The Store

by Bentley Little

  Ginny wanted to tell her daughter that she didn't have to go through with it if she didn't want to, she could get a job somewhere else.

  But she said nothing.

  "I have to get ready," Samantha said. "I can't be late on my first day."

  She pushed her chair away from the counter and walked into her bedroom to change into her uniform.

  A few hours later, Ginny drove to The Store.

  She went alone, not telling anyone, intending only to sneak a peek at her daughter. It was better this way. Bill, if he came along, would make a scene.

  Shannon would intentionally try to embarrass her sister. It would probably embarrass Sam to see her there, anyway, but it was her first daughter's first day at her first job, and she wanted to be there.

  The funny thing was, Sam was the only person within their circle who'd actually gotten a job at The Store. Frieda Lindsborg had applied for a sales clerk position in Women's Clothing and Sondra Kelly's husband, Dar, had applied for a job in the Hardware department, but neither of them had been hired.

  Instead, Bob Franklin, who'd been a drunk and a bum and hadn't even been able to hold a trash-collecting job with his brother-in-law's company, had been hired as a "director," one of the employees who "directed" customers to the correct aisle when they were looking for a particular item. Ed Brooks, who wasn't much better, had been hired as a stock clerk. She'd seen both of those two in The Store, and she had to admit they looked cleaned up and competent, but she couldn't figure out why they'd been hired over Dar or Frieda or the other deserving applicants in town.

  Which made her feel uneasy about Sam.

  Ginny parked the car and walked into The Store. There was something smarmy about the young man who greeted her at the door and offered her a shopping cart, and as she walked through the building, several of the clerks and "directors" seemed equally off-putting to her. As she pushed the cart past Housewares, a uniformed clerk appeared at her side and asked if she needed any assistance. She said no, pushed on, and another clerk accosted her at Women's Shoes, offering to help her pick out footwear. She said that she was not shopping for shoes today.

  She'd never liked salespeople, had always felt uncomfortable in stores where employees hovered around her, watching her every move. She liked to be left alone, to shop in peace. The Store had done that originally, but now it seemed that the pressure was being increased, that more time and energy were being expended spying on customers.

  She didn't like that.

  She thought of the convoy of black trucks she'd seen driving up to Juniper that night back in February. She'd never mentioned it to Bill, and she wasn't sure why. She hadn't forgotten about it -- in fact, each time she'd gone to The Store or heard The Store mentioned, it had immediately come to the forefront of her mind. Yet she'd shopped here, let Sam apply for a job here, pretended that nothing was wrong.

  Was there anything wrong?

  She wasn't sure, and perhaps that was why she'd kept quiet. It had been an eerie feeling she'd had that night, a vague sense of unease, but that could have been the circumstances -- the darkness, the solitude, the fact that the rest of her family had been asleep. Bill had been paranoid enough as it was at that time, and she hadn't wanted to contribute to his anti-Store obsession.

  But he seemed to have gotten over all that, and now she wondered if that was healthy. There _was_ something odd about The Store, something "Ginny!"

  She turned at the sound of the voice. Meg Silva stood in the aisle to her right, holding in her hands a bolt of sewing fabric.

  Ginny put on her best fake smile. Meg was about the last person in the world she wanted to see right now, but she nodded at the other teacher, walked over and said hello. Meg subjected her to ten minutes' worth of complaints about everything from the kids in her class this year to the quality of whole cloth made in Thailand, but Ginny was finally able to extricate herself, claiming that she had to hurry up and finish shopping because Bill needed the car.

  "Well," Meg said, "I guess I'll see you Monday, then."

  Ginny smiled. "Unless I win the lottery."

  "That goes for both of us."

  Ginny waved good-bye and pushed the cart toward the Toddlers' department, where Sam was supposed to be working.

  As she passed by Linen and Bedding, she overheard a couple talking in the next aisle over.

  "They have layaway," the man was saying. "We can get that TV now _and_ the crib."

  "I don't think it's a good idea to go into debt," the woman replied.

  _You're right_, Ginny thought. But she said nothing, kept on walking.

  Ahead, she saw Sam. Her daughter was facing another direction, talking to a woman who was looking at kiddie pajamas, and Ginny quickly maneuvered her shopping cart into a side aisle, intending to sneak around behind Sam and watch her surreptitiously. She reached the end of the aisle, turned left, and stopped in back of a series of tall shelves containing various strollers.

  "Are these pajamas _fireproof_ or _fire-resistant_?" she heard the woman ask.

  "I don't know," Sam responded.

  "Does it say anywhere on the label?"

  "I don't know."

  "Could you help me look?"

  "No."

  Ginny stood behind the shelf, shocked. Sam's attitude toward the customer was not only abrupt but rude, and it seemed totally out of character for her.

  Ordinarily, she was friendly, cheerful, happy. Especially around strangers. Of the two girls, she was the more even-tempered and easygoing. Shannon was the more abrasive.

  "It's not my responsibility to fulfill your duties as a parent," Sam said.

  "I just work here. I'm a sales clerk."

  Ginny frowned. What was going on here? What was wrong with Sam? She couldn't have been _told_ to act this way, could she? Was that what they'd been teaching her in those nightly training classes she'd been attending the past week?

  Possibly.

  Now that Ginny thought about it, she had been treated rudely herself by several Store employees over the past few weeks. In fact, she'd never been treated normally here. Either the clerks had been unctuous and toadying, or rude and dismissive. They had never been simply polite or professional.

  "I don't like your attitude, young lady." The woman was obviously a fighter, and she was not about to be treated this way. "I'm going to speak to your supervisor."

  Ginny could almost hear the shrug in Sam's voice. "Go ahead."

  The woman moved off with a rattling of her cart, and Ginny moved as well, backward, away from the Toddlers' section, troubled.

  3

  "So, dude, did you win, place, or show?"

  "Took the Triple Crown, motherfucker!"

  "Bullshit." Denny looked from Chuck to A. B. "You know he didn't even get to touch her hand, let alone anything else."

  "Big words, cherry boy. Big words."

  Denny shook his head. The three of them were sitting at a plastic table in The Store's snack bar, scarfing junk food, talking trash, and checking out the babes as they passed by. Chuck had gone out with Audra McKinley last night, and while half of him hoped that his friend had gone all the way with her so they could hear the intimate details, half of him hoped that she'd slapped his face if he so much as tried to touch her. He liked Audra himself, would give his left nut to go out with her, and the thought that she'd gone out with his friend instead of him made him feel more than a little jealous.

  But Chuck was the brave one. He was the one who'd asked.

  A. B. looked disgustedly at Chuck as he wolfed down the last bite of his snack bar hot dog. "You know, dude, you are what you eat."

  Chuck grinned. "That can't be true. Otherwise, I'd be a pussy."

  Denny laughed. "You are."

  "No, he's not. He's a wienie."

  Around them, other customers were eating sushi and quiche and that other trendy crap The Store was trying to force down everyone's throat. But the three of them had made a stand, saying that the snack bar had better start serving
the same type of food as George's if it wanted _their_ business, and The Store had caved in to their culinary demands, putting burgers and fries, hot dogs and shakes on the menu.

  Now they hung out here all the time. In fact, the snack bar chow was so good that he couldn't even remember the last time they'd actually been to George's. Not that he cared. Downtown was dead, anyway. The Store was where all the action was.

  And it was air-conditioned, besides.

  Denny finished off his fries, dumped the last of the ice from his empty Coke cup into his mouth.

  "Let's check out the games," A. B. said. "Maybe they have the new _Doom_."

  Chuck nodded. "Or the new _Mortal Kombat_."

  "Something."

  Denny was still chewing his ice. He tried to say "Sure," but the word came out garbled, mushed.

  "Don't talk with your mouth full," Chuck said. "Didn't your mama ever tell you that?"

  Denny swallowed the ice. "Your mama did. But I couldn't understand her because I was filling up _her_ mouth at the time."

  "Dick."

  "Exactly."

  The three of them stood, moved away from the table, walked out of the snack bar area.

  "May I direct you to the proper aisle?"

  All of them jumped at the sound of the voice. Denny turned to see a tall, somewhat intimidating man in a Store uniform standing directly behind them. The man smiled, and Denny had to clear his suddenly clogged throat in order to speak. "We're looking for video games --"

  "New games," A. B. said.

  "Cool ones," Chuck added.

  The man's smile broadened. "This way." He moved easily through the crowd of customers, past the checkout registers, past the displays of sale items. They hurried after him, up one row, down another, until they were in the electronics department.

  Only . . .

  Only Denny could not remember ever being in this aisle before.

  He had spent a lot of time in this department -- they all had -- looking at games and videos, CDs and stereos and televisions, but he'd never seen the stuff they had here. He scanned the titles on the shelf in front of him: _White Power, White Rule_; _Sally's Three-Hole Fun Zone_; _Niggerkill_.

  "Here you are, boys." The man gestured toward the shelves on either side of the aisle. "Hope you find what you're looking for." He nodded at them, strode away. "Wow," A. B. said, looking at the titles.

  Chuck grinned. "This is cool!"

  Denny picked up a game box: _Raped and Snuffed_. He nodded, smiled.

  "Yeah," he said. "It is."

  4

  Frieda Lindsborg sat down in the center chair in Women's Shoes while the clerk went back into the stockroom to see if they had the sandals she wanted in black. She unlaced and took off her tennis shoes, then leaned back, closed her eyes. She was tired. She'd been shopping nonstop, running around town since she'd gotten off work, and she'd been on her feet since three o'clock his morning, when her shift at the bakery started. After she bought these shoes, she was going to rent a couple videos, go home, stretch out on the couch, and just watch movies for the rest of the afternoon.

  A hand touched her ankle, began pulling down her sock, and she instantly opened her eyes, jerking her foot back.

  "I found the sandals in black," the clerk said. "I was just going to help you try them on."

  He was seated on a stool in front of her, an open shoe box containing the sandals on the floor next to him, and she immediately felt guilty for her little panic attack. She stretched her right foot out again, let him pull off the sock.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "It's been a long day."

  "Nothing to be sorry about." The clerk dropped the sock on the floor, lifted her foot, examined it. He turned it gently to the left, then to the right. One hand held on to the calf, while the other began to caress her sole.

  "Very nice," he said. "Very nice."

  He still hadn't taken off her other sock, had not even taken one of the sandals out of the box. The attention he was paying to her foot seemed obsessive, and she felt more than a little uneasy as his finger lightly traced the outline of her toes, but . . . but there was something exciting about it, exciting and, well, sensual.

  He placed the foot on his left knee, then picked up her other foot, carefully pulling off the sock, again rubbing and massaging the foot itself.

  He looked up at her. "Can I smell your feet?" he whispered.

  She grimaced in disgust and tried to pull her feet back, but he held tight to her left calf and continued to stroke it lightly, delicately. He stood, still holding her foot, and pushed aside the stool.

  He knelt in front of her.

  She did not try to pull her foot away this time. As much as she hated to admit it, she liked the subservient position he held, liked the fact that he had to look up at her while she looked down at him. It seemed sexy, and she found herself wishing that she'd worn a skirt instead of pants.

  He said nothing, but looked up at her, smiled, put his mouth around her big toe and began to suck.

  Frieda closed her eyes, leaned her head back, tried to give him more of her foot. She'd never felt anything like this. The sensation was exquisite, and she arched her back, trying to keep herself from moaning.

  He sucked each and every toe.

  On both feet.

  Finally, she opened her eyes. She glanced around. There were people talking behind the row of pumps in front of her, other people with shopping carts passing by the main aisle, but she and the clerk were alone by the chairs and no one had seen them.

  The clerk smiled slyly at her. "Would you like to try the sandals on now, ma'am?"

  "Uh, no," she said, still breathing heavily. "That won't be necessary."

  She stood in her bare feet, patted down her hair, smoothed out her pants.

  "I'll take two pair," she said.

  ELEVEN

  1

  Bill never would have expected it of himself, but he had become addicted to local politics. He went to all public meetings now -- planning commission, sanitary district, town council. He'd never realized before how uninvolved most people were with their government. Theoretically, local politics was the arena in which people had the greatest voice. Its participants were most responsive to individual concerns because their constituencies were so small. Yet people were more familiar with national politicians -- even national politicians from other parts of the country -- than they were with their own locally elected officeholders.

  They might have more control over local politics than national politics, but they were also a lot less interested in it.

  Until recently, he himself had been one of the uninvolved. He'd voted in every election, but his votes had been based on general perceptions rather than specific knowledge. He'd been of the if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it school, and if he hadn't heard anything bad about a town council member or a county supervisor, he had assumed that they were doing a good job.

  He no longer made such assumptions. If he had learned anything from attending these meetings, it was that decisions were constantly being made that negatively impacted people's lives but that most people never learned about.

  Which was one of the reasons he'd become such a fanatic meeting attendee.

  That and the fact that he found it all so fascinating.

  The town council meeting didn't start until six, but he was in his usual seat next to Ben by five forty-five. The editor was the only person in the council chambers and was busily circling items on the agenda that he could later expand into separate stories for the paper. A half-eaten tuna sandwich lay in an open baggie on his lap.

  "You might find this interesting," Ben said, tapping a circled agenda item with his pen. "Apparently, The Store is not just building the new park, it's going to be responsible for park maintenance. The town's going to let one of its maintenance people go."

  "Who?"

  "Greg Lawrence."

  "Don't know him."

  Ben shook his head. "I guess we'll find out for sure tonight, but word i
s that Store employees are going to be assigned to clean up the park, trim trees, water and mow the grass, whatever."

  Bill snorted. "Taking jobs everywhere they go."

  "It's the American way."

  The meeting was called to order fifteen minutes later. As usual, the council chambers were less than half full. There was only Ben, himself, a handful of retired people and local gadflies, and assorted individuals with items pending before the council.

  After the pledge, the prayer, and the other opening formalities, the meeting got underway with the park maintenance issue. The agenda item was read, seconded, and as it was considered "old business," there was no opportunity for public discussion. The council unanimously agreed to accept what Councilman Bill Reid referred to as "The Store's gracious and generous offer" to provide all maintenance for the new park.

  Greg Lawrence was laid off.

  The mayor himself introduced the first item of "new business," the town's projected revenue shortfall for the next fiscal year. He read aloud a summary report from Juniper's financial manager stating that if the town's operating expenses remained at the current level, Juniper would run out of money before the fiscal year was half over.

  "Obviously," the mayor said, "there's going to have to be some belt tightening. As we all know, the county is having financial problems of its own and has appropriated a large chunk of the property tax revenue that used to go to the towns."

  "That's _supposed_ to go to the towns," Bill Reid said.

  "Exactly," the mayor agreed. "And the result of this is that all we're really left with is our sales tax revenue. And with our tax base shifting, with our downtown businesses taking a hit because of Juniper's recent economic realignment, sales tax revenues are down considerably."

  The mayor cleared his throat. "We also have a major unanticipated expense that we're going to have to encumber over to the next budget year. If you recall, as part of our incentive package to bring The Store to Juniper, we promised to ensure easy access for all vehicles entering The Store parking lot.

  They initially wanted an extra lane, a turn lane, constructed on the eastbound side of the highway, and we compromised by restriping that section of road and promising to constuct the lane if it proved to be necessary.