The Store

by Bentley Little

  "Thank you." He gave the top page a cursory glance, then looked up at her.

  "As you may or may not know, The Store is a drug-free workplace and we have a policy of zero tolerance."

  She smiled politely. "No problem."

  "If you are going to work here, you will be required to take both a lie detector test and a drug test."

  "Okay."

  He stood. "I will bring in the polygraph."

  Samantha was confused as she watched him leave the room once again. The woman on the phone had told her that she was being asked back for an interview, but Mr. Lamb hadn't asked her any questions. She'd expected to respond to queries regarding the answers on her application, to clarify any questions about her they might have, to basically sell herself as a potential employee. Instead, she'd taken an aptitude test and was about to take a lie detector test. Had she already gotten the job? It almost seemed like it -- as though these were merely preliminary requirements, the red-tape steps she had to go through before being officially hired.

  Mr. Lamb returned a moment later, wheeling in a peculiar-looking device on a two-tiered cart. The body of the machine was about the size of a small television set, but there were thin red and black wires spread across the cart top, and several cables that connected to what looked like a battery on the lower shelf.

  He pushed the cart next to her, began untangling wires. "This is the polygraph," he said. "I will be administering the test, but the results will be recorded and then evaluated at the corporate office since I am not qualified to interpret them." He turned toward her. "Please remove your blouse and your bra."

  She blinked. "What?"

  "The polygraph measures galvanic skin response. The breast is the most sensitive and therefore the most telling area. It prevents us from having to reperform the test."

  Samantha licked her lips nervously. "I think I'd rather do it twice if I

  have to."

  "I'm sorry. It's policy. Multiple tests are too cost-prohibitive. We only do it once. Please take off your blouse and bra."

  There was nothing keeping her here, no one forcing her to submit to this.

  She could stand up and walk out and not look back. She wouldn't get the job, but she wouldn't have to expose herself to this creepy, slimy man. And she could always get a job somewhere else. Georges, maybe. Or Buy-and-Save. Or KFC.

  She started unbuttoning her blouse.

  Even as she did it, she didn't know why. But she methodically went down the row of buttons, unhooking them, pretending this was not unusual, not a problem, that she was calm, adult, professional, and willing to do what it took to secure this position.

  She leaned forward, took off the blouse, laid it in her lap. She reached around and unhooked her bra.

  "Thank you." Mr. Lamb instantly began applying sensors to her skin: thin pieces of metal sheathed in plastic and coated with some sort of clear gel that felt ice-cold on her skin. He placed one in the middle of her chest, just below her neck, one above her left breast, one above her right.

  "Raise your arms please."

  She raised her arms, looked down as he applied a sensor below each armpit.

  She had never felt so naked and exposed in her life, not even when Todd Atkins had burst into the girl's locker room on a dare in junior high and had seen her and Jenny Newman naked and toweling off. That had been embarrassing but essentially innocent, probably just as scary for Todd as it had been for them, probably just as exciting for them as for Todd.

  But this was different. Sitting here in this bare and empty room, stripped to the waist and being viewed so coldly, so clinically, so matter-of-factly, seemed at once more intimate and more degrading. All her flaws were accentuated, her inadequacies exaggerated. Her breasts looked too white compared to the rest of her body, the nipples too small. She looked down as he applied the thin sensors and could see the white powder of her deodorant under her arms, could see the beginnings of stubble beneath the deodorant. Her belly button looked dirty. She should've shaved last night instead of the night before. She should've washed better.

  He placed a sensor directly on her right breast. His fingers remained a beat too long there, touched the nipple, then he was doing the same thing to her left breast.

  This time two fingers touched her nipple.

  She felt violated, humiliated, shamed. But something kept her from slapping his face and walking out. She didn't need the job. Not this badly. Not enough to degrade herself. But she refused to let him see any weakness, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten to her, affected her.

  She pretended she hadn't noticed and remained staring straight ahead, expressionless, letting him think that she thought this was merely a routine formality, something she had acquiesced to many times before.

  Mr. Lamb placed one final sensor on the slight bulge of her stomach, then moved around to the side of the cart and began turning dials and flipping switches. There was a slight jerk and a hum as the machine was turned on, then a series of small clicks.

  Samantha continued to stare straight ahead, her focus on the opposite wall. He moved the cart in front of her, faced her, smiled slightly.

  "All right," he said. "We're ready to begin. Answer only the questions I ask, and answer them as accurately and succinctly as possible. For your protection, as well as the protection of The Store, this test will be audio recorded." He cleared his throat. "Application number two-eleven-A," he said.

  "Please state your name and age."

  "My name is Samantha Davis. I'm eighteen years old."

  "Do you attend school?"

  "Yes."

  "What is the name of your school?"

  "Juniper High . . . uh, Juniper Union High School."

  "Have you ever been convicted of shoplifting or stealing?"

  "No."

  "Are you a chronic drug user?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever used any illegal or nonprescription drugs?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever sold or been in the possession of any illegal or nonprescription drugs?"

  "No." She took a deep breath. Despite the fact that she had never been involved in anything even remotely illegal, she felt nervous. Her heart rate had accelerated, and she could hear its pulse in her head. Would this affect the outcome of her test?

  Mr. Lamb adjusted a knob on the polygraph, then looked up, meeting her eyes. "Have you ever performed fellatio?"

  "Fellatio?"

  "Oral sex with a male."

  She stared at him, shocked.

  "Have you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Please speak your answers aloud."

  "No," she said, in a soft small, voice.

  "Have you ever performed cunnilingus?"

  "Cunnilingus?"

  "Have you ever licked another female's vagina?"

  "No," she said.

  "Have you ever performed analingus?"

  "No." She wasn't exactly sure what that was, but after the last question, she had a pretty good idea.

  "Have you ever inflicted any fatal injury or intentionally caused harm to another human being?"

  "No." Samantha looked away from Mr. Lamb, down at her chest, at the electrodes attached to her skin. What kinds of questions were these? Not only were they bizarre, but they seemed to have nothing to do with the job of being a sales clerk. She found herself wondering if these really were questions that The Store asked of its prospective employees or if Mr. Lamb was doing this on his own. Maybe he was some sort of pervert. Maybe he was taping this session -- but for his own private use rather than as documentation for The Store.

  That couldn't be the case, though. A secretary and several other people were in the personnel office right outside the door. And The Store had obviously provided Mr. Lamb with the lie detector and the recording equipment. He couldn't very well edit and doctor the results of this interview before turning them in.

  No, The Store knew about all this.

  "One last qu
estion," Mr. Lamb said. "Have you ever had a recurring dream in which you disemboweled a member of your family?"

  "No!"

  "Very good." Mr. Lamb flipped a switch, initiating a new series of clicks.

  "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

  He started to walk around the cart to remove the polygraph sensors, but she wasn't about to let him touch her again, and she was already pulling them off her skin. By the time he reached her, she had removed all of them, and she handed the jumble of wires to him, quickly reaching for her bra and blouse.

  "We're almost done here," Mr. Lamb said. He placed the tangled wires on the cart and pushed the cart to the bare wall on the opposite side of the room.

  From somewhere on the cart, he withdrew a glass bottle shaped like a wine carafe and carried it back. "We need you to give us a urine sample for the drug test."

  He held forth the bottle. "Fill this up."

  She could feel the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks, and she knew that her face had to be bright red. "Where should I . . . ?"

  "Here." He looked at her flatly.

  She shook her head, not sure she had heard him right. "What?"

  "If you take it into the bathroom, there's no way I could authenticate it.

  You'll have to do it right here."

  "In front of you?"

  He nodded. "In front of me."

  Had the corners of his mouth crept up? Was he trying to hide a smile? She felt cold, not only deeply shamed but frightened.

  Yet, again, no one was forcing her to do this. There was no one holding a gun to her head.

  Not exactly.

  But she didn't feel she could just get up and walk out. Something was keeping her here, whether it was psychological pressure or her own emotional inability to stand up for herself, and the thought occurred to her that she was being exploited, taken advantage of.

  Sexually harassed.

  She had never imagined being in this situation, but now that she was, now that it had crept up on her like this, she understood how victims could remain silent about what happened to them, how they could keep these things to themselves and not tell anyone.

  Because . . . there wasn't really any need to tell anyone. She could deal with this, she could get past it, it wasn't going to scar her for life.

  She could handle it.

  "Please fill up the bottle," Mr. Lamb said.

  She nodded, stood, took the bottle from him. She placed it on her chair, then reached up under her skirt and pulled down her panties, taking them off, one leg at a time, not letting him see beneath the skirt.

  "The skirt as well, please."

  She imagined him dead, imagined herself kicking his head as he lay on the ground. But she nodded, took off the skirt, placed it on the chair.

  She was no longer cold. It was hot in here, outrageously humid, and she was sweating. She tried to imagine what her parents would say if they were in the room but couldn't.

  Squatting, not looking at Mr. Lamb, she held the bottle between her legs.

  Filled it.

  Handed it to him.

  Now he _was_ smiling. "Thank you, Miss Davis. This concludes our interview. You may put your clothes back on. We will call you and let you know the results."

  She nodded, put on her panties, put on her skirt.

  She did not start crying until she was outside The Store and in the parking lot.

  2

  Another free day.

  Bill woke up late, went for a jog, made himself breakfast, watched TV, signed on to Freelink and read today's headline news, then decided to take a shower and head into town. He didn't mind staying home all day when he was working, but when he was between assignments, the house made him feel claustrophobic, and he liked to get out as much as possible.

  He stopped by Street's store, shot the breeze for a while, then walked over to Doane's to see if any new music had come in.

  Doane was on the phone when he opened the door and stepped inside the small air-conditioned shop, so he merely waved hello and headed over to the New Releases bin, where he began sorting through the stacked CDs.

  Although he'd always considered himself a rock fan, he had to admit that most of his recent purchases had been drawn from the Country section of the CD rack: Lyle Lovett, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Robert Earl Keen, Roseanne Cash, Bill Morrissey. He told himself that rock and roll was an attitude, not a specific musical style, and that if these artists had been around twenty-five years earlier, their records would have been placed in the Rock rack next to James Taylor and Carole King and Joni Mitchell, but the fact was that he was not really interested in most of the rock music being produced today. His tastes had changed over the years.

  He wasn't sure he liked that.

  Doane finished his conversation, hung up the phone, and Bill stopped looking through the CDs, glancing up. "How's business?" he asked.

  The store owner shook his head. "Slow as hard-packed shit."

  Bill started to laugh, but he realized almost instantly that Doane was dead serious. "The Store?" he said.

  Doane nodded. "Bastards're lowballing me. They can _sell_ CDs for less than I pay wholesale."

  "They don't have your selection, though."

  "Not the backlist, maybe, but they're stocking the Top Ten two weeks before my distributor can even ship the discs out to me. Teenagers are my bread and butter, man. I don't get those hot tunes in the store and on the shelves, the kids don't come in." He sighed. "Even if I do get the music on the shelves, they probably won't come in. I can't afford to even meet The Store's prices, much less beat them."

  "You think you'll be able to survive?" Bill asked.

  "I hope so, but I don't know. Maybe I'm being paranoid and have an exaggerated sense of my own importance, but I really think The Store's trying to drive me out of business."

  "And have a monopoly on music sales."

  "Sure. Then they could jack up their prices and start making a profit instead of taking a loss." Doane smiled wryly. "If I'm touching your heart at all, feel free to buy something today."

  "I will," Bill said. "I was planning to."

  He ended up purchasing a CD of Cormac McCarthy's first album, a vinyl copy of Jerry Jeff Walker's "Viva Terlingua!" and a vinyl bootleg of a 1979 Tom Waits and Leon Redbone concert.

  "Where do you get these bootlegs?" Bill asked as he wrote a check at the counter.

  Doane grinned, tried to look mysterious. "I have my sources."

  Bill walked out of the shop, carrying his purchases under his arm. The bootleg had cost a lot, and Ginny would probably get mad at him, but the album was rare and he considered it a true find, well worth the high price. Besides, he wanted to support Doane and help him out in any way he could. Digging through piles of used albums was one of his favorite hobbies, and he didn't know what he'd do if the record store closed. Shopping at The Store and looking at only new releases was not quite the same.

  He walked slowly down the street, noticing for the first time the lack of foot traffic in downtown Juniper, and it brought home to him the fact that some of the businesses here might not survive. He'd known that intellectually, of course, but he had not understood it emotionally, and he now _realized_ that any of these stories could disappear at any time. He'd never thought about it before, but he had expected Juniper to always remain as it was, and he was thrown surprisingly off balance by the knowledge that even in a small town, stability was not a guarantee and nothing was permanent. They had moved to Juniper precisely because it was a small town. They liked that atmosphere, that lifestyle. They wanted to raise their children in a community where neighbors talked to each other, where storekeepers knew their customers by name, and they had expected the town to remain that way throughout their lifetimes, for families that had put down roots here to stay and not move away, for businesses to remain open, for nothing to change.

  Now everything seemed to be changing.

  He stopped by the cafй for a quick cup of coffee and saw Ben seated at t
he counter, eating alone, a half-finished bowl of Williamson James's heartburn chili in front of him. He snuck up behind the editor, tapping him on the right shoulder then quickly sitting down on the stool to his left. "Hey, stranger," he said. "Long time no care."

  "Asshole," Ben said.

  "Language!" Holly called out.

  Bill ordered coffee, and Holly poured a cup and brought it over immediately. He took a slow sip, then shook his head, sighed.

  Ben took a bite of chili, wiped his mouth with a napkin. "What is it?"

  Bill described his visit to the record shop. "I knew The Store would affect local businesses. I guess I just didn't think the effects would be felt this quickly."

  "A lot of places are hurting already," Ben said. "Most mom-and-pop stores operate from month to month, and something like this has an immediate impact on them." He shook his head. "Steve Miller told me he's thinking of packing it in.

  That shop's been in his family since his grandfather started it . . . when?

  Sixty years ago?"

  "Isn't there anything he can do?"

  Ben shrugged. "Joe Modesto, down at First Western Bank, is setting up a new small-business loan program, to try to help our local merchants out, but I don't think he's going to have too many takers. I think most people here would rather cut their losses than go further into debt." He smiled wryly. "The ironic thing is that the paper's flush. The Store's been taking out full-page ads ever since it opened. As I'm sure you've noticed. They're even adding an insert this week, a two-page pullout with coupons. Our advertising revenue's way up."

  "Well, I guess that's good," Bill said doubtfully.

  "I'd rather have things back the way they were."

  "Who wouldn't?"

  On the way home, Bill passed by the new park, saw a clearly delineated baseball diamond with an oversized chain-link backstop and two three-tiered metal bleachers. A crew of workers was putting up a fence around a tennis court adjacent to the baseball field. Across an open expanse of grass was a fully installed playground complete with swings, slides, monkey bars, and teeter totters. Next to that, more workers were pouring concrete for a public swimming pool. The park was nice. New and clean and well planned. Like everything connected with The Store. But at the same time, there was something artificial about it, like a too-expensive present given by an acquaintance trying to buy instant friendship.