by Sachs, Zané
Still writing on his pad, Redbear asks, “What was your relationship to Mr. Johnson?”
The question hangs in the air, and I’m afraid my legs won’t hold me up. I lean against the closet doors.
“Relationship?”
“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you got along?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much?” Redbear glances at me. “You seem nervous. Why?”
“It’s just—” If I weren’t leaning against the closet, I’m sure I’d collapse. My mouth feels dryer than New Mexico. I glance at Gorski and make a play for sympathy. “A lot has happened over the past month, especially since the … since the rape.”
Redbear is about to ask another question, but Gorski waves his hand to silence him.
I offer Gorski a wan smile, offering him my best impression of a victim.
“Are you seeing anyone, Mrs. Bardo?” he asks.
“Seeing anyone?”
Is he asking for a date?
Maybe he’s one of those guys who needs to feel like a knight in shining armor—swooping in to save the helpless woman. I bat my eyes frantically as my mind flashes to fucking him, right here in my bed. I’d want him to wear his gun and holster. And his socks.
“Are you getting counseling?” he asks.
The image of his stiff Glock, nuzzled hot between my thighs, quickly fades. “I’m, ah, seeing a psychiatrist.”
“Good.” Gorski glances at Redbear. “I think we’re done, for now. Officer Redbear will take your number.”
“One more question,” Redbear says. “Are you right handed or left?”
I almost say right.
Shut up, idiot!
I bite my lip, realizing I nearly blew it. All the training, hours of practice, learning to take aim with my right hand, so no one would suspect a left-handed person had thrown the rock.
“I’m a—I’m a lefty. Why?”
“We’re covering all possibilities.”
The visit from the cops put a damper on my painting project. The interview left me with a headache that feels like Sadie the Sadist crept inside my skull and went berserk with a power drill. I took another Xanax and lay on my bed, a cold compress pressed over my forehead. Streaming a couple of episodes of Criminal Minds only made my headache worse. Sadie the Sadist is screaming, threatening to cut my head off with a chainsaw. On top of the Xanax, I took my last Dilaudid, but she won’t shut up.
I need to see Marcus, Dr. Archuleta, whatever I’m supposed to call him. I need stronger meds. Morphine would be good, or heroine. Can doctors even prescribe stuff like heroine? What I need is an anesthesiologist, a doctor who can knock me out with high-end drugs.
But right now I need to go to work.
I drag myself out of bed, force myself to dress.
By the time I reach the supermarket, my head feels ready to explode.
After securing my bike, I run into Janet corralling carts in the parking lot. Janet has been a Courtesy Clerk for about a hundred years, and her face has frozen into permanent surprise. I’m not sure if her astonished expression is the result of too much contact with the public or if it’s due to the arched eyebrows she paints on her forehead.
Janet rolls a line of shopping carts toward me, her eyes circled by black liner, her lashes caked with mascara. The first thing, she says is, Terri the Terrible has been appointed acting Assistant Manager.
When Janet sees my reaction, her dangling earrings tremble.
My mood swiftly changes from lousy to outrage. I’m pissed off by the injustice.
Acting Assistant Manager. What does that mean, anyway? She’s just pretending to be Assistant Manager?
I’m a better actress.
My fury builds as I stomp into the store.
Now Terri the Terrible will be dishing out orders more than ever, and lowly me will jump through hoops to do her bidding.
After I clock in, Terri’s smiling face greets me.
“Hi, Sadie, how ya doin’?” Her voice is cheerful to the point of puke. “Please help Wendy on Check Stand 4. Thank you, Sadie.”
See what I mean? She’s always bossing me around, and now that she has real power, she’ll be worse than ever. As soon as I lay my eyes on the Store Manager, I’m going to ask him why I didn’t even score an interview, why he passed me over and neglected to promote the most qualified candidate. I know for a fact that Terri has never managed an entire supermarket like I have.
The flow of piped-in music is interrupted by, “Wet cleanup on Aisle 9.”
Terri nods at me. “Sadie, would you get that. Thank you, Sadie.”
She phrases it like a question, but of course it’s an order. Who is she? Master of my Universe?
No, Terri, I won’t get that. Why don’t you get down on your knees and suck that mess up yourself?
Armed with a broom and dustpan, I stomp over to Aisle 9 where someone dropped a jar of pickles. People step around me, their shoes squashing dills and crunching glass, as I creep along the floor sweeping greenish vinegar into the pan. By the time I’m finished, I’ve been doused with pickle juice.
I return to the registers and start bagging for this guy I like. If Carlos weren’t married, I would definitely do him. But messing around with married men goes against my principles. That’s not to say I haven’t fucked a few.
“Nice perfume, Sadie. Kosher Dill?”
“That a Half-Sour in your pocket, Carlos? Or does my Sweet Gherkin turn you on?”
“You know I relish spicy pickle in my tuna.”
“Mmmm … I like your Bread and Butter. You’re jerkin’ my Gherkin now.”
We laugh.
Carlos is one of the good guys.
One of the people Sadie the Sadist won’t target.
The next customer may not be as lucky. She’s got a cart full of groceries, and she’s unloading them on the belt in no apparent order, so they’re difficult to separate. Why would you stick hot roasted chicken next to your overpriced raspberry sorbet? Even more annoying, she brought a heap of her own bags—most are not designed to carry groceries and some of them are filthy.
“Do you want me to put your chicken in a plastic bag?”
“No plastic,” she says, like she’s headed to heaven on the express train.
I’m delighted to help her reach her destination.
Reaching into my apron pocket, I find a small baggie filled with a few leftovers. I toss a fistful of maggot infested meat into the bottom of a filthy bag, and stick a head of Romaine lettuce on top of it. Then I add loose tomatoes, celery, cilantro, and throw in a lukewarm kidney for good measure. Chef Salad à la Sadie.
My day goes on: bagging, collecting shopping carts, cleaning spills, propane tank exchanges, a quickie in the bathroom with Carlos.
Doreen calls me over to the Service Desk. The woman with the filthy bags called to complain about the maggots. I tell Doreen I remember the disgusting bags, ask if I should file for workman’s comp. End of subject.
When it’s time for my lunch break, I’m determined to confront the Store Manager and find out why I didn’t get the job. My anger over the injustice increases as I walk around the store and glance down each aisle, trying to find him. After circling the perimeter, I determine that he must be downstairs in his office. I only have a half hour, and the stairs will be faster than the elevator. I hurry past Seafood and slip through the heavy panel doors, entering the domain of Meat. Here, an enormous ice machine operates 24/7 producing crushed ice for the display of rib-eyes and crab legs, T-bones and scallops. If you continue down the hallway, you’ll find Dairy. As a Courtesy Clerk, that’s where I bring cracked eggs, leaky milk, and the container of strawberry yogurt that some moron abandoned in Bakery.
Dairy displays are different from displays in Produce. Stocking dairy is like being backstage at a theater. You get behind the glass shelves and push products forward. That way the freshest product is always at the back, maintaining the cold
chain—first in, first out. I determined that through observation. I’m smart that way. Another reason why I should have been appointed Assistant Manager.
A girl stands behind the refrigerated case stocking milk and cream.
She calls out, “Hi, Sadie. Having fun yet?”
“Soon as I kill someone.”
She laughs.
At the bottom of the stairway, an arctic blast hits me. The heavy sliding door of the frozen foods storage locker is open, which explains the sudden drop in temperature. There are lots of cold places in the basement, and this locker is the coldest. It’s kept at -10 degrees (or lower) Fahrenheit.
An image springs to mind: Terri encased in ice, like a giant popsicle—lips blue with cold, fingers black with frostbite.
That’s wishful thinking.
According to this site I found online, LiveScience, people don’t actually freeze to death. A person will die of hypothermia well before their body reaches a temperature low enough for freezing. In fact, most people can survive exposure to cold, although they may suffer frostbite. Frostbite occurs when the body pulls blood away from the extremities to sustain the core temperature. There is, however, a way to expedite the freezing process. The survival rate decreases quickly if the body becomes wet, causing heat to be lost at a much faster rate. Wind chill also helps. But there’s no wind chill in the freezer. Locking Terri in frozen foods storage and expecting her to die just isn’t practical.
I walk along the dimly lit corridor leading to the manager’s office. Shelves of supplies encroach on the narrow path. There’s a section for bags (paper, plastic, net), another section filled with cleaning supplies (paper towels, garbage bags, spray bottles of chemicals), and other shelves crammed with stuff I can’t identify. The corridor opens to an area filled with pallets stacked with cases of soft drinks and bottled water. Next to the soft drinks, and across from the manager’s office, there’s a 10x10x10-foot chain-link cage. They keep it padlocked. I asked Terri if that’s where they imprison bad employees. She said yes. Peering through the chain-link, I see shelves of stuff like razor blades.
The Store Manager claims he has an “open door” policy, but his door is always shut. Attempting to determine if he’s in his office, I slide down to the floor and press my cheek against the concrete trying to peer through the crack. His light is on. “Just Another Manic Monday,” an 80’s song we’re forced to hear each afternoon, plays over the intercom. The song seems appropriate. One, because it’s actually Monday. Two, because the manager is manic-depressive; these days they call it bipolar. I’ve reached this conclusion because he posts conflicting messages around the store in employee only areas.
One week:
The Worst!
Really?
Come on people, FOCUS!!!
The next week:
Great Job Team!
U R the Best!
The worst at what? The best why? I’m clueless about what he’s referring too, but the notes act as a barometer for the Store Manager’s mood. I asked Liam what the signs mean, and he wasn’t sure either, but he thinks it has something to do with how many holes they shoot in each department. Every day, at some mysterious time, someone goes around the store shooting empty spaces on the shelves. Not with a gun, with a scanner. There’s some kind of ratio they have to meet, and if they find too many holes, the Store Manager has a fit.
Psyching myself up to knock on the door of his office, hoping he’s not in the throes of a psychotic episode, I brush dust off my black pants and stand on trembling legs.
I tap lightly.
“Come in.”
He’s hunched over his computer, shoulders pressed toward his head as if he has no neck.
I clear my throat.
He continues staring at the screen.
“Can I help you—” He glances at my nametag. “Sadie.”
“I, ah … I was wondering, did you get my application?”
“Application?”
“For the position of Assistant Manager.” I urge my voice to be commanding, but I sound like a hamster.
“Assistant Manager of what?”
“The st-store.”
Tearing his attention away from his computer, he looks at me, his expression puzzled.
“That position isn’t available.”
I study my sneakers (Brooks Adrenalines, atomic blue with red accents), noticing one of the laces is untied.
“Is there something else, Sarah?”
“It’s Sadie,” I mutter, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s back at his computer, typing. “I was just, ah, wondering if you saw my résumé.”
“Did you apply online?”
“Yes,” I squeak. “I attached my résumé to the application.” Words fly out of my mouth, stumbling over one another. “I have experience. Assistant Manager at Brother’s Grocery. I mean, it was a while ago, but they really liked me. If you look at—”
Recognition overtakes his face.
“You’re a bagger, aren’t you?”
“Courtesy Clerk.” I slow down, forcing my voice into a register that sounds less like Nemo screaming for his dad. “But if you look at my résumé—”
“Hold on, Sarah. Let me check my e-mail.”
He returns to his computer.
“It’s Sadie.”
“What?”
“My name is Sadie.”
“Sadie, right. Here’s your résumé.” He reads aloud, “Maid at Travel Host motel, Candy Counter at 5 Star Movie Theater, Manager of ...” He swivels his chair to face me. “Tell me about Brother’s Grocery.”
“They went out of business.”
“Locally owned?”
“I think so.”
“You think so. And you managed the store for five years?” He sounds skeptical.
I nod.
“You left that job when?”
“About eight years ago?” It comes out like a question.
“How old are you, Sadie?”
“Thirty-two.”
“So you managed a supermarket before you were twenty?”
I avert my eyes, and do the math.
“Yeah.”
“That’s impressive.”
Shifting from foot to foot, I suppress my sudden need to pee.
“I can do more than Courtesy Clerk.” My squeak vaults to new heights. “I’ve been working here for five months and—” An idea occurs to me. “Is there anything in Meat?”
He glances at a clipboard, flips to the second page, runs his finger down a column.
“Nothing open in Meat. There’s a position in Salad Bar. I’ll speak with Terri and see what she recommends.”
What does Terri have to do with this?
I want to shout that at him, want to scream.
Instead, I say, “Thank you.” And then I give a little bob, almost a curtsy, as if I’m auditioning for the role of scullery maid on Downton Abbey.
The Store Manager dismisses me with a nod.
I drag my feet out of his office, my mind as confused as a plate of spaghetti. I need a double dose of Xanax washed down with a bottle of Chianti, Hannibal Lecter style.
Life has kicked me back to Salad Bar, cutting, shucking, wrapping. Determined to see the bright side, I tell myself it’s a promotion, even though I’m going in a circle. I tell myself corn season is nearly over and now that Justus is gone maybe I can handle the job. In any case I’ll make more money, and I’ll be working with Liam again. Even though he hardly speaks, or maybe because of that, Liam is the only person I can talk to around here.
I’ve missed our conversations.
As I climb the stairs, heading back to the check stands and Terri the Terrible, my mood elevates. If I get Salad Bar again, I’ll be in the perfect position to execute my plans.
Execute is an awesome word, isn’t it?
Recipe: Sadie’s Kick Ass Slaw
Summer is a great time for bar-b-ques, and nothing goes better with spicy ribs or chicken than creamy coleslaw. But, these days, peopl
e are so busy and our jobs are so demanding that we barely have time for get-togethers. Wouldn’t it be great to have some unexpected time off? Dry mustard gives this slaw a kick, but the secret ingredient gives it clout. Pass this dish around at your next gathering and all your guests can call in sick!
Creamy Coleslaw
Ingredients:
1 large green cabbage, shredded
3 carrots, shredded
2 tablespoons onion, grated
¾ cup mayonnaise
½ cup half-and-half (more, if you like it extra creamy)
2 tablespoons white vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
½ teaspoon celery salt
½ teaspoon dried mustard
Black pepper and salt to taste
Secret ingredient: 1 cup raw chicken juice, room temperature
Preparation:
In a large bowl, toss together shredded cabbage and carrots.
In another bowl, mix mayonnaise, half-and-half, sugar, vinegar, dried mustard, and grated onion. Mix into the cabbage and carrot. Add salt and pepper to taste. Then mix in the chicken juice.
Note: Mayonnaise will rarely cause salmonella (even when it’s left out), so for optimal results be sure to add chicken juice.
Produce
Terri recommended me for Salad Bar. She told the Store Manager I’m reliable and a hard worker, told him I deserve another chance, and the Produce Manager agreed to take me back. No doubt he misses me, needs a lackey to shuck corn—not to mention other crappy jobs.
The Produce Manager tends to focus on minutia. I think he’s OCD. Once he spent two days peeling labels off the basement floor. Labels fall off crates of vegetables and fruit, stick to the concrete, and drive him crazy. Ovals, rectangles, squares. Sometimes the labels get so stuck you have to use a razorblade to scrape them off. He assigned me a new job: Label Patrol. He gave me a razor blade and I considered using it to slit his throat, but I changed my mind when he gave me Saturday off.
Everyone who works here is nuts. It’s a prerequisite.
Being stuck in the basement makes me wacko. Sometimes they let me out, so I can stock upstairs on the floor. Stocking allows me to stalk customers, under pretense of arranging fruits and vegetables. You can tell a lot about a person by what they choose to purchase.
