“Not for a while. Why?”
“Curiosity. That’s all. I’m just wondering.”
“Okay.”
“Yep. Not too many customers, are there?”
“I’m going to continue fronting, now.”
“All right. Sure. Take care, Sheldon. Good talk.”
“Yeah.”
*
I’m at my computer, in the middle of a scene, tapping feverishly on my keyboard, when the phone rings. I finish my sentence and answer it. “Hello?”
Breathing.
“Hello?”
“I...” Whoever it is clears his throat. “Can I speak with Sheldon Mason?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling to tell you how badly I feel.”
“Who is this?”
“This is—” He swallows. I can hear how dry his throat is. “This is Herman Barry.”
The rage is like every molecule in my body sifting downward, trading places with all the heat, which rises to the roof of my skull. The hand holding the receiver to my ear begins to tremble. The muscle tissue in my throat pulses upward.
“Are you there?” he says.
“Who let you call me?”
“I joined the Alcoholics Anonymous group, here in the prison. I’m trying to deal with my problem. I’ve been sober for almost three—”
“That’s because you can’t get any alcohol.”
“Every day, I think about what I did to end up here. As part of the program, we’re encouraged to ask forgiveness from everyone we’ve wronged. I’m calling to ask if you’d consider forgiving me for what I did.”
“Well, let’s see,” I say. “Are you delayed?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you mentally delayed?”
“No.”
“So, you understand alcohol impairs driving ability?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you get that cars kill people?”
“Yes.” Herman Barry is sobbing.
“You must understand, then, that when you got in your car shitfaced and started to drive, that made you a murderer. You have enough brain cells to grasp that, right?”
Big, gasping sobs.
“Of course I don’t forgive you, you piece of shit. And neither does the higher power AA insists you accept. You murdered my mother, Barry. If there’s a hell, you’re going to rot in it. Okay?”
I slam the receiver into its cradle. I pick it up, and slam it down again.
Chapter Seventeen
After that first short story in grade three, everything I wrote was a writing exercise for one of the courses Mom enrolled me in. Write a story that’s all dialogue. Write a story using third person perspective, then write the same story in first person. Write a story about a photograph. Write a story using the first words that come to your head.
I wrote that first piece, about a man who could turn stuff into food by touching it, because I was hungry. Now, I’m writing because I’m angry.
What results is a bitter humour that sprawls across the screen as I punch the keys. The main character’s only name is the King, and he’s even dumber than everyone around him. He’s dumb for participating in the first place—a reality he masks with booze, and with frequent public executions. He’s guided by his whims, and his temper.
Sometimes, I find myself whispering the words as I type. Sometimes, I find myself smiling.
I have a shift today. As I’m chaining my bicycle to the rack, Gilbert storms out of the store and spots me. He comes over.
“I just got fucking fired,” he says.
“You did? For what?”
His hands are clenched, his eyes wide. “I—” He pauses. He kicks the concrete garbage receptacle. “Fuck!”
I run the chain through the front tire and snap the padlock closed. I stand.
“Someone filmed me taking a girl into the customer washroom,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair and stops halfway through, clutching a clump of it. “The store cameras don’t cover there—I thought I was safe.”
“That was stupid.”
“I know. I know that, all right?”
“I saw Ernie sneaking around the store last night with his phone—it might have been him.”
Gilbert releases the patch of hair, and it sticks straight up. “You what?”
“I saw—”
He pushes me with both hands and I stagger backward a couple steps. “You saw Ernie snooping for Frank and you didn’t tell me?”
“What was I supposed to do? Find you while you were having sex and let you know?” I push him back.
Gilbert grabs the front of my coat, shoving me back over the bike rack and against the wall, the bar hard against my spine. “You could have called me. Texted. You let that fat piece of shit ruin everything.”
“Screw you, Gilbert.”
With a wet, sucking sound, Gilbert draws phlegm into his mouth and spits in my face. He releases me, and I nearly fall backward over the rack. I catch myself, stand up, and watch him walk to his Hummer.
I go inside the store, walk to the customer restroom as fast as I can, shut the door, and wash the spit and snot from my nose and eyes.
It smells strongly of disinfectant in here.
Later, Paul asks if I’ve done any writing lately, and I tell him I’ve started a novel. He congratulates me, and tells me he’s finished his first draft, and is now in the process of editing. Good for him, I say.
Later than that, after my shift, I take a glass of water into my bedroom and pick up the bottle of Zoloft from my desk, pop off the cap, and pour all the pills into my hand.
I sit on the bed. I stare at them for a long time. I count them.
There are 37 left. Of course there are.
To cram all these into my mouth, washing them down with the water—it would be the easiest thing in the world.
Fuck it.
I take them to the bathroom, drop them in the toilet, and flush.
*
We all made a pact, instigated by Gilbert, that we would all quit if one of us got fired. When Frank fires Gilbert, though, nobody quits. No one even mentions it.
Ernie gets promoted to Back Door Receiver, and he shows everyone the video of Gilbert entering the restroom with the girl. Judging by the angle of the footage, Ernie must have been standing in Aisle One. He skips ahead 10 minutes or so, and the girl comes out, looks around, and taps on the door. Gilbert emerges too, and then the camera jerks away, swinging back and forth as Ernie scampers toward the front of the store.
The girl in the video isn’t Gilbert’s girlfriend, Kerrin. It’s one of her friends, who I also met at the party.
What an idiot.
Having sex in a public place is illegal, Ernie tells us, and can incur a fine of up to $2000, six months in prison, or both. Frank, Ernie tells us, has generously decided not to press charges.
Ernie probably doesn’t know Frank’s not pressing charges so Gilbert doesn’t go to the press about the subliminal advertising.
With Gilbert gone, everyone in Grocery continues working hard. The security cameras’ effectiveness was established by Brent’s termination, and now we know the blind spots are filled with Frank’s spies. Ernie becomes an even bigger pariah than before, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He struts around the store, checking our work, nodding approval. Sometimes he pats us on the back, and we all put up with it, resisting the urge to punch him in the teeth. Ernie does less work than anyone, now.
Sam continues to blast heavy metal in his apartment, pretty much daily now. Ironically, since Gilbert was fired, I’ve seen Frank go into Sam’s apartment twice.
I don’t understand how catching Frank at Sam’s would have helped Gilbert, though. Even if he managed to get a picture of Frank smoking, how could he prove it was weed? Doesn’t seem like effective black mail fodder to me.
Anyway, Frank’s clearly prepared to risk exposure for planting subliminal messages. I doubt he’d feel much more threatened by a pot habit.
*
I bring Bernice a thank you card, for helping me. “I’ve made breakthroughs,” I say. “Because of CBT, and because of talking things through here. I truly appreciate it.”
“You’re supposed to continue seeing me for three years, Sheldon.”
“I know. But I feel like I’ve gotten all I’m going to from therapy—no offense. I’m more confident. I’m writing again. Sure, things are messed up, but I’m certain I don’t want to kill myself. I want to see where life takes me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But I have to recommend against stopping therapy now. You’ve only been coming here a few months. It would be much better to continue, to make sure you carry on doing well.”
“Thanks. But I think I’m good.”
“I should also remind you that even though everything you’ve said to me is confidential, my notes are still open to subpoena by a court. If you ever get into legal trouble, they’ll see you didn’t finish your therapy.”
“Understood. Thank you. For everything.”
Chapter Eighteen
I do my best writing late at night, and this past week, more than once, I’ve watched dawn’s light creep across my typing fingers. Finally, two days before Tommy’s apocalypse, I finish “The King of Hearts”. It isn’t long enough to be called a novel—I’m not sure I’d even call it a novella. But it’s the first thing I’ve written in two years, and though the writing drained me, I’m not angry anymore. I feel good about things.
I’ve been sleeping in a lot, and a couple times I’ve been almost late for a shift. Today I’m scheduled for noon, and I actually am late—for the first time since I got the job. It’s 12:04 when I punch in.
Ernie’s leaning against Ralph’s desk. “Good afternoon,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Not good morning,” he says. “Good afternoon.”
“I’m aware I’m late.”
Tonight’s an order night, and Donovan is also working. He says Spend Easy isn’t the same anymore, with Gilbert gone. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess God’s plan entailed him getting sacked.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Donovan says. “Gilbert’s time here will likely prove an insignificant chapter in his life. He’ll go on to do great things.”
“Think so? Gilbert?”
“I’m sure of it.” He places a bottle of beets on the shelf. “So. Paul tells me you’ve started writing your book. Are you using the pen I gave you?”
“No. Sorry. It does sit on my desk while I write.” That’s true, but it’s not intentional.
He nods. “What’s your novel called?”
“It didn’t end up being a novel. It’s more a short story. I titled it ‘The King of Hearts’.”
“Ah. The suicide king.”
“Sorry?”
“The king of hearts is sometimes called the suicide king. In a lot of decks, he’s pictured driving a knife through his own head.”
The next morning I’m off, and I walk to the graveyard where my mother’s buried, for the first time since she died. I stand over her plot for a while. I don’t say anything, and I don’t pray—either would be pointless. I just stand there.
Someone was here, recently. There are footprints, and a bouquet of black roses atop the snow.
After a while, I leave.
*
The last movie Mom and I ever watched together was The Sound of Music. But it wasn’t the first time we saw it. The Sound of Music was her all-time favourite film.
I made fun of her so much for that. I watched it with her whenever she wanted, but I reserved the right to bash it mercilessly.
The music is terrible. It’s nearly three hours long. And the von Trapps escape the Nazis in Salzburg by hiking over the mountains to Switzerland—but Switzerland doesn’t even border Salzburg!
When I get home from the graveyard, I put it on again. I sit, rapt, as Liesl wonders at her approaching adulthood. I don’t miss a lyric as Julie Andrews sings about her favourite things. And when the von Trapps magically travel a hundred miles by walking over a few mountains, I start to cry.
*
“Hi, Sheldon,” Gilbert says, standing on the concrete step outside my door.
“What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“You can’t come in.”
“I came to apologize. Please.”
I step back, and he enters, sitting on the couch. I remain standing, hands on hips.
“I’m sorry I pushed you.”
“You spit on me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes on the floor. He does look ashamed. “You didn’t get me fired—it was my stupid fault. I was so used to getting away with whatever I want, at Spend Easy. The cameras don’t point at that washroom, and I didn’t expect Ernie to be there. I did it for the thrill. And it was stupid.”
“That’s for sure.”
“I don’t want you to think I was just using you to cover my ass.” He swallows, rubbing his nose. “I like you, Sheldon. You may not believe it, but I really wanted to help you. You know, I think you let people take advantage.”
I sit down. Loud music starts blaring through the ceiling. It sounds like Rage Against the Machine.
“I brought you something.” Gilbert takes out a long box and passes it to me. I open it to find a pen resting in velvet. I don’t tell him Donovan already gave me a pen—a nicer pen. That I don’t even use.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome. I want to keep our friendship. Life’s too short.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the writing going, anyway?”
A drop of water falls from the ceiling and lands in a glass sitting on the coffee table. “God damn it.”
“What was that?”
I sigh. “The landlord was supposed to replace Sam’s toilet months ago. Sam must have flushed and forgot to check it.” I stand. “I’ll have to go up there.”
I put on my sneakers and run around the house. Gilbert puts on his, too, and follows close behind.
Sam’s door is locked. I knock as hard as I can, but no one answers—the music’s too loud, I guess. I walk down the steps and drag out the flower pot, sifting through the rocks till I find the fake one with the key inside. I stick it in the lock and turn.
As I enter the porch, I hear a moan. Gilbert pushes past, and I follow.
Frank is bent over, gripping the armrest, with no clothes on. Sam is standing with one leg on the floor and the other bent on the couch, pressed against Frank from behind, thrusting. Sam sees us first, his eyes widening. He starts to pull away.
But Gilbert already has his phone out, holding it in the air. It makes a faux camera-shutter sound. Sam and Frank separate, attempting to cover themselves. Gilbert’s phone makes one more shutter sound, and he smiles, turns, goes to his Hummer, and drives away.
Chapter Nineteen
It’s Saturday, and I’m working 9-5 with Tommy, who’s freaking out. We’re in the warehouse, piling boxes from the overstock racks onto our carts.
He fumbles a case of granola bars, dropping it, and sits on his cart. He puts his head in his hands and starts to cry.
“Hey, Tommy, it’s okay, you know.” I pat him twice on the back. “The sun’s not going to explode. It really isn’t. There’s no science to support that. Okay?”
He takes a Kleenex from his pocket and blows his nose.
I say, “Why are you here today, anyway? If you really think the world’s ending, why didn’t you just skip work?”
“My parents made me come. They don’t believe me—they say I just have too much free time.” He shakes his head. “No one believes. We’re all going to die at any moment, and I feel like I’m the only one who knows.”
“Get up, Tommy. Come on. Focus on the overstock.”
He gets up and kicks the box of granola bars under the racks. “What’s the point in putting food on the shelves that no one’s going to
eat? I need to use the washroom.” He turns and runs up the stairs.
Donovan doesn’t think Tommy will be a Christian for much longer. He figures once the world fails to end, Tommy will abandon the faith to search for another belief system from which to extract self-worth. “Right now he thinks he’s some kind of prophet,” Donovan said. “When he finds out he’s not, he’ll find another religion—my money’s on Buddhism.”
I take out a couple more cartloads of overstock. After the second one, I pause at Ralph’s desk to jot down an idea for a short story. Gilbert falls from above, landing nearby and scaring the shit out of me. I shout.
“Hey,” he says.
I look up. “Did you just jump from the top step?”
“Yeah.”
“Um, did you break any bones?”
“Nah.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Practice.”
“For what?”
“Landing—life’s most important skill. Wanna take a break?”
I punch out, and we go outside to lean against the bike rack. Gilbert takes out a joint and a lighter. I ask him not to smoke it here, since I’d rather not smell like weed for the rest of my shift.
“Chill. Neither of us has to worry about getting fired anymore.” He flicks the lighter and inhales.
“You mean you don’t have to worry.”
“Neither of us. We both saw Frank with Sam.”
“You’re the one blackmailing him, Gilbert. Not me.”
Gilbert told me that when he visited Frank the morning after, it wasn’t necessary to mention what we witnessed. He merely said he wanted back on the schedule—along with another raise.
“You’re the store’s hardest worker, Sheldon,” Gilbert says. “You’re telling me if Frank tried to fire you right now, you wouldn’t bring up what we saw?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I wouldn’t do that. What we saw is Frank’s personal business. It has nothing to do with Spend Easy.”
“What if you had three kids and a wife to support, in a tight job market? Would you let him fire you, then?”
“What are you getting at?”
Taking Stock Page 16
