Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  One night, when we’re all in Aisle Three, Gilbert says, “Tommy.”

  “Yes?” Tommy stops working.

  “I’m about to tell you something important.”

  “What?”

  “This is the only time anyone will say this to you. So listen carefully. You’re probably going to think I’m joking, or playing a trick. But I’m not.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t exist, Tommy. And neither does Sheldon.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You’re the only one who exists in the entire world. Tommy, the machines have already taken over, and they’ve created this world for you.” Gilbert plucks at Tommy’s sleeve. “This body—it’s not your real body. You’re really a brain floating in a nutrient-rich fluid, being stimulated electronically, by a computer. This whole reality is simulated. The machines are caring for you right now, Tommy. They’re always going to care for you.”

  Tommy looks up at the fluorescent lights. He clears his throat.

  “I don’t think I buy it, Gilbert.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Oh. All right, then.”

  *

  I’m beginning to understand the real reason Gilbert wanted to work overnights. We’ve started getting frequent visitors, whom Gilbert goes outside to meet. At night, he can sell them weed out of his Hummer with much less risk.

  He comes back from one such trip and finds me restocking lima beans in Aisle Two. He stands there for a few seconds.

  “Is something wrong with you?” he says.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been pissy all night.” He pauses. “Wait. Is today your birthday?”

  “It was yesterday. It ended at midnight.” I’m now 21, but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. “How did you know?”

  “Donovan told me it was coming up. Not to mention you’ve been acting like a little girl this shift. It wasn’t hard to piece together.”

  “Don’t make it a big deal, okay?”

  “I won’t. I wouldn’t want to take away your opportunity to wallow in self-pity. But I am buying you a birthday present.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I will, though. I know just what to get you.”

  *

  Overnights end at seven in the morning. Gilbert drives me home, and I’m in bed by eight.

  At nine, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. Finally, it stops. Then it rings again.

  I get out of bed and trudge to the kitchen.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, I’m Bradley. I’m calling you this morning to tell you that you’re awesome.”

  “What?”

  “You’re an awesome person and you deserve awesome things to happen to you.” His words belie his tone, which is flat and bored.

  “Who is this?”

  “Bradley.”

  “Yes, you said that, but how do I know you?”

  “You don’t. For your birthday, an anonymous person has given you the gift of being called every day and told how awesome you are.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “It’s a service we provide.”

  “How long will this go on?”

  “30 days.”

  “Can I cancel?”

  “Your anonymous benefactor has already paid in full. So, no.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up.

  *

  Overnights have completely rearranged my sleep schedule. I sleep in the day now, and I’m awake all night, even when I’m not working. To make it worse, I still work the occasional day shift, which really throws things off.

  Tonight is Saturday, and me and Gilbert are both off. Neither of us has slept in 24 hours. We’re sitting at his kitchen table, high, wide awake. With nothing to do.

  “I’ll pay you to cancel that daily pep talk thing,” I say.

  He looks up from his phone. “Sorry?”

  “The guy calling me every day, telling me how awesome I am? I need it to stop.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know it was you. You said you were getting me a present, and then that started happening.”

  “Maybe it was Donovan.”

  “Donovan gave me his pipe.”

  “All right. It was me. And I’m totally not cancelling.”

  “Damn.” I cross my arms on the table and lean my head on them. Gilbert resumes texting.

  “Know of any parties?” I say.

  “No. Do you?”

  I laugh.

  “Wanna go for a drive?” he says.

  “Okay.”

  We grab some fast food and then cruise around town, seeking something interesting. We find it in the form of a party in a three-story townhouse. We don’t know who lives there, but the music is loud, and people are dancing in three different windows. The house number is 37.

  We park a couple blocks away. As we approach, a guy and a girl leave the house and head down the street together in the opposite direction.

  In the porch, four people are standing around smoking weed. “Hey,” some guy says when we enter.

  “Hey,” Gilbert says.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m with Sheldon.” He jerks his thumb back at me.

  “Okay. Well, you guys want a beer?”

  “Just one? Between us?”

  “One each.”

  “I’ll agree to that.”

  The guy reaches behind him and extracts two bottles from a case sitting on the floor. Gilbert takes his and inserts himself into the joint circle. “So,” he says. “What are we talking about?” He glances back at me, and beckons me forward. “Don’t be shy, Sheldon. Join us. Grab your beer.” Someone passes Gilbert the joint, and he hits it.

  “The Libya intervention,” another guy says.

  “Why?” I ask. “That was forever ago.”

  The guy smirks. “Dale’s a political science major. He brought it up.”

  Another guy—Dale, I guess—says, “We’re talking about whether protecting civilians from Gaddafi was a good enough reason for all those countries to send in armed forces. I think it was.”

  “That’s not why they went,” Gilbert says.

  “Yeah it is.”

  “No, it’s not. They went because all the uprisings had them spooked about the oil supply. The U.S. has defended their energy interests in the Middle East for decades. Now the rest of the West is waking up to the fact that oil’s running out. This is only the beginning. The resource wars haven’t even started yet.”

  “The what?”

  “Are you a poli-sci major?” Dale asks.

  “I just read between the lines. Can we have more beers?”

  The guy who gave us the first two shakes his head. “I only bought a dozen.”

  We finish the joint, and our former beer supplier takes a second one from behind his ear. He holds it up. “This joint is a descendent of the first one I ever smoked. When we’re finished, I want the roach back. I’ll rip it up and put it into my next joint. The cycle will continue.”

  “That’s legendary, dude,” the guy to his right says.

  When we’re done, Gilbert ends up with the roach. The guy takes out a Ziploc bag and opens it. “Okay,” he says. “Drop it in.”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s a lineage.” He steps closer.

  Gilbert holds the roach near his mouth. “I’ll eat it. I will put this roach in my mouth and I’ll swallow it.”

  “Okay, man. Okay. I’ll give you a beer.”

  “One for my friend, too.”

  “Two beer. No problem.”

  “Give them to Sheldon.”

  He does. Gilbert deposits the roach in the baggie. “Come on, Sheldon.” He starts up the nearby staircase. “Let’s check this shit out.”

  I follow.

  The staircase reverses di
rection halfway up, and Gilbert disappears around the bend. When I reach the top, he’s already talking to a girl leaning against the wall, drinking a cooler. He turns to me. “Look, Sheldon. I found you one!”

  I sigh. Gilbert knows I’m dating Theresa.

  “What’s your name?” Gilbert asks the girl.

  “Shianne.”

  “This is Sheldon,” Gilbert says. “He’s an honest man in a world without truth.”

  “Yeah?” she says. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer,” I say.

  Gilbert puts a hand to the side of his mouth and shouts at Shianne over the music. “He works in a grocery store.” He walks down the hall, leaving Shianne and I looking at each other.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “I lost my phone and I haven’t been on Facebook all weekend.”

  “Everyone must be wondering what you’re doing.”

  “I know!”

  I bid Shianne adieu and go down the hall. I turn into a room with just one guy in it, sitting on a couch, playing a guitar, and singing. I approach him, and stand nearby. This close, I can hear him over the music.

  He sings, “Discouraged by our limitations, we pursue inebriation to make them grow—it’s fun, you know.” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just made that up.”

  “It was pretty good.”

  “Thanks. I don’t think I know you. Who invited you?”

  “I’m with Gilbert.”

  He nods. “Right on.”

  Gilbert comes in. He’s holding a new beer. He points at the guitarist. “Play My Fair Lady!”

  “Um, that’s a play,” the guitarist says.

  “Play The Starry Night!”

  The guitarist frowns. Gilbert leaves.

  “Who was that?” he says.

  “I have no idea.”

  I go into another room, where a tall guy wearing a fedora is standing behind a bar, pouring shots for a bunch of people. I guess he’s the host. I walk up to the bar and lean on the end.

  “Hey,” the fedora-wearing guy says, pointing at me. “I don’t know you.”

  “I’m with Gilbert.”

  “Yeah? Well, who’s he here with?”

  “Um, he’s with Sheldon.”

  “Whatever. We’re doing shots. You want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He pours me one. “What’s your name?”

  “Sheldon.”

  “You have the same name as the guy your friend came with?”

  “Yeah.”

  We all down our shots, and the host pours another round. He repeats this several times.

  I find Gilbert talking to a pretty brunette in the kitchen. “Is this Sheldon?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” Gilbert says. “Sheldon, meet Stacy.”

  “Hi.”

  Stacy wraps her arms around one of Gilbert’s. “Me and a few friends are talking about going DT,” she says. “Would you guys be up for that?”

  “Going what?” I say.

  “DT,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “It stands for downtown.”

  “Why didn’t you just say downtown?”

  “It’s what they say on the internet,” Gilbert says.

  “That’s fucking stupid,” I say.

  The girl glares. “Asshole.” She stalks away.

  “Whoops,” I say. “Didn’t mean to salt your game.”

  He raises his eyebrows, takes a sip, and says nothing. There’s an open bottle of rum on the counter with a third left. I pick it up and take a swig. Some of it dribbles down my chin and neck. I take another.

  Some time later—I’m not sure how long, exactly—I’m standing on a coffee table, shouting at a group of people gathered below me. “Never trust alliteration,” I say. “Never! If someone feels it’s necessary to convey a message using words that all begin with the same sound, you should be suspicious!” I drink from my beer. I sway. Someone steadies me. I hold the bottle up in the air. “When you use alliteration, you’re not using the most appropriate words. You’re just using words that sound similar. Meaning gets sacrificed on the altar of alliteration! So does heart! And soul!”

  Everyone laughs.

  Gilbert appears. “We have to go.”

  “Why?” I say. I shout: “I’m only getting started!”

  More laughter. I hold up my beer.

  “I just played a central role in breaking something very valuable,” Gilbert says. “I’m leaving right away. If you choose to stay, you will probably be required to produce a large quantity of money.”

  I step down from the coffee table. “Let’s go DT.”

  We walk swiftly through the party, weaving through the packed hallway toward the staircase. “Excuse me,” I say. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

  When we’re halfway down the staircase, someone shouts from above. “There he is! That’s him!”

  I look up. Fedora guy is standing at the top of the stairs, next to the guy who gave us the beers when we first arrived. The beer guy is pointing at Gilbert.

  Fedora guy runs down the stairs toward us. Gilbert grabs me by the shirt and drags me around the corner and down the second flight. Fedora guy catches up with us at the front door, and grabs one of my arms. For a few protracted seconds, they play tug-of-war with me. Finally, Gilbert grasps my shirt with both hands and yanks me outside. Fedora guy is quick, though. He leaps after us and grabs my arm again.

  Gilbert plucks the fedora off his head and throws it into the street. Fedora guy looks at his fedora lying there on the asphalt, and looks back at us. He looks at the fedora. A car is coming.

  He lets go. We dash toward the Hummer.

  Gilbert jumps in the driver’s seat, and I open the passenger side door. “Wait,” I say. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Yes. I have. And if you don’t get in right now, you’ll be arrested.”

  I get in. Gilbert backs up to get clear of the car parked in front of us, whips around to face the other way, and drives into the night.

  After a minute I say, “We’re far enough. Find somewhere to park.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re drunk. You’re driving drunk.”

  “So?”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “So is driving stoned.”

  “This is way different. I saw you drink a lot at that party.”

  “Not as much as you.”

  “Let me out. Pull over.”

  Gilbert rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my first time driving after having a few.”

  “Pull over, Gilbert.”

  He stops the car in the middle of the road. I glare at him, open the door, and get out. I don’t bother closing it.

  Neither does he. It closes by itself as he speeds away.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I haven’t spoken to Gilbert much since the party. I did ask him to make Frank take me off overnights. I no longer trust myself to work hard without supervision.

  I’ve been experiencing strange things during overnights. I’ve seen stuff fall off the shelves without being touched. And, as I front, I keep seeing movement in my peripheral vision—like someone walking briskly past the aisles. Twice, I ran to check if anyone was there.

  One time, with my earphones in, I thought I heard a woman call my name. I turned off my MP3 player and listened, but it didn’t happen again. The voice sounded just like my mother.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, but at night, this place is freaking me out. I’m still seeing 37 a lot, too. More than before.

  *

  Why is everyone looking at me?

  “Sheldon? You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

  “You’ve barely said anything since we left the apartment.”

  Theresa and I are at the mall. We biked here with plans to see another movie. There are a lot of people here. More than I expected, I guess. And they all seem to be staring at me. Do people normally stare this much?

  A cashier from Spend Easy passes in front of us. She sees
Theresa, and seems about to say something to her, but then she sees me. She breaks eye contact and keeps walking.

  I’d like to call out to her. I want to stare her in the face and ask her how her day is going. Make her uncomfortable. Make her pay for not talking to me.

  Except, I can’t remember her name.

  “I need to use the washroom,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  I go into the Men’s room and splash water on my face. I smoked with Gilbert after work, and I still feel stoned. I look stoned, too. My lids are heavy, and the skin under my eyes is dark. I wonder if Theresa knows.

  She said I seem depressed, lately.

  I rejoin her outside the restroom, and we walk to the theatre. The movie begins in 15 minutes, so we rush to buy our tickets and food. I get a large popcorn. It comes with one free refill. I want to kill this high as quickly as possible.

  When we enter the theatre, the previews have already started. We find two seats together near the front. During the opening credits, I think about how vulnerable I am to the person sitting behind me. If that person had a knife, or a gun, he or she could easily take me out.

  As discreetly as possible, I twist around and glance at the person sitting behind me. It’s a little girl—probably five or six. I face forward.

  “I need to use the washroom,” I whisper to Theresa.

  “You just went.”

  “Yes.” I get up and start edging past people.

  I call Gilbert from the restroom stall. He answers on the sixth ring.

  “Gilbert, I feel like I’m going nuts. I keep thinking everyone’s out to get me. A security guard looked at me, and I was sure he was about to throw me out. I’m tripping, here. I think the pot was laced with something.”

  “We used a vaporizer, Sheldon.”

  “So?”

  “It only vaporizes the THC—nothing else. It wouldn’t matter if it was laced.”

  “Why am I tripping balls, then?”

  “Because you tend to trip balls.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You trip out. Over nothing.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks for your help, Gilbert.” I hang up.

  I go back into the theatre and resume cramming popcorn into my mouth. Theresa isn’t saying anything. Is she upset with me? She probably thinks I’m a loser. I can’t even stay sober long enough for one date. She doesn’t smoke pot at all. She probably thinks I’m a huge stoner. This will likely be the last date we ever have.