Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  I nod. “And I was a stupid guy. Still am.”

  “No, you’re not. You want a puff?”

  “I’m working.”

  “Me too. Scared you won’t be Ralph’s favourite stock boy anymore?”

  She holds the joint to my lips, and I inhale.

  “Did Sean know we were hanging out?” I say. “Before he saw us together?”

  “He knows now.”

  “What does he think?”

  “He doesn’t like it.”

  “Does he know we kissed?”

  “I didn’t tell him. It was only one time.”

  She’s fingering the front of my jacket.

  “Is he right, Cassandra?”

  “About what?”

  “He said you talked about me a lot. He said he thought—”

  She presses her mouth against mine. She bites my lip. I place my hands on her hips and press against her, pushing with my tongue until it meets hers.

  Someone coughs, and we both look. It’s Theresa, walking past us, eyebrows raised.

  “Can we help you?” Cassandra says.

  She continues toward the sliding doors, not answering.

  “What a creep.”

  My hands are still on Cassandra’s hips. “I thought she was officially awesome,” I say.

  “Having worked with her a few times, I’m thinking that was a misdiagnosis.”

  I look at her for a moment without speaking. Then I remove my hands. “I’d better go in.”

  When I enter the warehouse, Theresa’s standing by the punch clock, arms crossed. I search for my punch card, ignoring her. I ignore her, she ignores me—we never talk. Ever.

  “That girl has a boyfriend,” she says.

  I stop searching the punch cards. I turn toward her.

  “Wait. You’re talking to me.”

  “I’m talking to you about what a dick move you just made.”

  “You’re finally talking to me, Theresa. You’re talking to me about how I just kissed Cassandra.”

  “That’s what’s happening, yeah.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Are you jealous?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Your punch card’s right there, Sheldon. At the very bottom.” And she leaves through the red swinging doors.

  *

  Gilbert says the reason I like Cassandra so much is she’s excellent at playing hard to get—a classic strategy, effective since it creates the illusion of value. Because Cassandra makes me work to get her attention, with the possibility of having her always slightly out of reach, I’m tricked into overestimating her worth.

  “I don’t think she’s playing hard to get anymore, Gilbert. I mean, we’ve kissed twice, and the last time, she kissed me. I think she might be ready to try something.”

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “Of course she’s still playing hard to get. She’s just raising the stakes, to keep things interesting. She loves being chased too much. She never wants the chasing to end.”

  “Well, Sean won’t put up with it much longer.”

  “There’s probably nothing I can say to save you from being a sucker. Love is basically a drug addiction. They actually compared brain scans of recently dumped people with scans from cocaine addicts—they were almost identical.”

  “Pretty sure pop stars already knew that.”

  I’m sure I’m fooling Gilbert about as much as I’m fooling myself. Which is to say, not at all. I know he’s likely right—I just don’t want to tell him that. Cassandra may never break up with Sean, and even if she does, I’m sure she’ll leave me hanging, like she has every other time. I think she has this ideal for what love is supposed to be, and so she never fully commits, out of fear the ideal will prove false.

  But there’s something else I keep going back to, and I won’t tell Gilbert that either, because I can’t.

  Theresa finally talked to me.

  *

  The next time I’m working the same shift as Theresa, I volunteer to go fronting. She’s working a 5-10, so I figure she’ll probably take her break around eight o’clock. While I’m fronting Aisle Three, I have a clear view of her in Checkout Lane Four. I take my time in Aisle Three. Just as I’m finishing it, I see her leaving the front. Bingo.

  I head for the warehouse, and end up at the punch clock just as she’s punching out.

  “Taking your break?” I say, pulling my punch card from its slot and holding it up. “What a coincidence. For I, too, am taking a break.”

  She stares. “I’m not taking a break with you,” she whispers.

  “And I’m not taking a break with you. We just happen to be taking breaks simultaneously. Unless you want to have a loud argument about it right here in the middle of the warehouse.” I raise my eyebrows.

  After a little more glaring, she turns and marches toward the stairs. I start to whistle. When we arrive at the break room, it’s empty.

  She whirls to face me. “You’re lucky there’s no one here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, that would be awkward.”

  “Don’t you think it’s already about as awkward as it’s going to get between us?”

  I take a seat, and she sits, too.

  “Look, Theresa, I know you don’t want anything connecting you to…the place we met. I get that, because I try to avoid thinking about that place, too. You probably hate seeing me. But the fact is, you’re going to see me. A lot. We work together.”

  “Have you told anyone?” she says.

  “No. And that’s what I’m saying—we don’t have to tell anyone. We can pretend we met at Spend Easy, and just talk to each other like we would anyway.”

  She’s looking down at the table. “I—”

  The door opens, and Tommy comes in, tossing a chocolate bar in front of an empty chair. “Hey,” he says, sitting.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Silence.

  Then, Theresa makes eye contact. “So, Sheldon. Are you in school?”

  I smile.

  We spend the rest of the break catching up by pretending to be making small talk. I even make her laugh a couple times, which I don’t think I accomplished once in the psych ward.

  “We should take breaks together more often,” she says as we’re leaving the break room, resting a hand on my arm. Before I exit, Tommy flashes me a thumbs-up.

  We’re almost to the bottom of the stairs when we hear a crash coming from the Meat room. A couple seconds later there’s a smack, and someone cries out.

  Matt stumbles through the door. A large area around his left eye is reddened—it looks like it’s going to swell up pretty bad. He glances up at us, blinking.

  “What happened?” Theresa says.

  “I—” he says, and brings a hand to his face, prodding it gently. “It’s my fault. I tripped.”

  “What happened, Matt?” I say. “Did Eric hit you?”

  Eric comes through the door, teeth bared, and looks up at me. “He tripped, vegan. Now move along.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eric clearly has something to hide. That’s why he locked me in the freezer. He sensed I’d begun to suspect something, and he wanted to scare me. Maybe even get rid of me. It depends on how bad the thing is he’s trying to cover up.

  I asked Matt again to tell me the truth of what happened. He wouldn’t give me any details, though—he just kept saying it was his own fault.

  I need to be careful, now. I look over my shoulder frequently when I’m in the parking lot at night. I always make sure someone knows when I’m going into the freezer to get product. And I try to take all my breaks with other people. There aren’t any cameras in the break room, and I’d hate to be caught up there alone with Eric.

  One shift, restocking Dairy, I notice Eric speaking with some guy I’ve never seen before, in front of the Meat department. They talk for at least 20 minutes, laughing, and nudging each other. Then Eric hugs him, and he leaves.

  I decide now would be a good time to bring the shopping carts in.
<
br />   Just as he’s about to get into his car, I intercept him. He’s tall and skinny, with curly brown hair.

  “Hey,” I say. “How do you know Eric?”

  “Oh, I used to work for him. In Meat.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Great. He taught me meat cutting. Now I work in one of the fanciest restaurants in town.”

  “Awesome. Um, listen, did he ever…do anything to you?”

  “Like what?”

  It feels strange, to say it out loud. “Like, hit you.”

  He gives me a strange look. “No, man. Eric wouldn’t do that. The guy’s like a Dad to me. If he hadn’t hired me, I don’t know where I would have ended up.”

  “Well, a guy I used to work with in Grocery works in Meat now, and the other night his face was swelling up. He said he tripped, but—”

  “Then I guess he tripped,” he says, his brow furrowed. “You know Eric’s been on the news, right?”

  “Yeah. Anyway. It was nice talking to you.”

  “Sure.” He gets in his car and drives away.

  *

  As soon as the lawn needs mowing, Sam mows it. I wake up one morning to the motor, and I look out my window to see him pushing it across the grass. It makes me feel guilty—partly because of what happened with Gilbert, and partly because I’ve never mowed, even once. But it also makes me feel calm. Whatever else goes wrong in my life, I know Sam’s got the lawn situation covered.

  The phone rings as I’m making coffee in the kitchen, and I pick it up.

  “Sheldon.”

  “Hey, Cassandra, what’s—”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  I pause. “Just let me grind these beans.” I press the button on the coffee grinder and it whirs loudly, making conversation impossible.

  I release the button. “Can you give me that one more time?”

  “You heard me, Sheldon. I’m pregnant.”

  “Did you use protection?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Well, a couple times we—”

  “All right. I don’t want details. How’s Sean taking it?”

  “He broke up with me.”

  “What?”

  “I told him we kissed.”

  “Before or after you told him you were pregnant?”

  “Before. But he thinks we did more than kiss.”

  I clutch the phone, and I don’t speak.

  “Sheldon?”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “What? What would you say?”

  “I’ll tell him the truth.”

  “I already tried that.”

  “Maybe, coming from me…” I take a long, shaky breath. I’m getting a headache.

  “Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “What’s his number?”

  She tells me, and I hang up, and I dial it.

  “Hello?”

  “Sean. This is Sheldon.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Listen. You’re overreacting about Cassandra. I’m the one who kissed her—it was my fault.”

  “Bad luck for her, then.”

  “She’s pregnant, Sean. She’s having your kid.”

  “How do I know it’s mine?”

  “Because it couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.”

  “I don’t believe you. And I don’t care, either way. You can have her. Okay? If she’ll let you. If you’re ‘cool’ enough to raise Cassandra’s kid.”

  “Don’t do this, Sean. I know you’re angry. But you don’t want to burn this bridge. This is your baby, and if you abandon it now, it’s going to write you off when it grows up. Trust me. Don’t blow this.”

  “I’m not affected by this, Sheldon. This is easy for me. Cassandra kissed you, or fucked you, or whatever it was—and now I’m done. Simple.”

  “Listen to me.”

  “Been listening. Fuck off, Sheldon.” He hangs up.

  I drop into a chair. Now what? I want to go be with Cassandra, but she doesn’t want that, and she doesn’t need it, either. She needs her baby’s father. I certainly couldn’t raise a kid, even if I tried. I can barely take care of myself.

  I walk to my room, turn on my computer, and click open the word processor. I centre the cursor, and type “The King of Diamonds”.

  For a moment, I stare at the blank screen.

  I type all night.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After a few weeks of barely concealed ridicule, Randy quits Spend Easy, and I ask Donovan if he’s pleased with this outcome.

  “Well, it’s too bad he felt the need to quit. But lots of people suffer, you know. He should count himself lucky, if a little gossip is the worst he ever has to deal with.”

  I wonder if Frank knows his son quit for the same reason he quit his last job. Maybe he even senses Gilbert’s role in it. There’s nothing he can do, of course. He has to tread softly, since pissing off Gilbert could mean everything he knows falling apart. He built his family on an illusion, and it’s his bad luck that Gilbert possesses the means to shatter it.

  I feel bad for Randy, but there’s nothing I can do either. To tell a secret once is to tell it a hundred times. You can’t stuff it back in the box.

  Tonight, Gilbert and I are driving around town in the Hummer. It’s raining heavily, which suits me. “I hear you managed to break up Sean and Cassandra,” he says.

  I stare out the window.

  “So, is this your opportunity?” he says. “Is this Sheldon Mason’s big chance to make it with her?”

  I shake my head. “You were right—she’s not interested in me.”

  “Well, it’s probably for the best. How do you feel?”

  “Pretty shitty, actually.”

  “Wanna smoke a joint?”

  The rain is beating against the windshield. I sigh. “Fuck it. Break it out.”

  “That’s the spirit!” He fishes it out of a cup holder, puts it in his mouth, lights it. “You’re not writing about this, are you?”

  “About what?”

  “This whole thing with Cassandra.”

  “No.”

  “Are you writing anything right now?”

  “Just another short story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a sequel to the last one. The King—”

  “Jesus Christ. You got a real knack for turning a good thing into a bad, you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you plan to let anyone read it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll probably submit it somewhere.”

  “I’m telling you. Stop writing.”

  We pull onto the highway. A red car speeds past us, and Gilbert steps on the gas, laughing. “I love it when Toyota Tercels think they can outstrip a Hummer.”

  He drifts into the passing lane, a sheet of water spraying up from the Hummer’s tires.

  The speedometer climbs, and Gilbert soon closes the gap. Once he passes, he changes lanes again and starts slowing down. The driver of the Tercel beeps.

  “His horn is pathetic,” I say.

  Gilbert blasts his.

  The Tercel switches lanes, passes, and switches back. Gilbert does the same. The driver glares as we overtake him. Gilbert flips him off. When the Tercel tries to pass again we stay abreast of it, and Gilbert continues to look over with his finger up. “He’s maxed out, for sure,” he says.

  The driver takes the next exit, and Gilbert follows him. It’s late, and there aren’t many cars on the roads. The Tercel continues to go almost as fast as it did on the highway. Gilbert continues harassing him.

  Finally we see his left flicker go on, and Gilbert turns his on, too. We turn into a parking lot.

  “Shit,” I say. “This is a hospital. I don’t think he was trying to race us.”

  The other car parks near the front doors. Gilbert keeps his distance. We watch the driver get out and help a woman out of the passenger seat. She’s holding her belly, which is big and
round.

  “They weren’t joyriding,” I say.

  “No,” Gilbert says. “They weren’t.”

  “What if we—”

  “She’s fine, Sheldon. Okay? Nothing happened.”

  *

  Wednesday night I’m on with Tommy, and since there’s no other work that needs doing, we front.

  I sigh, and he glances at me. “Everything all right, Sheldon? You seem bummed tonight.”

  “I’m fine. My heart’s a bit freezer burnt. That’s all.”

  “Pop it in the microwave on defrost for 30 seconds.”

  “Yeah. Um, do you know if Ralph’s emailed the schedule yet?”

  “He hadn’t, last time I checked.”

  I go to the warehouse and call him.

  “Bit late with it this week,” Ralph says. “Putting it together now, actually. I have your hours, though—got a pen?”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Okay. Hold on.” He pauses. “Oh, boy. You’re not going to like me.”

  “All right.”

  “You’re working Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

  He was right. I abhor him. I hope he chokes on his own vomit.

  “That sounds fine,” I say.

  “Great. Knew I could count on you.”

  I hang up and call Gilbert. “Ralph just scheduled me for every day this weekend.”

  “That’s what you get for being Spend Easy’s finest. Guess you won’t be coming downtown with us Friday, then.”

  “Who’s going?”

  “Bunch of us. We’re drinking at Donovan’s first.”

  “Screw it. I’m coming.”

  On Friday I bring a change of clothes to work, and after I go straight to Donovan’s. It takes me almost an hour to walk, and I buy a half-case of beer on the way.

  Hardly anyone’s at the party when I get there—just Donovan, Lesley-Jo, a couple people I don’t know, and a new Grocery hire named Trent. They’re watching Jeopardy!

  Donovan gets up and walks over. “Hey Sheldon. What did you get me?”

  “Get you?”

  “It’s my birthday, man.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “So, you didn’t get me anything. Wow. Now I don’t feel bad about inviting Cassandra for the sole purpose of watching you be awkward.”