Taking Stock (6 page)

“What about two weeks’ notice?”

Tommy shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. “You don’t get it, do you, Paul? Nobody needs to worry about their record of employment, anymore. It doesn’t matter how neatly the shelves are fronted. You don’t have to waste any more of your time doing society’s busywork.”

Paul sighs.

Tommy opens the magazine and holds it in front of my face. He points at a headline, which is printed in bright yellow block letters: “SUN TO EXPLODE JANUARY 12TH!”

“That’s in 178 days,” Tommy says. “The sun will go supernova in 178 days, a lot sooner than science predicted—thousands of years sooner.”

“Billions, actually,” I say.

“Exactly. Thousands and thousands of years. Anyway. There was an archaeological dig in Greece a few years ago, and they found one of the Bible’s lost books. It’s all in there. It matches up with Revelations, too, if you consider recent world events. The government’s trying to cover up the whole—”

“Tommy.”

Tommy’s eyes go even wider. “They wouldn’t publish it if it wasn’t true, Paul!”

“That article isn’t even mentioned on the cover.”

“They didn’t want to start a panic, duh. They say that in the article.”

“It’s a tabloid, Tommy. They’ll print anything.”

Tommy puts a hand on my shoulder. “Get right with God. Put aside old grudges, and contact those you’ve lost touch with. Tell your family you love them.” He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it in his pocket. “I gotta get going. I’m late for paintball.”

Paul and I are silent for a moment after Tommy leaves.

“Anyway,” I say. “Do you know Cassandra?”

“Yeah, cashier, right? Hot?”

“She’s all right.”

“She’s sexy as hell. Pretty sure she’s taken, though—I’d ask her out if she wasn’t. What about her?”

“Never mind.” I wanted to see how far Ernie’s gossip has spread, but I’ve lost all desire to talk about her.

I find a banana rotting behind some boxes of baking soda, and I take it back to the warehouse to throw out.

Eric is standing next to the garbage chute with one of the Meat workers—Joshua, I think. The chute’s door is open, so I guess they were throwing some stuff out, but that’s not what they’re doing now. Eric’s face is red, and blood streams from Joshua’s nose. Eric is gripping Joshua’s shoulder with his left hand.

“What happened?” I say, and Eric stares at me, blank-faced. Joshua stares at the floor.

“I opened the door too fast,” Eric says finally. “I didn’t realize he was standing there.” He shakes him lightly. “Joshua?”

Joshua nods, eyes still on the floor.

Chapter Five

A shift at Spend Easy imparts an odour difficult to describe—not revolting, but not too agreeable, either. It’s the smell of product that’s been handled several times, packed into boxes, left sitting in warehouses, shipped long distances. The skin of the hands and forearms becomes papery. The odour is strongest, there.

After a long, hot shower, I walk around the house to Sam’s apartment, where he’s playing Super Nintendo in his pajamas. He’s in the middle of a Grand Prix in Mario Kart, but once he snags first he switches over to Battle Mode, and we play till after midnight. He kicks my ass, repeatedly.

I’m about to request we switch games when he gets a customer—Al. I recognize him from the dinner party. We go out on the deck, and Sam produces a joint. Al has a couple puffs and holds it toward me.

Sam takes it from his hand.

“That’s not for Sheldon.”

Al lifts an eyebrow. “Getting stingy, Sammy?”

“That’s not it.”

“What, then?” I say. “Out of curiosity.”

“I don’t sell to 20-year-olds.”

“Okay then, Mom.”

We go inside, and Al plays video games with us for a few hours, until he feels all right to drive home.

“Not sure why you’re so uptight about me smoking pot,” I say when Al leaves.

“It’s not good for you.”

“That’s such shit. You smoke it.”

“I mean it’s not good for you. You, specifically.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think the Zoloft’s for, Sheldon? I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Al. But we already know your brain chemistry’s volatile. They prescribed you Zoloft to try and balance it out. Do you really want to add THC, and risk throwing it off again?”

I stare at the TV, stuck on the game’s victory screen—Sam’s victory. I know he’s making sense, but I’m pissed off, so I don’t say anything.

“I’ve smoked for years, Sheldon—I know I’m fine with it. Plenty of people are. For some it’s a painkiller, others use it for anxiety. Most smoke for fun, and never have a problem with it. But I’ve also seen a couple people go right off the deep end. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

“All right.”

“No offense, Sheldon, but you’re already pretty paranoid. You don’t need pot.”

“All right, Sam.”

“Okay.”

I sigh. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you want me to mention your name to anyone at Spend Easy?”

He doesn’t answer for a couple seconds. “Let’s just say the person I know at Spend Easy would prefer my name didn’t come up.”

“Is it a client of yours?”

“You know I don’t discuss that.”

I want to tell him about seeing Eric and Joshua near the trash compactor—about Joshua’s ruined nose.

But clearly Sam stresses out about me enough, as it is. And anyway, I’m probably being dumb. The security cameras can see where they were standing. If Eric had done something to Joshua, there’d be a record of it.

We play a few more rounds of Mario Kart, but I’m not really in the mood for it anymore. I tell Sam good night and walk around the house to my place.

*

Tonight I’m fronting with Brent, who spends most of his time in the warehouse. Meaning I need to move twice as fast if I’m going to front the whole store. I’m not worried, though. I’m getting pretty quick at it. Plus, there’s something calming about looking back at a wall of product you’ve assembled—a temporary bulwark against entropy.

Ernie finds me in Aisle Two and asks if I’ve seen his nametag anywhere. “It keeps going missing,” he says.

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave it lying around.”

“I guess. Hey, are you free to hang tomorrow night?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What about Saturday?” He’s holding a white coffee cup, and as he sips from it he peers at me over the lid.

“No.”

“Well, maybe Sunday, then. I’ll have to see if I’m working. I think Ralph is posting the schedule tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Ernie. You’ll definitely have to get back to me about that.”

“I’m really glad we got the chance to spend time together, Sheldon. When we were in high school, I used to sometimes think you didn’t like me. Every now and then, I even got the feeling you looked down on me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Well I’m glad to learn it isn’t true. At least, if it was true then, it certainly shouldn’t be now. You have no reason to look down on me.”

“You mean, other than being taller than you?”

Ernie takes another sip, and then raises his coffee a few inches into the air. “This looks disposable, doesn’t it? It looks like your everyday disposable cup.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, though.” He taps on the side of the cup with his fingernail. “It’s made of porcelain, and it’s reusable. My mug looks disposable, but, in actual fact, it’s saving the planet.”

“That’s—”

“Why were you wearing Velcro sneakers on your first shift? And why haven’t you worn them since?”

The tightness in my chest returns. I didn’t realize it was gone.

“Well?” Ernie says.

“I hate shoelaces,” I say at last.

Ernie grunts. “The carts need to be brought in,” he says. “Gilbert and Brent already called ‘not it’, and I’m on break. Wanna go do that for me?” He turns and struts in the direction of the warehouse.

I don’t know when Ernie discovered environmentalism. Sometime between high school and now, I guess. He’s made it his mission to make sure every cardboard box gets broken down and put in the cardboard compactor, where it’ll get recycled, instead of in the trash compactor, where it won’t.

Earlier tonight, he tried to prevent Gilbert from wasting cardboard by locking up the garbage chute. Gilbert grinned, and 20 minutes later the padlock had disappeared. Ernie confronted him.

“What did you do with the lock?” he said, his face getting red. “Our species doesn’t own this planet, Gilbert. We’ve only borrowed it. You need to recycle. We all need to.”

Gilbert laughed. “Let me tell you about recycling, Ernest, you waste of ejaculate. Unless 100 percent of everything gets recycled—and it doesn’t—resources will run out. You can reduce and reuse all you want. Society depends on several key resources, and when just one of those is gone, there goes society.”

Saturday comes, and I’m working then, too—6:00 to 10:00. Just as I’m beginning to wonder who’s helping me front, Tommy shows up, wearing a uniform. Without speaking, he reaches into the shelf for a bottle of dish detergent. He doesn’t make it, though. His hand drops to his side. He sighs.

“I thought you quit,” I say.

“My parents wouldn’t let me. They called Ralph and told him to ignore my resignation.” He runs a hand through his sparse hair. “I don’t want to die fronting.”

“You don’t have to worry yet. The supernova’s not till after Christmas, right?”

He nods. “174 days.”

*

The psych ward was plastered all over with inspirational messages.

“If a window of opportunity appears, don’t pull down the shade.”

“He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.”

“The only job where you start at the top is digging a hole.”

One afternoon, Sam made up his own: “It’s better to lead a life filled with failure than one filled with apathy.”

When I felt over-inspired, I sat in the TV room. There weren’t any inspirational messages in there. This particular evening, there was a patient I hadn’t seen before. He was sitting cross-legged, and bouncing up and down. He met my glance with a wide smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He looked back at the TV, still bouncing. I tried not to stare, but it was hard to avoid looking out the corner of my eyes. He caught me, and said, “Can I help you?”

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you bouncing like that?”

His smile didn’t change. “Why not bounce? Life is too short. There should be more bouncing.” Continuing to bounce, he picked up the remote control from a nearby table and changed the channel.
America’s Next Top Model
was on. “Those people want to be models,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Have they made reality TV out of your dream yet?”

“Sorry?”

“I always wanted to be a chef. Then they made a reality TV show about becoming a successful one, and now I don’t want to do it anymore. What do you want to be?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. If you could be anything.”

“A writer, I guess. I don’t think they’ve made one about that.”

“They will. Soon. You’ll watch aspiring writers do treacherous things to each other, and endure unspeakable humiliation on national television, in order to achieve their dreams. You’ll realize you aren’t willing to do any of those things. Then you’ll just give up.”

He changed the channel, still bouncing. “When you’re insane, everything makes such perfect sense. Would you agree?”

“Oh, I don’t—I’m not—”

“Everything seems to just add up, you know? Little things you never even thought about before you were nuts, they all seem to fit together. Do you want to be alive?”

“I—”

“Sane people want to survive. Humans are hardwired to survive. If everything upstairs is ticking along smoothly, you want to be alive. But it’s funny, you know. The most successful people are risk takers. When you take a risk, you jeopardize your security—your finances, your relationships, your personal safety. It’s downright suicidal. But the most successful people take risks. It’s insane. Know what else is funny? In order to be really good at something—in order to be a truly world class whatever—you have to be obsessive about it. You have to want to do it all the time. You have to be a little insane.”

He changed the channel. He bounced.

The Professor walked in. He said, “Global warming is like finding out the entire human race has terminal cancer.”

I couldn’t handle them. Not both of them. I got up and left.

*

One of the challenges of working around food is wanting to eat all of it. Case in point: as I’m fronting rice chips, I get an acute craving for rice chips, which is followed by the realization that now would be a fine time for my break. I grab the rice chips and bring them to the cash registers.

On my way through the warehouse to the break room, I’m accosted by Eric, who puts out an arm to block my path. “Hey there, vegan. What are we eating, today?”

“Rice chips. Do you want to read the ingredients?”

He doesn’t lower his arm. It’s pressed against my chest. I stay where I am.

“I need to get by,” I say. “My break is running out.”

“Don’t whine, vegan. Tell me, do you think you’re better than me?”

“What?”

“The way you act, when I’m around—I’m starting to get the impression you think you’re better than me.”

“Why would—”

“I had command of a unit in Afghanistan, you know. And I had a soldier, once, who thought he was better than me. In fact, he thought he was better than everybody. It made him insubordinate, and so I had to discipline him. Now, I could have gone through the chain of command to do this. They would have given him a slap on the wrist, and probably he’d have continued behaving the exact same way. But I didn’t do that. Do you know what I did?”

I don’t want to know what Eric did. I want to take my rice chips up to the break room and eat them. I try to maintain a bored expression.

“I took him out behind the barracks,” Eric says, “where no one else could see. And I dealt with him. I dealt with him in much the same way alpha lions are known to settle disputes. We didn’t have any issues, after that.”

“Will you let me pass, now?”

He lowers his arm. “Sure, vegan. Enjoy your rice chips.”

Gilbert and Brent are already in the break room, sitting across from Jack, the assistant manager of Produce. Jack is observing Gilbert and Brent sternly—though, as I understand it, that’s how he does most of his observing. Even while on break, he’s still wearing the black cap Produce guys wear, red curls sticking out underneath.

“Look, Jack,” Gilbert says. “Sheldon’s here. Now we outnumber you.”

“You outnumbered me before he came. Idiot.”

“Right, sorry. I suck at math. I guess that’s why I’ve been working in a grocery store for eight years.”

“You’ve only worked here two years.”

“Damn. Right again. You’re the one who’s been here eight years.”

I sit at the end of the table with my rice chips.

“Do you have a receipt for those?” Jack says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hold on, I’ll—”

“He’s not talking to you,” Gilbert says. “He’s asking about my Ringolos. And yes, Jack, I do have a receipt.”