Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror

by Sachs, Zané

  I turn toward the sound, knocking the container of beets off the counter. Crimson juice splatters the white wall, spills red onto the floor. I watch it ooze into the drain.

  Liam rolls a U-boat out of the cooler, its wheels clacking on the concrete floor as he heads out of Produce.

  I lean against the counter, so I’ll remain upright, press my hands into the stainless steel to stop them from shaking. I stare at the garbage disposal, wondering if the motor is powerful enough to grind bones. Swallow a mouthful of puke.

  The clock says 7:00, time for me to surface from the basement.

  I step over crimson stains, avoiding the remains of beets, and tell myself I’ll clean the mess after I take down the Salad Bar.

  Or later … when I clean the rest.

  Leaning into my cart, I steady my wobbly legs. I roll the cart out of Produce and down the hall to the freight elevator, push the button again and again and again.

  Taking down the Salad Bar is meticulous work, requires patience. Going too fast may lead to disaster—kidney beans lost in the tomatoes, sunflowers seeds hiding in the shredded cheese. First thing, I slip on fresh rubber gloves. Leftover lettuce and spinach is thrown away, so I stack those containers on top of each other. Then I set the tongs and serving spoons into the empty lettuce bin. The collection of salad dressings often looks like a child got hold of finger paints. Fridays are the messiest, due to happy hour, and this weekend is a holiday, so it’s worse than usual. Using gobs of paper towels, I wipe away white, pink, yellow, and red oily smears.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Justus. He’s hovering around Liam, his head wagging as he points at the fruit display.

  Liam continues stacking oranges while receiving the lecture.

  I focus on the Salad Bar, examining each item as I remove the containers to determine if something needs to be replenished or tossed. I have my favorites, like purple cabbage and green peas—the colors are so vibrant. And there are items I dislike. In my opinion, baby corn and pepperoni have no business on a salad.

  A man marches over, glares at the half-empty Salad Bar, and then glares at the loaded cart.

  “No more salad?”

  “Sorry. We take it down at seven.”

  He points at my chest.

  I look down at the red letters on my yellow shirt. A splatter of beet juice drips from the S. The rest of SERVE is covered by my apron.

  The man barks, “Your job is to serve me.”

  Broiled on a bed of lettuce?

  The man stomps over to the Deli counter as I reach for the bin of peas.

  A voice startles me.

  “What did that customer want?” Justus demands.

  The bin slips from my hands and peas spill onto the floor. I watch green pellets scatter.

  “He wanted a salad,” I say, falling to my knees, as if I’m about to beg for mercy. Crawling around the Salad Bar, I attempt to scoop up wayward peas.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “We close at seven.”

  “Did you mention we have salad kits?”

  Justus sweeps his hand toward the far wall of the department, residence of ready-to-eat Cobbs and Caesars.

  “I, ah—I forgot about the salad kits.”

  “Then I guess I’d better let him know.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll speak to you downstairs, Sadie.”

  Squishing several peas beneath his shoes, Justus heads to Deli and the customer.

  Speak to you downstairs means I’ll see you in my office. His office is down in the basement, not far from Produce. But I’ll let Justus search me out and find me at my workstation.

  That suits my plans.

  Clenching my teeth, so I won’t cry, I finish cleaning the Salad Bar. A tear plops onto the sneeze guard, and I swipe it with my gloved hand, leaving a smear of Ranch dressing. I promptly spray the glass and wipe away all evidence.

  I took this job thinking it might be fun, thinking cutting fruit and vegetables all day would be low stress. But Salad Bar has proved to be more pressure than I can endure. I imagine Justus giving me my notice, imagine my mortgage coming due and I can’t pay, imagine no money for groceries, electricity, gas, my phone—not even wireless. My life will be a barren waste. I figure there’re two paychecks between me and the homeless shelter.

  Tears roll down my face, drip from my chin, and rain into the bin of sliced cucumbers.

  Stifling a sob, I push the salad cart toward the freight elevator. To stop the tears, I bite the inside of my cheek, so hard that I taste blood.

  Sadie the Sadist doesn’t cry.

  I’m back in my corner, waiting.

  Liam left a while ago, but I know Justus is still in the store. I checked the meat locker for his bike and saw it by the sausages.

  I’ve been thinking about Sadie the Sadist, wishing I could be like her. Sadie the Sadist wouldn’t feel jittery at the thought of seeing Justus, wouldn’t panic at the sound of footsteps.

  I’ve stocked the Salad Bar for tomorrow. I’ve washed the bins, the food processor, the utensils. I’ve wiped down all the counters, swept the floor, emptied the trash. I even cut another case of corn so it’s ready to be shucked first thing tomorrow. The last thing I'll do is mop.

  Now I’m sharpening the knives. Of course, Sadie the Sadist is a figment of my imagination, an imaginary friend, but the more I think about her, the more real she becomes.

  I pick up a chef’s knife, catch her reflection in the blade.

  She winks at me.

  Sharpening knives isn’t easy. My left hand tingles so much, I can hardly grip the chef’s knife. Forcing my fingers around the handle, I draw the blade through the sharpener.

  “Sadie.”

  My heart jumps.

  I glance up.

  Night is the only time the floor is clear of crates, so I can see across the room with no obstructions. Justus stands at the door, arms folded over his chest.

  “Got a minute?”

  He walks toward me.

  “I need to finish—”

  “What’s our number one priority?”

  “Umm—corn?”

  “No, Sadie. Customer service.”

  “But you said—”

  “Customer. Service. Is our number one. Priority.” He enunciates each word as if I don’t speak English.

  Imagining his Adam’s apple beneath the blade, I pull the chef’s knife through the sharpener.

  “Sadie—”

  My gaze meets his.

  Justus must read something in my eyes, because he grabs my wrist.

  The knife slips from my hand, clatters when it hits the floor, and glistens on the beet-stained concrete.

  “You need to mop,” he says.

  “I plan to.”

  Stooping, I reach for the knife.

  So does Justus.

  The blade slices my skin.

  I stand slowly, stare at my thumb. Blood spurts from the gash, reminding me of the water fountain by the break room. I feel no pain, only amazement, as red runs down my wrist and drips onto the concrete, joining rivulets of beet juice.

  I wonder how I’ll ride my bike if I can’t grip the handles, wonder how I’ll murder Justus.

  He grabs a wad of paper towels, presses them around my hand. His face looks green, but that may be the result of the fluorescent lighting.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  I shake my head. Didn’t know I was.

  The paper towels are turning dark.

  When I stop squeezing, my thumb gushes.

  “Keep pressure on it,” Justus says.

  Last thing going through my head before I conk out: No more shucking corn.

  Recipe: Sadie’s Anytime Fiesta Dip

  In my opinion, any day that I don’t have to work is reason to celebrate, and though this dip is great for parties, I encourage you to make it for any occasion. For example: you scored two weeks off with workman’s comp, they fired the boss you hate, the neighbor’s dog (th
at won’t stop barking) got run over. Make life a celebration!

  Fiesta Dip

  Ingredients and preparation: each grouping is a layer of the dip. Go in order. I like to use a clear glass pie pan or square baking dish to display each layer’s color. This recipe can easily be doubled.

  Layer 1:

  3 cans of bean dip (jalapeño); yes, bean dip looks like baby caca, but it’s high in fiber, and this dish disguises it.

  Layer 2:

  3 ripe avocados, mashed

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1½ teaspoon garlic powder

  ¼ teaspoon ground pepper

  2 teaspoons lemon juice

  Layer 3:

  ½ cup mayonnaise

  1 cup sour cream

  1 package Taco Seasoning

  Layer 4:

  1 can sliced black olives

  Layer 5:

  1 small bunch of green onions, chopped

  Layer 6:

  1 tomato, cubed

  Layer 7:

  Shredded cheddar cheese

  Note: Most people serve this with corn chips, but I’ve switched to sweet potato chips or raw veggies. Sadie the Sadist suggests, if someone you don’t like has been invited to the party, smash their face into this dip and they’ll come up looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  Bagging

  It’s been raining. Cooled things off and stopped the fires. Today the sky is clear and blue, the kind of day that makes me want to ride my bike from one end of the river trail to the other, or venture up the scenic highway into the mountains.

  Instead, I’m back at work.

  I brought Fiesta Dip and left it in the break room. But everybody’s mad at me, because of the safety record. I ruined it. Before Justus attempted to amputate my thumb, the store claimed to be accident free for over eight hundred days. As a reward, every fifty days Bakery left a big cake in the break room. But now, thanks to my so-called accident, the store is back to square one. Truth is, people constantly get injured around here: lifting heavy boxes, moving overloaded carts, messing around with box cutters and knives. They say safety first, but what they mean is: No matter how badly you’re hurt, say nothing.

  Justus had to report the incident, because I bled all over him.

  I got Workman’s Comp, two weeks off with pay and the store covers the doctor’s bills. The cut left a scar—on my thumb and on my psyche—but there’s no hope for a settlement, because Justus claims the accident was my fault.

  Liar.

  It’s my word against his, and I’m afraid if I say anything (like the lunatic attacked me) I’ll be fired.

  The good thing: no more corn.

  The bad thing: I’ve been demoted to Courtesy Clerk. Less pay, less respect, and a lot more garbage.

  They say Salad Bar is too much for me.

  Maybe they’re right.

  Liam thinks I should hire a lawyer. He says I should sue. But, if I sue, I’ll lose the job, and in this lousy economy who knows if I’ll find another.

  I used my break from work productively. It gave me time to think, time for Sadie the Sadist to incubate. The more I hang out with her, the more I realize how much we have common. For example, we’re both concerned with justice—especially for little guys, the silent slaves who do your dirty work, like Courtesy Clerks, Hotel Maids, Dishwashers, Janitors.

  Don’t get me wrong, Sadie the Sadist and I have our differences—she’s a righty. I’m a lefty. Slight variations in programming, otherwise we’re identical. Except she’s a maniac. By that I mean, she’s a lot more outspoken than me, fearless. I admire her courage, but sometimes I wish she’d shut her mouth. Other times I flip the switch to autopilot, let her drive.

  Like right now, she’s bagging groceries.

  Bagging’s a bit slower since the accident.

  The scar on my left thumb makes it difficult to open plastic bags, but the feeling in my hands is back—slight tingling in the tips of my fingers. Maybe I just don’t notice the pain I used to feel, because I’m taking Dilaudid, synthetic morphine.

  Have you ever noticed how much you use your thumbs? The cut made a lot of simple tasks challenging: drinking a cup of coffee, typing, texting, using the remote, masturbating.

  Did you know lefties have higher IQs than righties?

  Sadie the Sadist would argue that point. She says two hands are better than one and since your brain has two sides you might as well use both. She’s teaching me to be ambidextrous. Video games help a lot. Saint’s Row: The Third is the best—guns, grenades, rockets, swords, even chainsaws. I got a lot of practice using my right hand while I was recuperating. I hope being right handed won’t make me stupid.

  “Plastic work for you?”

  The guy nods. Most people do.

  Most people don’t mind plastic bags, but some people are bag snobs. Even when I tell them our plastic bags are biodegradable (made from corn-based material), they insist I use paper, as if killing trees makes them superior, or they bring their own bags—trying to save the planet. I hate to tell them, but this planet is going to hell, regardless of paper or plastic. Pretty soon we’ll all be robots.

  I take pride in what I do: bag veggies separate from meat, lay bread gently on the eggs, keep cold things together. But, sometimes, if you piss me off, I poke a finger through the plastic wrap guarding your chicken and allow chicken blood to seep onto your peaches.

  “Have a great day.”

  A woman rolls a cart, filled with groceries and a shrieking toddler, into Check Stand 9 where I’m bagging. The toddler waves a glitter wand at me, lets out a high-pitched wail. Oblivious to the screaming demon in her shopping cart, the banshee’s mother unloads a head of lettuce, hamburger buns, popsicles, chips—a mishmash of items that I’ll have to bag separately.

  Wendy, the cashier, who’s been talking to her pal at Check Stand 10, snaps to attention.

  “Do you have your savings card?” she asks the customer, then flashes her winning smile.

  “I’ve got it somewhere.”

  The banshee lets out another shriek.

  “Be a good girl, Arboles,” the mother says distractedly, searching for her card.

  Her tepid warning has no effect on the little witch.

  Who names their kid Arboles, anyway—a nothing town out in the middle of nowhere, population 280.

  The mother fishes through her purse while Wendy sighs, juts out her hip. Wendy won’t ring anything up until the savings card is scanned, because it starts a timer. As soon as that card number is entered she’ll start pushing stuff along the belt so quickly I’ll have to hustle to keep up. At the end of each week the times are calculated and the speediest checker wins prizes like frozen pizza, store brand ice cream, a five-dollar gift certificate. Wendy always wins.

  The woman emerges from her purse, card in hand, and that’s my cue.

  “Plastic okay?”

  I stand between two racks of bags, willing her to say yes. Plastic is much easier to load than those fabric bags the tree huggers lug into the store, but nothing irritates me more than paper. Paper bags slide off my racks and, if I manage to load them, I’m too short to see into them. Whenever people ask for paper, I want to shout, Timber!

  I don’t say anything, but Sadie the Sadist does.

  Nudging me, she whispers, Fuck her; use the plastic.

  Without waiting for the woman’s answer, I flounce my plastic bags, preparing them for loading.

  “Whatever works,” the woman says.

  Score for me.

  And score for her.

  I won’t smash her buns.

  The toddler taps her glitter wand on my head.

  I stick out my tongue and I quickly retract it. (Sadie the Sadist did that.)

  The kid scrunches up her nose.

  “I don’t like you.”

  “I don’t like you either,” I say quietly, so only she can hear.

  The wand slaps me.

  “Arboles, that’s not nice.” The woman glances at me, concerned.
“You all right?”

  “Fine.”

  When her mother turns away, I bare my teeth at Arboles and snarl.

  Wendy is on a roll, pushing toilet paper, celery, shampoo, eggs, and milk along the belt so fast that I experience a pileup. You might think bagging is easy, but I have to think fast. The nightmare is forgetting to give a bag to a customer. If I notice in time, I chase them through the parking lot. Otherwise, I have to bring the bag to the Customer Service desk. Do that often enough and I’ll be written up.

  Justus already gave me a verbal warning.

  Which reminds me: I haven’t seen him today.

  That realization lifts my mood.

  Humming along to the piped-in music (“Life in a War Zone”), I finish bagging the woman’s stuff and load each bag into the cart, while attempting to avoid an attack of the witch’s wand.

  At least the little shit stopped shrieking.

  When they leave, I ask Wendy, “You seen Justus?”

  She juts out her hip. “Why? You miss him?”

  I smirk.

  So does she, playing it cool, but everybody knows Wendy has the hots for him.

  “Now that you mention it,” she says to me, “I haven’t seen that man since Friday.” Then, turning to her buddy at Check Stand 10, “You seen Justus lately?”

  “I heard he called in sick.”

  Wendy frowns. “Maybe he walked.”

  Employees do that around here, quit without giving notice. One guy marched over to the manager, threw his apron down, and shouted, “I can’t take it anymore.” Then there was the girl who worked in Deli for two hours, went for a smoke and never came back. Don’t forget the bakers—two middle-aged women who got into a fistfight in the middle of the night. Frozen baguettes make great weapons.

  Note to self: If the baguette gets bloody, just stick it in an oven and bake away the evidence.

  My point is, people come and go here faster than Louie CK (Sadie’s favorite comedian) agrees to a blowjob.

  But I don’t think Justus would walk. He’s a manager, enjoys pushing people around and makes good money. Why would he give that up?

  I’ve got a hinky feeling about him.

  “Sadie, you’re staring into space.”