Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  “Do you think any of your perceptions were negative or inaccurate?”

  “Um,” I say, and take a moment. “Probably my assumption was, that the others would associate me with what he was saying.”

  “What about the perception that Casey meant to anger you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me why those thoughts were negative or inaccurate?”

  “I guess there was no reason to think Casey wanted to piss me off. He was just really drunk.”

  “Anything else?”

  I shrug.

  “Do you think it was rational to assume the others would connect you with Casey’s actions?”

  “No—it’s pretty common, I guess, for people to say weird stuff like that when they get hammered at parties.”

  Bernice prompts me for another example, and I use Cassandra taking my hand at the end of the party. But I’m not sure this is a good example for CBT. After all, my perceptions of a situation won’t always be negative or inaccurate. What am I supposed to take from her holding my hand, except that she was making some sort of move?

  I have mixed feelings. Cassandra still goes out with Sean, and she’s broken my heart so many times my default instinct is to avoid her.

  But it felt good—my hand in hers.

  *

  On Christmas Eve, Casey and I are the only ones working in Grocery. Everyone else requested the day off—even Gilbert. I wonder what he could possibly be doing. I try to picture him going door-to-door carolling, or reading the Bible to seniors.

  For the entire month of December, we’ve been subjected to the same jazz versions of Christmas songs over and over. “Jingle Bells” is especially grating. Paul told me that last year, Gilbert kept sneaking up to the control room and switching the CD for one filled with death metal. He hasn’t done it this year, but I wish he would. And I hate death metal.

  If you’re buying your kids’ gifts from a grocery store on Christmas Eve, I’m not sure what that says about you. But there are a lot of those people here tonight, and they’re tipping well. The carryouts are constant, netting me $35 in four hours. Christmas loosens everyone’s purse strings.

  When we’re not carrying stuff outside for customers, Casey and I are working a Dairy order. Shortly after six, Donovan visits with gifts for both of us. Casey turns red, and takes his to the warehouse without unwrapping it.

  “I think that means ‘thanks,’” I say.

  “Of course.”

  “What did you get him?”

  “Beer glass.”

  I tear mine open. It’s a box that contains an expensive-looking pen, with my name embossed near the clip. There’s a tiny note, too: “Keep on truckin’.”

  “That’s damn good advice,” I say. “Wow, Donovan. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”

  “That’s okay. Just write me a book with the pen. That will be fine.”

  “I’ll get right on it. How did you know I write?”

  “Word gets around. What kind of book is it going to be?”

  I think about it. “Well, I do have one idea I came up with in high school. It’s kind of weird.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s just one scene, but I think there’s a story there, somewhere. A man’s lying on the ground holding a surgical scalpel, and the woman who broke his heart stands nearby. He keeps demanding she use the scalpel to cut out his broken heart. She refuses, and calls him crazy. It’s supposed to be funny, but also a little sad.”

  Donovan touches my forearm. “If it pleases God, you’ll do well.”

  “Do you think assisted suicide pleases God?”

  “God works in mysterious ways.”

  A few weeks ago, I heard a rumour that Donovan regularly visits Frank’s office and reads the Bible with him. When I asked, Donovan said it’s true. He said Frank doesn’t have many people he can discuss religion with. “He has a lot of questions. Especially about the Old Testament.”

  When Casey comes back, I ask if he liked Donovan’s gift.

  “I liked throwing it out.”

  “You threw out his gift?”

  “Damn right. I don’t want anything to do with fucking Christmas. I don’t celebrate lying.”

  “What?”

  “First, they lied to me about a fat guy who rides a flying sleigh. Found out the truth of that when Dad tried putting out the presents drunk one year. And they still expect me to believe thousands of years ago a guy was born who can turn water into booze and knows when I’m watching porn. Fuck it. Fuck Christmas.”

  Personally, I always liked Christmas. Mom would put on the fireplace channel, and we’d eat caramel corn.

  A woman named Felicity Rogers calls the store with a list of groceries she’d like someone to put together for her. If we’ll gather the items, she’ll send a taxi to pick them up. I write them down, hang up, and tell Casey. He rolls his eyes.

  “That bitch again. She calls all the time. Too lazy to do her own shopping.” He grabs the list. “I’ll get these. I need a break from Dairy anyway. It’s cold in that cooler.”

  After the taxi collects Ms. Rogers’ order, Casey asks me to take my break and walk with him to a nearby gas station, which is where he buys his coffee.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be Grocery personnel on the floor at all times?”

  “Is work all you think about, Sheldon? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

  We put on our coats and walk to the gas station. Casey buys an extra-large coffee and stirs in ample sugar and cream. He confides he has no idea whether the cream affects the taste. He just can’t bear the thought of drinking liquid that looks like it was spooned from a bog.

  When we get back, Betty tells us Felicity Rogers left a message for us to call her. Betty gives me her number, and I take it back to the warehouse.

  Ms. Rogers tells me half her groceries didn’t arrive. I put her on hold, and I fish the list out of the trash, where Casey threw it when he was finished. I think I know what happened. I wrote half the order on one side of the page, and half on the other. Casey probably missed the second side. I go up to the break room, and he confirms my suspicion. Shit.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rogers, it appears my co-worker missed half your order. He didn’t realize I wrote it on both sides of the paper.”

  She tells me she can’t afford another cab.

  “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’m going to try and fix this.”

  Casey comes bounding down the stairs and grabs his cart from next to the cardboard compactor. He’s downed his extra-large, and he’s a lit light—an engine firing on all cylinders.

  “She can’t afford another cab,” I say. “Now what?”

  “Now, screw her,” he says. “Now, it’s her problem.”

  He jitters out of the warehouse.

  I follow him. “The error’s on our end, Casey. It’s not her fault.”

  “You think Spend Easy will spring for a taxi? Forget it. Go back to work.”

  I stare at the list in my hand. Maybe I should call Ralph and ask him what to do. I don’t want to bother him on Christmas Eve, though.

  I walk up to Frank’s office. I don’t expect him to be there, but he’s there anyway, bent over his desk, poring over some papers. “Merry Christmas,” I say.

  He looks up at the wall. He grunts.

  I explain the situation, volunteering to round up the missing items. I ask if Spend Easy will pay for their transportation to Ms. Rogers’ house.

  “No,” he says. “And I don’t want you wasting company time gathering them. There’s an order to finish.”

  “But it’s our mistake, and she can’t afford a cab. She may need the groceries for Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

  “Are there no prisons?” Frank says. “And the union workhouses—are they still in operation? I wish to be left alone, sir! That is what I wish! I don’t make myself merry at Christmas, and I cannot afford to
make idle people merry. I have been forced to support the establishments I have mentioned through taxation, and God knows they cost more than they’re worth. Those who are badly off must go there. And if they’d rather die, then they had better do it and decrease the surplus population!”

  Okay, so that’s not exactly what he said. But you get the idea.

  I go back to the warehouse and decide to call Ralph after all. He picks up on the fifth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ralph. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Sheldon. Is there a problem?”

  I explain the situation.

  “I’m afraid we can’t do anything for her,” Ralph says. “Gathering Felicity Rogers’ groceries is a special service. We don’t have to do it, and we’re certainly not responsible for her cab costs. It isn’t Spend Easy’s fault not all the groceries arrived. You’ll have to excuse me, Sheldon. My family and I are late for church.”

  I hang up, and stare at the receiver for a few seconds. Then I walk to the freezer, where Casey is loading his cart. “I’m taking my second break.”

  “You just had your first,” he says.

  “Yeah. And now I’m taking my second.”

  By now, I’ve made over $45 in tips. That covers most of the missing groceries, and I buy the rest using my credit card. My break ends just as I finish.

  I call Felicity Rogers to tell her someone can come by with her groceries shortly after 10:00. She gives me the address. She lives in a different part of town from me, but our house numbers are the same.

  I return to the sales floor to find Lesley-Jo chasing Casey around the frozen goods bunker, a sprig of mistletoe dangling from her fist.

  “Stay back, woman!” he shouts. “I’m wise to your schemes!”

  “Come back here, Casey-face!”

  After my shift, I leave my bike chained in the parking lot and get in the cab with the groceries. The driver is untalkative. When we arrive, I see it’s actually a pretty nice house.

  I grab the bags and bring them to the front door. A woman in her thirties answers, a small girl wrapped around her leg. Somewhere behind her, a stereo plays “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

  “Felicity Rogers?” I say.

  “She lives downstairs. The door is around the house, to your right.”

  I walk around and descend six steps to the basement door. My first knock produces no results, and neither does my second. After the third I turn to go, but the knob turns, and the door opens a little.

  “Yes?” The raspy voice is the same one I spoke with on the phone.

  “Ms. Rogers?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Sheldon. I brought your groceries.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you like me to bring them in?”

  She shuffles backward.

  I nudge the door open with my foot and carry the bags in. Felicity Rogers is an elderly woman with white wisps for hair. She leans heavily on a walker, and her eyes are rheumy. Her back is bent. Gravity has been dragging on her face and arms and legs for a long time.

  I say, “Can I help you put these away?”

  She moves backward again, deeper into her living room, which is also her kitchen, and her bedroom. It smells musty.

  “Put them there.”

  I carefully lay the groceries on the floor.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

  “Yes.”

  I smile, and I back away. “Merry Christmas.”

  She says nothing.

  As I walk back to the cab, it begins to snow—big, fluffy flakes. For an instant, the driver and I make eye contact. But on the ride back to Spend Easy, we still don’t talk.

  “Thank you,” I say once I’ve paid. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  I pedal hard to get home quick. The snow lands on my uncovered face, melting and running down my nose and cheeks in tiny rivulets. It tastes clean, and white.

  And then it tastes salty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The day after Boxing Day, Frank receives notice that on December 29th, the health inspector will be paying the store a ‘surprise visit’. Immediately, Spend Easy becomes a beehive of activity.

  Gilbert and I are working the morning Frank finds out. He calls Ralph in to work on his day off, and Ralph calls in Paul and Casey.

  “Inspections are a joke,” Paul says. “They don’t make anything safer for anyone. Last time we were getting ready for one, I found mouse shit on a box of cranberry sauce. I showed Frank, and he said, ‘It’s in cans, isn’t it? Wipe them off and put them out.’”

  Ralph starts getting the warehouse in order, and sets Gilbert to working the overstock racks. Casey and Paul are tasked with fronting. Meanwhile, Frank double-times around the store, avoiding eye contact and barking orders. He gives me a series of undesirable chores, since he knows I’m the only one who’ll do them. He gets me to lift the grates out of Dairy’s bottom shelf and clean underneath—a cold stew of milk, eggs, and whatever else. Then I’m told to walk around outside, in the cold, and pick up any litter I see. After that he orders me to take a broom, go to Aisle One, lie on my stomach, and scoop out whatever shit I find underneath the shelves. This includes several rotten fruits and vegetables, a wristwatch, a dead rat, and a used condom.

  And that was just Aisle One.

  Gilbert, it seems, has acquitted himself admirably today. Walking downstairs from the employee washrooms, I find Ralph talking to him near the cardboard compactor. “I’m impressed with the turnaround you’ve made, Gilbert,” he’s saying. “You haven’t called in sick for almost a month, and you’ve become one of Grocery’s most valued employees. Do you think you’d be able to come back tomorrow and help us out again?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Gilbert says. He sees me, and winks.

  I’m working the next day, too, and I’m assigned more disgusting tasks. But it seems I’m not the only one suffering. After my first break, I come downstairs to find a Meat employee mopping up a puddle that’s seeped under the wall, from the Meat department into the warehouse. The puddle has been there since I started working. It’s rancid, and I’m glad someone’s finally cleaning it.

  Hours later, he’s standing there again. Eric’s there too, yelling at him for slacking off: the puddle’s still there.

  It isn’t the same puddle, though. I saw him mop it all up. There’s obviously a hole in the wall, or something. It’s not his fault.

  He doesn’t say that, though. He just stands there, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor, while Eric towers over him and screams.

  Later, I run into the guy in the warehouse—Theo’s his name—and I ask him what it’s like, working for Eric. He reacts to my question the same way he reacted to Eric.

  “You don’t have to put up with him shouting at you like that, you know,” I say. “It’s abuse.”

  “What do you care, vegan?”

  I look up. Eric is standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the washrooms and the break room, staring down at us.

  I don’t answer him. Theo quickly leaves the warehouse, and Eric stands glaring at me until I leave, too.

  *

  I’m not scheduled to work the day of the inspection, and neither is Gilbert. I know this because he calls and invites me to hang out.

  “Sure,” I say. “I can walk to your place. Where do you live?”

  “Actually,” he says, “my mother’s here, and I don’t think I can stand her for another minute. Can we hang out at your place?”

  “Sure.”

  When he arrives, I offer him a choice of coffee and water, which is all I have. He chooses coffee, and sits on the left side of my couch drinking it. I sit on the right—the couch is the only place to sit. Gilbert’s the first guest I’ve ever had here.

  He isn’t saying anything.

  I clear my throat. “Is your Mom visiting from out of town, or something?”

  “Nope. She had a fi
ght with Dad, so she’s crashing at my apartment indefinitely. It’s not the first time. Actually, she recently bought a bed for my spare room, for such occasions.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope they work it out.”

  He doesn’t answer. He bends over to scratch Marcus Brutus, who’s rubbing against his ankle. Gilbert places a hand under his belly.

  “He doesn’t like being picked up,” I say.

  He scoops Marcus Brutus into his lap, where he settles down and starts purring.

  “I take it he doesn’t let you do this,” Gilbert said.

  “I’d probably be bleeding by now.”

  He puts Marcus Brutus back on the floor. “I need to smoke a joint. Can I do it in your shed? You probably don’t want me smoking in your apartment.”

  “Uh, okay. I’ll get you the key.”

  Five minutes later, he’s still out in the shed. I pour myself another coffee and bring it back to the living room, turning on the TV and flicking randomly through the channels. After 20 minutes, I put on my shoes and go out.

  When I open the shed door, I find him peering out the only window.

  “How was the joint?” I say.

  “Fine.”

  “Must have been a big one. You’ve been out here for almost a half hour.”

  I join him at the window. It doesn’t offer much of a view, other than Sam’s deck. “What are you looking at?”

  “Have you seen Frank go into the upstairs apartment lately?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re sure it was him, the first time?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  He looks out the window again. “Well. I gotta go. I promised Mom I’d bring her dinner.”

  He walks out to his Hummer, leaving me alone in the shed with the smell of weed. My eyes fall on the stool in the corner.

  *

  On New Year’s Eve, I come in for my shift to find Gilbert in the warehouse, playing with the label maker that’s usually sitting on Ralph’s desk. But Gilbert isn’t scheduled to work tonight. I’m supposed to be working with Donovan, on the Frozen order.