The signs were there, but I ignored them. Too caught up in my own shit.
I was sobbing by the time I finished talking, and Theresa held me, and rubbed my back, and told me it wasn’t my fault.
I knew she was right. But I didn’t believe her.
*
I’m supposed to work the day after Brute ran away, but I call the store and say I’m too sick to come in. I’ve never called in sick before, and Ralph doesn’t ask any questions—he only says he hopes I feel better soon. I thank him, and then I spend the day looking for Marcus Brutus.
It’s sunny today, though a little cold. I warm up soon enough, walking in progressively larger loops around the house, expanding my search into side streets and parking lots. “Here, Marcus Brutus!” I call. “Here, Brute! Here, kitty!” Over and over again.
The day wears on, and I begin retracing my footsteps, working my way back to the house. He wouldn’t stray too far, would he? Does he hate living with me that much?
My throat’s getting sore. If I don’t find him today, I’ll have to start calling animal shelters, and printing off posters with his photo. A reward might help, but I don’t have anything to offer as one.
I knock on Sam’s door.
“Have you seen my cat?” I say when he appears.
“No. He’s missing?”
“Yeah. He got outside yesterday.”
“Sorry to hear. I’ll keep an eye out for him. Let you know if I see him.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“How are you doing? You don’t look that great.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You wanna come in?”
“Nah. I better keep looking. Thanks, though.”
“Okay. Take care, Sheldon.”
“You too.”
I walk around for another hour, and then decide to head home for a short nap. After, I’ll start designing those lost cat posters.
I lie on the couch, but I can’t sleep. God damn that cat. As much as he annoys me, I’d give anything to have him here in the apartment right now. To hear his piercing, high-pitched meow. When he gets back, I’ll give him two cans of Turkey Giblets in Gravy. Three, if he wants.
Gilbert comes over, and asks if I want to smoke a joint. I tell him no—I’m afraid it’ll knock me out for the night, and I want to get these posters done before I go to sleep. He sticks around, though, and we shoot the shit while I work on them.
He leaves just as I’m finishing. I print one off, and it looks pretty good. The clearest photo I could find is one where Mom has him in her arms, their faces pressed together. Mom’s smiling, and it sort of looks like Brute is, too.
There’s a knock on the door, and I get up to answer it. It’s Gilbert, holding Brute, who dangles from his arms, limp.
“Sorry, man,” he says. “He must have been lying under the Hummer. I felt the tire go over something, and I got out…”
I take Brute. His body hangs limp in my arms, his head dangling. Red seeps from a gash along his side.
I look at Gilbert. He actually seems kind of upset. I manage to speak: “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know he was there.”
He leaves. I get a Spend Easy bag, and I gently lower Brute into it.
Mom’s last remaining culture bomb. For a second, that makes me smile. Then I drop the bag, put my head against the wall, and cry.
Chapter Thirty-One
I call in sick the next day, too.
As an apology, Gilbert brings me a big bag of weed, and the third day I smoke a lot of it and then call in sick again.
I still haven’t buried Brute.
“So, what are you sick with?” Ralph asks when I call in for the third day.
“I’m just not feeling well.”
“But, what’s causing you to not feel well?”
“Not. Feeling. Well.”
“I’m going to need you working tomorrow, Sheldon. We’re swamped, in here.”
“I’ll see how I’m feeling.”
Going through old photos of Mom, and of Brute, only makes it worse. I put them away and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. I’m beginning to feel like I did before.
I call Spend Easy again, and ask for Theresa’s number. It’s a small miracle that she isn’t working today, and that she picks up when I call her.
“Hello?”
“Theresa, this is Sheldon. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I think I need someone here right now.”
“Where do you live?”
She’s over within an hour. I tell her what happened, and she gives me a hug, and helps me bury Brute in the backyard. Then we watch Fight Club.
Partway through she leans against me, and I put my arm around her.
*
After Theresa leaves, I turn on my computer and open the word processor, but nothing comes. I switch it off. I go into the kitchen and sit at the table for a few minutes, staring at the wall.
I walk to my room and turn on the computer once more. I look up the number for the penitentiary.
“Hi,” I say when someone answers. “I’d like to speak with Herman Barry.”
“Is he a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Inmates can’t take calls.”
“Oh. Well, can I leave a message? It’s important.”
“Are you able to tell me his date of birth?”
“No.”
“Are you personally acquainted with the inmate?”
“I’ve never met him. But he killed my mother in a drunk driving accident.”
There’s a pause. “I see. What’s the message?”
“Tell him Sheldon Mason forgives him.”
Another silence. “All right. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
*
I’m back to work the day after Theresa comes over.
“Feeling better?” Ralph says.
“Much!”
But Ralph seems a bit off today, and he’s not the only one. A couple of the cashiers, who would normally say hello as I come in, seemed kind of standoffish, too. Does a guy really get this much flak for calling in sick? I mean, sure, it was three days in a row, but I’d never done it before. Doesn’t a high case count count for anything around here?
I’m restocking bottles of dish detergent when Cassandra walks up to me. “I read your story,” she says.
Uh oh.
“It must be nice, getting to say all those awful things about me.”
“I didn’t say anything about you, Cassandra.”
“Right. Sure. You know, Sheldon, you think you’re this fascinating enigma, when actually, you’re really boring. Do you know that?” She walks back to the cash registers without waiting for an answer.
Throughout the remainder of the shift, I slowly realize that everyone is like this, now. Co-workers who once greeted me warmly avert their eyes, or avoid me completely. When I go upstairs for a break there are already five employees there, and they all fall silent as I enter. Just like they used to with Randy.
“Told you so,” Gilbert says, when I describe the scene to him later.
Paul’s working the order tonight, too, and toward the end of my shift I run into him in Aisle Three. He doesn’t avert his eyes.
“You read the story?” I say.
“I did.”
“And?”
“No big deal.”
“So you know I didn’t base it on her.”
“Oh, it’s pretty clear you based it on her, Sheldon. Criticized her, in spite of the shit she’s been through. The shit you played a key part in.”
“But…no big deal?”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “Because I’m not worried about Cassandra. She’s keeping the baby, you know. Her Dad’s going to help her out with it. Plus, she just got promoted to Front End Manager—she plans to work as many hours as she can before maternity leave, and save some money. Cassandra’s going to be fine.”
“That’s awesome,” I say.
“I just hope you weren’t concerned your writi
ng would have some kind of negative effect on her, Sheldon. Your writing doesn’t have that kind of power. So you can put your mind at rest about that.”
*
I’m getting sick of this whole ‘story scandal’, and it’s only getting worse. I send it to Theresa, and ask her what she thinks. She says the situation with Cassandra probably did influence it, but that’s how inspiration works. To some extent, all authors put their lives in their books.
When I take a break during my next shift, I realize I’ve forgotten my supper at home, and I don’t have any money with me. I go up to the break room, where Gilbert is spraying whipped cream on cookies and eating them.
“Where’s your veggie slop?” he says.
‘“Forgot it.”
“Want a cookie?”
“I’m guessing you didn’t pay for them.”
“You are correct,” he says around a creamy mouthful. “No stolen goods for Sheldon, though, right? Wouldn’t want people thinking he’s unorthodox.”
“I’ll have one,” I say.
He takes two, tops them with whipped cream, and mashes them together. I stuff them into my mouth, whole.
“These are delicious,” I say.
“Depravity always is. Wanna smoke a joint?”
Sometimes, on nights he’s running late, the guy who brings the order unhinges the truck’s cab and leaves the container there for a few hours. Gilbert unlocks the back door, and we go out and crouch under the container, near one of the tires.
I’m pretty buzzed by the time we go back in. Luckily, I keep some eye drops in my jacket for when I’m stoned in public, and I head up to the bathroom to squeeze some in each eye. Then I return to the break room, where Gilbert has resituated himself.
“Can I borrow five bucks?”
“Why? You don’t have to pay for stuff, Sheldon. Just take it.”
“That’s stealing.”
“So was eating those cookies.”
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna take a whole bag of chips.”
Gilbert rolls his eyes and fishes a five out of his pocket.
I grab a bag of Cheezies, a can of Pepsi, and a bar. I go to Lesley-Jo’s cash register, since she’s the only cashier working tonight who doesn’t currently hate me. She rings everything through.
“That’s $5.37, Sheldon.”
I hesitate, and then pass her the five-dollar bill Gilbert gave me.
“This isn’t enough,” she says.
I take it back. “Screw it, then. I’ll put it all back.” I gather everything into my arms.
“Why don’t you just not buy the bar, or something?”
“I’m putting it all back.”
I don’t, though. I keep walking, through the warehouse, and up the stairs.
*
I’ve noticed Eric spends his breaks sitting alone in his car. Last week, on one such occasion, I snuck into the Meat room and found the black binder with the employee schedule inside. After memorizing what nights Eric wasn’t working, I snuck back out.
Tonight is one of those nights. It’s also a Wednesday: no orders are due to come in, and staff’s at a minimum. The perfect night to have a look around the Meat department. Matt’s the only one working, and as soon as I see him go up to the break room I duck inside Meat.
I check the desk, rifling through folders and laminates. It all seems like standard Meat stuff, I guess. Information about orders, policies, procedures, and so on.
There’s a sound from the next room—the one with the window to the sales floor—and I freeze, holding my breath.
I’m starting to wish I’d stayed sober for this.
Other than the desk, there isn’t much of interest in here. Everything’s kept pretty tidy. Searching the next room would be too risky, since anyone can see into it.
The last place left to look is the small walk-in freezer that’s only accessible from here.
It occurs to me I should have brought a watch—I have no idea how much break Matt has left. I need to be quick, but I’m not eager to enter that freezer.
What if Eric drops in for some reason? There’s no camera here.
I go in and start shifting boxes, checking behind them. After every one I glance into the Meat room. But there are too many boxes, and not enough time. Besides, anything hidden behind product would be quickly uncovered by an employee—it’s not a good place to hide something.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
I crouch, and start feeling under the lowest shelves. My hand bumps against some plastic, and I realize it’s taped to the metal. I hear footsteps just as I’m ripping it off.
There’s no time to escape. The only way to conceal myself would be to pull the freezer door shut, and there’s no way I’m doing that.
Matt appears in the doorway. He sees what I’m holding, and his eyes go wide.
I look, too. It’s a plastic bag stuffed full of weed.
“You need to get out of here, Sheldon,” he says. “Please.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Donovan’s fridge is well-stocked. He has grapes. He has Orange Crush. He has the delicious parfaits in a cup we sell at Spend Easy. I grab two of those, and take them into the living room.
“Why don’t you help yourself, Sheldon?” Donovan says.
Gilbert takes out a cigar, and lights it.
“Gross,” I say. “Don’t smoke that in here.”
“It’s a blunt. It’s filled with weed.”
“Oh. Awesome.”
Gilbert takes a few hits and passes it to Donovan, who does the same, and says, “I’m quitting pot, by the way.”
“Sure you are,” Gilbert says. “This can be your retirement blunt.”
After I found the bag of weed in Meat, I figured Eric must be selling drugs out of his department. Probably packages it up with meat and gives it to customers. And he knocks around his employees who show any signs of exposing him.
Then I showed the bag to Gilbert. “Hey,” he said. “That’s mine.” And he plucked it from my hand.
It turns out Gilbert has stashes hidden in the cameras’ blind spots all over the store, for when he’s working overnight shifts. He isn’t worried about getting caught—there’d be no way to prove they’re his.
“Paul tells me he’s shopping his book to publishers, now,” Donovan says.
“I don’t care.”
“Maybe you should have sent your book to publishers. Instead of sending it to the entire Spend Easy staff.”
“That wasn’t me, Donovan. It was you. And thanks to you, working there is now a pain in the ass.”
“Actually,” Gilbert says, “I’ve solved that problem for you. Have you checked this week’s schedule?”
“No. Why?”
“I lobbied Frank to tell Ralph to schedule us for a bunch of overnights. You won’t have to deal with Cassandra. No customers. We can just sit around, get high, and eat.”
“Gilbert, I told you not to blackmail Frank on my behalf.”
“It’s not like I told him to give you a raise.”
“Well, I’m not slacking off with you. If we’re doing this, work needs to get done.”
“Agreed. That’s why I told Frank to schedule Tommy to work overnights too.”
“Why?”
“He does whatever I tell him. He can do all the work.”
“I’ll be working, too.”
“Suit yourself.”
*
Every time I look at the clock now, I see 37. I notice it other places, too. Donovan just bought a 37-inch TV. We drive down Route 37 all the time. I added up the barcode on my favourite flavour of chips, and I got 37.
The first overnight reminds me of the time we snuck in here and ordered 500 boxes of condoms. Most of them are still on a pallet in the warehouse, but they’ll probably expire before Frank manages to sell them all. An innovator would give them out for free, to promote safe sex and reap the attendant PR. Then again, I guess that would reduce Spend Easy’s future clientele.
> We take it easy for the first hour or so, then we get to work. At least, Tommy and I get to work. Gilbert lies on a pallet in the warehouse and goes to sleep, using his coat for a pillow.
We finish checking the Frozen overstock around three, and then we start on the racks. Gilbert emerges half an hour after that, blinking.
“Slow down, cowboy,” he says.
“Can’t. Too full of energy. I love doing this stuff stoned.”
“I can see that. Reminds me of when I first started smoking.”
“When was that? Second grade?”
He laughs. “Way before that. Mom swallowed a joint during pregnancy, and I hotboxed the womb.”
“Man. We should get Tommy high.”
Tommy’s restocking canned soup at the other end of the aisle. I call out to him. “Hey, Tommy! Wanna smoke a joint?”
“No.”
“Come on. Everyone’s doing it.”
He looks over. “Stop peer pressuring me.”
“I’m not peer pressuring you. You aren’t my peer.”
He goes back to placing soup cans on the shelf. “Why don’t you write a book about it?”
Another overnight, Casey and Lesley-Jo visit us.
Lesley-Jo tells me she read “The King of Diamonds”.
“Did you like it?”
“I did. Some of it seemed a bit unrealistic, though.”
“Like what?”
“Well, a lot of the characters do horrible things, and the consequences never seem proportional.”
I frown. “How is that not like real life?”
Two weeks pass like this. Ralph compliments us on our work—he says he loves walking through neatly fronted shelves to a clean warehouse every morning. “Frank agrees with me,” he says. “He wants the overnights to continue.”
The truth is, I’ve been doing less work, and Tommy’s been doing more.
Gilbert talks to him a lot about the impending machine takeover. He suggests to him that our mechanical overlords may reward those who work the hardest to sustain the society that will birth the machines.
Taking Stock Page 22
