says. “And he wrote it in capital letters.” Tommy snickers, and heads toward the warehouse doors. “‘Brent: work the freezer and the dairy cooler.’” Brent groans. “‘Gilbert and Sheldon: decorate the store for Christmas.’”
“What? Let me see that.”
Gilbert passes me the note.
“He seriously wants us to decorate for Christmas,” I say. “Me and you.”
“Seems that way.”
“But Halloween was last week.”
“Yes. Now it’s time to remind consumers that another holiday approaches, and if they want to avoid social tension, they should start purchasing gifts for their family, friends, significant others, co-workers, and acquaintances.”
“This is a grocery store. We sell food.”
“We’ll start selling toys, shortly,” Gilbert says. “The first shipment comes in tomorrow.”
The decorations are stored on the top shelf of the overstock racks, so we need an extension ladder. When it’s time to decide which of us will go up, Gilbert cites his seniority, and I start climbing.
The first thing I find is a sign that says “ONLY 50 SHOPPING DAYS LEFT”, with a bag of digits stapled to the back. The numbers are coloured like candy canes. I drop it down to Gilbert, and grab a plastic snowman.
We travel around the store, plastering wrapping paper and Christmas banners onto every available surface, in every department except Produce. Gilbert explains that the entire Produce department will gather an hour before the store opens tomorrow, for hot cocoa and decorating and plotting the demise of every Grocery employee.
We leave the ledge above Frozen until last. We’re supposed to place some fake snow there, and a glowing Santa. We get the ladder. I climb up, and Gilbert starts passing me decorations. Once they’re all on the ledge, he c
omes up, too. I start arranging some of the snow.
And then, the step ladder falls with a crash onto the frozen goods bunker.
“Shit,” Gilbert says.
I turn around. “What happened? Did you knock it over?”
“No. It just fell.”
“How could it just fall?”
“I suspect gravity was involved.”
I walk to the edge and look down. “Think we could jump?”
“You can try, if you want. But if you break your ankle it’ll be your own stupid fault, and you won’t qualify for workers’ comp. You’re probably that dedicated. I’m not.”
I decide I’m not that dedicated. There are a couple folded-up lawn chairs left up here from a summer display, and we put them to use. I can’t see a single customer anywhere.
“Someone should come by soon,” I say. “Isn’t Brent supposed to be restocking the freezers?”
“In theory, yes.”
I glance toward the cash registers. I’m surprised none of the cashiers heard the ladder fall. They’d probably hear me if I called out, but I’m not going to. Cassandra’s on Lane Four, and I’d rather be stuck here all night than talk to her. A customer will come by soon enough. Brent will be out with a cartload. Eventually.
“Do you plan to procreate?” Gilbert says.
“What?”
“Babies. Will you make any?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“I’m going to make one. A daughter.”
“You’ll be able to choose, will you?”
“I’ll wait a few years,” Gilbert says. “Embryo manipulation should be sufficiently advanced, by then.”
“Fair enough.”
“Her name will be Melaena.”
“You picked out a name already? That’s so sweet.”
“Guess what it means.”
“What?”
“It’s a medical term for blood found in stool samples.”
“Melaena means bloody shit?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re naming your daughter that?”
“Certainly. Think about it—all my parenting problems will be solved. ‘Eat your peas, Melaena,’ I’ll say, ‘Or I’ll tell all your friends what your name really means. Clean your room, Melaena. Time for bed, you steaming pile of diseased feces.’”
“Oh my God.”
“Eventually one of her classmates will look it up anyway. That will be character-building.”
“Someone’s coming,” I say. There’s a guy strutting past the freezers, wearing an oversized hoodie and a backward baseball cap. He looks kind of short, though that might be a function of my current perspective.
Wait. I recognize him.
“Hey,” Gilbert says.
“Don’t. He won’t help us.”
“Hey!” Gilbert shouts. “Little help?”
Rick Chafe peers up at us, sitting on lawn chairs 10 feet above the floor.
“Is that Sheldon Mason?”
“It might not be,” I say.
“Shelly! Long time no see. Looks like you’ve really moved up in the world.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Are you still a virgin?”
“I don’t have time to discuss my sexual history right now. I’m busy.”
“Yeah, looks like it. Strange place to have a date with your butt buddy, though.”
“Hey,” Gilbert says. “He isn’t nearly good looking enough to be my butt buddy. If you’re interested, though, we might work something out once you fetch us that ladder.”
“Fat chance.” He grabs a frozen pizza from the bunker, and leaves.
“Way to blow it,” Gilbert says.
“Me? I’m not the one who agitated his homophobia.” I get up and walk to the end of the ledge, for a better view of the Meat department. “I’m surprised Eric wasn’t over here the second the ladder fell,” I say. “Normally he’s breathing down my neck.”
“Maybe he has a crush on you.”
“Have you ever noticed how antisocial his workers are? Most of them will barely even make eye contact.”
“You know he hires all poor kids, right?”
I look at him, my brow furrowed. “So? Just because they don’t have money doesn’t mean—”
“What are you guys doing up there?”
Brent is slouching over a cartload of ice cream, squinting up at us.
Two hours later, at the end of the shift, we’re all standing around Ralph’s desk.
“Do you guys think Frank will watch the cameras?” I say. “Will he be pissed we sat up there for so long?”
Brent laughs, and walks a little deeper into the warehouse. “Dude, I show these cameras my middle finger all the time.” He demonstrates. “I took a nap this shift. Shit, Gilbert stands in front of the computer there almost every night and jacks off stale-faced to gay porn. The cameras are always rolling, but no one ever watches.”
*
When a customer needs help locating a product, I try to provide the best service I can.
But it can be trying, sometimes.
One afternoon, I’m accosted in Aisle Five by a man holding a phone to his ear. He says, “Hold on, I think I see an employee. Hi! Excuse me. You work here, right?”
“I do.”
“Hold on, honey.”
“Sorry?”
“I was talking to my wife. Listen, do you carry chopsticks? We’re hosting a Chinese night for some relatives.”
“Sorry, sir, we don’t have them.”
“They don’t have them,” he tells his wife. His face falls at her answer, which is so loud I can hear it. “She says she bought them here before.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve never seem them.”
“He doesn’t see how that’s possible, honey,” he says, like a man defusing a bomb. The shouted reply makes him wince. He covers the phone with his hand and whispers, “She wants to know your name. I have to tell her your name.” He removes his hand. “His name is Sheldon, honey.” He covers the phone again. “She wants to speak to your manager. I’m sorry.” He uncovers the phone. “She says she wants to speak to your manager.”
“Um, it’s okay. Follow me.”
I tell him to wait outside the warehouse doors. Ralph is inside, working on the computer.
“Someone wants to speak to you,” I say.
He follows me out to the floor. “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”
The man hands over the phone, and we both watch as Ralph takes it.
“Yes?”
The woman on the other end shouts something. Her husband is thin, but I imagine her overweight, sitting in an overstuffed armchair-throne. I picture her leaning forward, jowls wobbling, staring sternly into space.
“I find that hard to believe,” Ralph says.
She shouts again.
“Ma’am, I highly doubt Sheldon refused to find a product for you. I’ve seen him deal with customers, and he’s polite. But even if he did refuse, I wouldn’t reprimand him, because I can’t afford to lose him. He’s my best worker.”
The lady is shouting again, but Ralph gives the phone back to her husband, who wears a resigned expression. “Sorry, sir,” Ralph says. The man nods, and walks away. His wife’s shouting recedes with distance.
“Thanks for saying that,” I say.
Ralph shrugs. “Chopsticks are in Aisle Three, by the way.”
He tells me there’s a Frozen order coming in tonight, two pallets, and that Brent will be in at six. Which means I’ll be the one actually putting it on the shelves.
Ralph goes home at 5:00, and when 6:00 rolls around, Brent doesn’t even show up. He still isn’t here a half hour later, but by 7:15, I have the first pallet finished. At this rate, I’ll have time to sweep the warehouse after I’m done. Maybe work the overstock a little, too.
I won’t rat Brent out. I’m not a snitch.
On one trip to the cardboard baler I encounter Jack, standing near the trash compactor. He’s tak
ing garbage out of a shopping cart and throwing it down the chute.
When he sees me, he stops. “Are you working alone, tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“No one showed up.”
“Do you regret turning down my offer yet?”
“No, actually. I don’t.”
“You’ll get there.”
He leaves the warehouse, and I go into the freezer.
As I’m stacking frozen juice onto my cart, the big, white door slams shut behind me, and I jump. There’s a safety knob on this side. I walk toward it.
The lights go out just as I lay my hand on the cold plastic. Between my fingers, the knob is a luminous green. Turns out it glows in the dark. I press it, but it doesn’t budge. I can’t open the door. Something’s lodged underneath the handle on the other side.
“Hey!” I shout, pounding on the door.
No one opens it.
Chapter Eight
One of the nurses, chuckling, told me how lucky I was to have a friend like Sam. He clearly cared a lot about me, she said. He’d been asking them all lately whether I’d been eating. “I assured him you have. I told him we check the trays after every meal. I think he’s a bit of a worrier.” She winked.
I don’t know why I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t rebelling, or anything. Like everything else, food simply held no interest. Fred certainly didn’t complain.
I felt pretty crappy after I ate the burger Sam brought me. Having eaten nothing for days, it was like a stone knocking around in my stomach.
During another of Sam’s visits, we were sitting in the common area when the same nurse unlocked a glass door to our right. The door let out onto a small garden surrounded by a chain-link fence. She smiled at us. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“It sure is,” Sam said. “Want to go out, Sheldon?”
“Okay.”
We stepped out into the sunlight. The other patients stayed inside.
“I bet I could get over that fence,” I said.
“Maybe. They’d bring you back, though.”
I looked back through the windows. They’d served lunch about a half hour before, and now the others were getting up from the tables and shuffling to their rooms. “You know, my Mom didn’t believe in mental illness,” I said. “She only believed in strong opinions. A psychiatrist might diagnose you with a superiority complex, but Mom would say you just have a bad case of ‘I have the answer to everyone’s problems.’ I’ve met a lot of people with strong opinions. I’ve met some afflicted with ‘I have nothing worth saying,’ others with a touch of ‘My morals are so inconsistent, I’m two people.’ During my stay here, I’ve even met someone with ‘Everyone around me is secretly working for the CIA.’”
Taking Stock Page 8
