“Even better: double overtime,” Basil said. “In cash at the end of the shift. Just to show how much I appreciate your participation and your discretion.”
Amy quickly did the math: eight hours at double overtime would net her two hundred dollars, enough to keep her roommates at bay until her next paycheck.
“Count me in,” she said.
“Me, too,” Ruth Anne said. “It’ll be fun. Like a sleepover party.”
Basil shook their hands, sealing the deal.
“Meet me at the employee entrance at ten o’clock,” he explained. “I’ll let you inside while Operations finishes cleaning. We’ll wait in here until everything’s quiet, then we’ll do our first sweep. And not a word to anyone, understand? This is a covert operation.”
The door to the break room burst open and Matt and Trinity tumbled inside. “There’s people in here,” Trinity exclaimed, feigning surprise.
“Hey, guys,” Matt said. “What’s up?”
Basil immediately tried to act like nothing was going on, which made it look like something was absolutely going on.
“We were just dialoguing,” he said. He turned to Amy and Ruth Anne. “Thank you for your feedback. It’s been duly noted and I’ll pass it along.”
“Feedback about what?” Matt asked.
“Is everything okay?” Trinity asked, searching Amy’s eyes for clues. “There’s a real weird energy in this room. Like someone’s just had a difficult conversation.”
“You better be on your break,” Basil said as he headed out the door. “I’ve got to get back.”
Trinity sat down across from Amy and Ruth Anne. “Seriously, what did he want? Are you guys fired? You can talk to me.”
“Were you two creeping around the hall eavesdropping?” Amy asked.
“We’re gathering information that is critical to staff morale,” Trinity said.
“No one’s fired,” Ruth Anne said.
“Told you so,” Matt said to Trinity. “I knew they’d never fire Ruth Anne.”
Trinity stuck out her tongue, and she and Matt began to flirt-fight. Amy had heard that Trinity and Matt were hooking up, but she’d also heard the same rumor about Trinity and half the floor partners, male and female. She was the sort of revved-up party girl that guys found irresistible and Amy found irritating.
“I gotta go,” she said, standing up.
Trinity put herself between Amy and the door. “If you weren’t getting fired, what did Basil want? Do you have to do diversity training? Is he putting you on part-time? Is the store closing?”
“Sorry not to give you your daily allowance of store drama,” Amy said. “But I’ve got more important things to do. Like floor checking Tossurs.”
“Matt and I have used science to show that big changes are coming,” Trinity said. “Things in this store are approaching a crisis point. Any information you have will help us complete the big picture.”
“Seriously,” Matt said. “Is the store closing?”
“Come on, Ruth Anne,” Trinity said. “What happened? We need hard data.”
“I think it’s probably best if I don’t say anything,” Ruth Anne said.
“You’re killing us,” Trinity said. “You are literally killing us.”
“Good,” Amy said. “Maybe then you’ll stop being so annoying.”
And with that, Amy abandoned Ruth Anne to the two most irritating people in Orsk and walked back to her shop where she spent the next two hours comparing Tossur inventory numbers.
When her shift ended at four o’clock, Amy drove around for half an hour, then decided to get some sleep before the secret overnight shift began at ten. She couldn’t risk going back to her apartment without the money she owed, and Basil had made it clear she wasn’t getting paid until the overnight shift was finished. She was too embarrassed to nap in the Orsk parking lot with all of her coworkers walking by, so she drove a mile down Route 77, pulled into the parking lot of a Red Lobster, parked by the Dumpster, and leaned her seat all the way back.
It was hot, the interior of her car stank of oil, and her feet smelled like coffee. Amy closed her eyes, trying to still the buzzing in her head. At first she didn’t think she’d be able to fall asleep, but the day had been long and her emotions were toast. After forty-five minutes of sitting and staring and thinking about what a wreck her life had become, after forty-five minutes of wondering how she was ever going to escape Orsk and get a sit-down job, after forty-five minutes of feeling sweat trickling down her ribs, she fell into a state of sticky semiconsciousness. And as her mind closed up shop and went dark, Amy wondered dully if she would be stuck on the hamster wheel forever, stuck in retail forever, stuck at Orsk forever.
But she didn’t have to worry.
Tonight would be her final shift.
During the day, Orsk was a building like any other, a sensible container built with modern materials to house furniture and people. But after eleven o’clock, when no one roamed its aisles, when its back offices went dark and the last customers were escorted out the front doors, when its entrances were dead-bolted, when its final floor partners went home, it became something else.
Amy, sitting on a toilet in the women’s restroom on the second floor, was unaware of the subtle changes taking place around her. All she knew was that Basil was trying to kill her.
They were just one hour into the marathon overnight shift, and he would not stop bothering her. What did she like about her job? Which parts were most rewarding? Least rewarding? Amy had answered like an actual human being until she realized his questions were nothing more than the opening of a very boring lecture on the importance of human capital in Orsk culture. He spoke at length on the value of teamwork, about store pride, about the Four A’s (Approachable and Agreeable Attitude). He quoted Orsk founder Tom Larsen’s autobiography from memory.
Ruth Anne was pretending to listen, but Amy could see that she was secretly doing Sudoku under the table—and if she could see it, Basil could see it, but he didn’t seem to care. Why was he only targeting Amy? She wanted to tell him she was doing just fine, that she didn’t need his life advice, thankyou-verymuch. He already knew she was transferring back to Youngstown, so why couldn’t he leave her alone? Torn between saying something or suffering in silence, Amy sought sanctuary in the bathroom.
If Basil cares so much about Orsk, he should come in here and clean, she thought. The walls of her stall were covered with graffiti. If it had been funny (“Pull here for MFA Degree” right below the toilet paper dispenser) she would’ve stayed longer, but it was mostly weird random names and dates. After wiping and flushing, she walked to the sink, soaped her palms, fingers, and wrists, and then lathered them up again, trying to drag out the time before she had to return to the break room.
When she got back, Basil checked his watch. “That’s your third trip to the restroom in an hour.”
“And that’s your business why?”
“Because you’re here to do floor sweeps. Not hide in the bathroom all night.”
Amy gritted her teeth. “I’ll do your little floor sweeps. Just tell me when you’re ready.”
She marched back to her seat. The break room was furnished with Arsle tables and chairs; they were affordably priced and had a simple elegant design, but Amy couldn’t last fifteen minutes in one without getting a backache. Ruth Anne sat quietly with three tubes of Blistex lined up on the table and the Sudoku book hidden on her knees.
Next to the door was a giant plastic bucket full of Magic Tools. The geniuses in Milwaukee designed their furniture to be incompatible with ordinary household tools; Orsk products could be assembled only with the proprietary Orsk Magic Tool. The small, L-shaped wrench was famously easy to lose, so the store gave them away by the bucketful and employees were required to carry one at all times. Amy had one in her pocket right now—and another dozen rolling around her junk drawer at home.
She glanced around the room. Over on the wall was a large banner that read: “The hard work m
akes Orsk a family, and the hard work is free.” The completely fake, slightly stilted Euro-phrasing was part of Orsk’s fake Ikea act, and Amy couldn’t decide if it was slightly annoying or totally offensive. In her opinion, nothing was worse than a store that pretended to be something it was not.
There was nothing else in the break room to occupy Amy’s eyes or mind. A flat-screen TV hanging in the corner displayed a soundless CNN broadcast. On it, a bunch of prisoners in orange overalls were being marched in a circle around a concrete exercise yard. Amy knew the feeling.
Basil dragged his chair over to Amy’s table. “You know, I was really sorry when I saw your transfer request. I think you have a lot of potential. With a little hard work, I really think you could be Shop Responsible.”
“Thank you,” she said, not taking her eyes off the television.
“I mean it, Amy. I used to be a floor partner like you. Then I took the test and became Shop Responsible, and soon I was a shopkeeper, then floor manager, then Pat moved me up to deputy store manager. If I can do it, you can, too.”
“Right, and then I’ll be on my way to management, which means I’ll be responsible for everything that happens in this store, I’ll be blamed every time something goes wrong, I’ll have to go to more meetings, I’ll have to work more hours, I’ll have to deal with everyone’s scheduling headaches, and I’ll be making a whopping seventy-five cents more per hour. I’m not taking the test.”
“You already did,” Basil said. “Pat told me.”
Ruth Anne perked up. “Really? That’s terrific. Congratulations, Amy!”
Amy tried to keep herself under control.
“What’s the matter?” Ruth Anne asked, genuinely concerned.
The silence grew.
“It’s an easy test,” Ruth Anne said, chattering on. “You just read the handbook for twenty minutes and fill in the bubbles …” Her voice trailed off.
“She didn’t pass,” Basil explained. “She was two points shy. I asked Pat to ask Regional if they would make an exception, but you know how they feel about business metrics. Numbers never lie, and all that.”
Amy’s face flushed. Everyone joked that the Shop Responsible test was so easy, “even a store manager could pass.” Amy had been so confident that she hadn’t even attempted to prepare for it. She just assumed she would sail right through.
“You can try again in six months,” Basil said. “If you stick around, I’ll help you study.”
“I don’t want your help,” Amy said. “You started out in Wardrobes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Basil asked.
“Wardrobes is the lamest shop on the floor,” Amy said. “A packet of grape jelly could be Shop Responsible for Wardrobes. They’re just big empty boxes with doors.”
“That reveals a flawed understanding of Wardrobes,” Basil said.
“Wardrobes is hard,” Ruth Anne chimed in. “People get angry because they’re so tough to put together.”
“Okay,” Amy said, taking a breath. “I’m sorry. Wardrobes is awesome. It’s right up there with brain surgery. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to stay,” Basil said.
“I want to be here,” Amy said, digging her nails into her palms. “But, no offense, I don’t need any more advice, and please don’t quote any more chapter titles from Tom Larsen’s memoir. I know this is your religion, but for me it’s just a job.”
“That’s your problem,” Basil said. “For you it’s ‘just’ a job.”
“What’s it supposed to be?”
“Work.”
“Same thing,” Amy said.
“No,” Basil said. “A job is what a guy in a gas station has. People at Orsk have work. It’s a calling. A responsibility to something bigger than yourself. Work gives you a goal. It lets you build something that lives on after you’re gone. Work has a purpose beyond making money.”
“I am begging you to stop,” Amy said.
“There’s nothing wrong with being serious,” Ruth Anne said.
“She can’t take anything seriously,” Basil said. “That’s her problem.”
“I do my job,” Amy said. “I punch the clock, I work my shop, I sell people their desks, I cash my check. That’s what Orsk pays me to do: my job. I’m not planning on being in retail for the rest of my life.”
“Really? What are you going to do?”
“I’m …” Amy suddenly realized that in fact she didn’t have any plans. “I’ve got plans. They’re none of your business.”
“You have to see the big picture,” Basil said.
“You know what I see? I see you dedicating your life to a store that’s a knockoff of a better store with better furniture and better management. That’s the big picture I see.”
“Maybe we should start our first sweep,” Ruth Anne said.
“I have serious responsibilities and I take them seriously,” Basil said.
“What responsibilities?” Amy asked. “Seriously. This is retail. What is such a big deal?”
“Safety,” Basil said. “I’m responsible for the safety of you and everybody else in this location. I take that very seriously.”
“I can make it through my day without your protection,” Amy said. “I’m not going to get lost and starve to death somewhere on the Showroom floor.”
“I don’t get your attitude,” Basil said. “You want a promotion, but you don’t study for the test. You don’t want to work retail the rest of your life, but you dropped out of college. Do you really have some big plan, or are you just making it up as you go along?”
Amy stood up.
“Where are you going?” Basil asked.
She headed out the door. “To the bathroom.”
“You just went!” he called after her.
Amy crashed through the door of the women’s restroom. It was the only place Basil wouldn’t follow her, yapping about a bunch of crap and trying to make her feel bad. Didn’t he understand she was humiliated enough without him piling on? Eighty percent of applicants passed the Shop Responsible test. Eighty percent! Amy turned on the sink. The pipes made an obscene grunting sound that rattled the porcelain, and then they spat rusty water into the basin. Amy turned off the taps and shook her head. This whole place is going to hell.
She took deep breaths, trying to calm down. What was happening to her? She looked up at the reflection of her blotchy face. Her eyes drifted to the right-hand side of the mirror and her breath stopped. There was new graffiti.
Next to the mirror, she saw a fresh patch of writing that hadn’t been there earlier. Or maybe it had?
What in the world was the Beehive? A football team? A gang of Cleveland drug dealers? Some twenty entries were scratched into the paint, and all of them followed the same format: a name, the word “Beehive,” and a time span. Closer to the door, she saw more graffiti with a few variations:
And the longest of the bunch:
Amy dried her hands on her jeans and left the restroom. In the hall, she could feel the empty spaces of Orsk all around her, 220,000 square feet isolating her in the middle of a maze. The service hallways, the back of house, the Warehouse, the Market Floor, the Showroom, the immense parking lot that separated them from the highway. Orsk was so big it needed a certain number of people on the premises to keep it under control. Three of them weren’t enough. The store was stirring, restless, growing slowly. Emptied of people, Orsk felt dangerous.
SLAM!
Amy froze. What was that noise?
SLAM-CLICK-SLAM!
The corridor stretched out ahead of her, with doors to the management offices on either side. On the walls were posters about sustainability, green living for a green planet, Orsk’s commitment to future generations, and there was a stairwell nearby leading down to the first floor. That’s where the noise was coming from. Seconds passed and the loudest sound was Amy’s breathing.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to be practical.
She was at her job. She couldn’t possibly be in any danger. No one had ever been murdered in a Best Buy or kidnapped in a Target. If there was a safer location than a big box retail outlet owned by a global corporation, she couldn’t imagine it.
And yet she couldn’t shake her unease. She descended the stairs to the first floor and stopped at the bottom.
Now the noise was much softer: click, slam … click, slam … click, slam …
Just past the time clock, Amy saw the door to the partners’ entrance banging in the wind. Relieved, she smacked the exit bar and pushed it open, revealing the parking lot stained a chemical orange by sodium lights. She blinked, surprised to see that it was the middle of the night. Inside the store there were no windows, no skylights, no wall clocks, no way of telling the time or the temperature. Like a casino, Orsk existed in an eternal now. A warm, humid breeze flowed through the doorway. Apart from an unseen army of frogs croaking in the marsh, the night was completely silent.
Amy could see her little red Honda across the parking lot. She wished she could walk across the warm asphalt, slide behind the steering wheel, and drive … where? She couldn’t go home without the money she owed her roommates. She couldn’t leave without losing her job. She had nowhere to go.
Amy slammed the door of the partners’ entrance harder than she intended, and a shower of paint flakes rained from the ceiling. The door wouldn’t close, and she realized that something was jammed in the latch to keep it from striking home. Chewing gum, a giant pink wad of it. Amy contemplated digging it out, then decided that cleaning up gum was beyond her job description. If Basil wanted to be so responsible, he could tackle it.
He was frowning when she returned to the break area. “You can’t keep hiding in the toilet stalls. We need to start our sweeps.”
“The partners’ entrance is broken,” Amy said.
“Why were you downstairs?”
“I heard the door banging, so I decided to be responsible. Someone messed up the lock. You can’t close it.”
“A security breach,” Basil said. “You see? This is exactly why we’re here tonight!”
Horrorstor: A Novel Page 3
