Taking Stock (12 page)

Chapter Eleven

I stand on the sidewalk in front of Paul’s house for at least 5 minutes, hidden from view by a big leafy maple, holding a half case of beer. I can hear the party from out here.

I’m not sure I can exactly call anyone at Spend Easy my friend. Will they be glad to see me, or indifferent?

I take a deep breath and step into the driveway.

Someone left the door open. I enter the porch, and find Casey leaning against the wall, eyes closed, a bottle of wine dangling from his hand. As I’m untying my shoes the wine starts to fall, and I catch it. Casey glances down at me.

“Sheldon Mason,” he says, pronouncing each syllable with great care. “Here’s a man with a high case count.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s slackers in there.” He jerks his thumb toward the hall. “They should be thrown out!” He shouts this, and swings his arm around to point at the door, nearly swiping me across the face in the process.

“Think so?”

“I need a coffee.” He walks outside, not bothering with shoes.

“Do you want your wine?”

He points back at me without looking. “Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”

I put it in the corner and take off my other shoe. Jay-Z booms from deeper inside the house. As I walk down the hall, a door opens to my right, and Donovan emerges. “Sheldon! Follow me.” He leads me to Paul’s gaming/writing room and lifts a cloth draped over an end table. “Hide your beer here. There’s a Produce employee skulking around this party. He’ll probably try and steal our beverages.”

“Won’t they get warm?”

“Yes, so drink three or four right away. After that, you won’t care.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“When you drink all your beer, come find me. I have a couple shots of tequila with your name on them.” He heads farther down the hall. The Scissor Sisters pick up where Jay-Z left off.

Gilbert, Matt, and a guy I don’t know are sitting on the couch, and Paul is in the armchair. The three on the couch are holding Nintendo controllers. They’re playing Bomberman.

The current match ends, and Matt says, “I suck at video games.”

Gilbert notices me standing in the doorway. “Hey.”

“Hey Sheldon,” Paul says. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand. Who’s winning?”

“Gilbert. For now.”

Paul challenges Gilbert in Call of Duty, and for a while I watch them vie for supremacy. They seem pretty evenly matched. Eventually I decide to explore the rest of the party, so I grab another beer and head into the hall.

There are three people lined up to use the washroom. Lesley-Jo’s one of them, and she asks if I’ve seen Casey.

“He went to get a coffee. He’s not back yet?”

“I haven’t seen him. The nearest place to get coffee is a half hour walk. Oh my.”

“How many stitches did he end up getting?”

“Seven.”

In the living room, they’re playing a drinking game at the bar, and in the kitchen, they’re playing Poker. The guy from Produce is leaning against the counter by himself. I walk over.

“Hey,” I say. “Vern, right?”

“Yeah. You’re Sheldon.”

“Do you know many people here?”

“Well, from work.”

“You probably wish there were more here from Produce.”

Vern glances sideways, toward the Poker game. “Actually, I’m not here as a Produce employee. I’m here as Paul’s friend.”

“Of course.”

“That said, it’s been a real honour, rubbing shoulders with you Grocery guys. Excuse me. I need another drink.” He leaves the room.

I remain leaning against the counter, watching money change hands around the table. After a few minutes, Casey enters the kitchen and stumbles over to me, clutching the counter with both hands.

“Lesley-Jo was looking for you,” I say.

“I know. I just escaped her.”

“Why’d you want to escape?”

He doesn’t reply. He stares into the sink and belches. God, he’s drunk.

Someone sitting on this side of the table is holding four kings. “All in,” he says.

Casey looks at me and says, “Know what bothers me about people?”

“What?”

“Their annoying tendencies. Where’s my wine?”

“Porch. How was your coffee?”

“Couldn’t find a store.” He turns on the water and drinks from the tap, gargles, and spits. “She asked me to add her on Facebook.”

“Lesley-Jo?”

“Wants to keep tabs on me. Browser tabs.”

“Are you going to add her? She seems nice.”

“She’ll want me to change my relationship status, next.”

“She asked you out?”

“Not yet.” He turns around, his back to the sink. “She will, though. She’ll want me to say I’m ‘In a relationship’ on Facebook, so that once we have kids, other women will know to stay away.”

“What?” He’s making me not want to be near him. He’s making me want to avoid him for the rest of the party.

His voice is getting louder. “She’s trying to turn me into a vegetable. I won’t have it.”

Everyone sitting at the table stops playing and looks at Casey.

“Don’t fall in love,” he tells them. “It’s a trap!” He stomps out of the kitchen.

They look at me. If they want an explanation, I’ve got nothing for them. “I need another drink,” I say.

Walking down the hall, I become aware that I’m grinding my teeth.

Other than Gilbert and Matt, the game/scribbling room is empty. I grab a beer and walk toward a chair.

“You can sit by me, Sheldon,” Matt says. “There’s lots of room on the couch.”

“The chair is fine, thanks.” I sit.

Matt says, “That was kind of gay, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I asked you to sit with me. It doesn’t really matter where you sit.”

Gilbert and I exchange glances.

“You know, I could be gay,” Matt says. “I don’t find girls all that attractive. And I have these dreams, sometimes.”

“Look, Matt,” Gilbert says. “See the blank expression Sheldon is wearing right now? Take a few seconds and study that expression. Learn to recognize it. And the next time you see it on someone’s face, just stop talking.”

“I haven’t seen Brent,” I say. “What’s he doing tonight?”

“No clue,” Gilbert says.

“Was he invited?”

Gilbert shrugs.

I finish my beer and grab another. The second I sit down again, Donovan comes in and points at me with the hand holding a drink. “That your last one?”

“It’s my fourth.”

“Whatever. Follow me.”

I follow him to the kitchen, and he lines up a couple tequila shots on the counter. “I hope you’re not about to ask me for a slice of lemon, or some shit,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Good—I only have enough for myself.” He opens the fridge and takes a lemon slice from a little plate on the top shelf. He licks his hand, shakes some salt onto it, and picks up the shot. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

He licks the salt, takes the shot, and sucks on the lemon. I throw mine back and fight to keep a straight face. Donovan gags. “Delicious,” he says. He sips some beer, and I do too.

Cassandra comes into the kitchen, sees me, and squeals. “Sheldon!” She runs over and hugs me, pressing her head into my chest. “We finally get to party together.”

“I think this is my cue to leave,” Donovan says.

“I just came from another party.” Cassandra says. “I’m already drunk.”

“That’s awesome. Where’s Sean?”

She lets go of me. “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.”

“I need to use the washroom.”

“Okay. Talk to you after?”

“Maybe.”

Entering the washroom is like stepping into another world. Music and conversation become muffled once I shut the door, and I’m left alone with my thoughts, as well as the taste of tequila in the back of my throat. It’s like a brief intermission where I realize how drunk I am.

When I leave the washroom, I find Casey waiting to use it.

“Hey.”

“Did you wash your hands?” he says.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I didn’t hear the water running.”

“I washed them.”

“Did you use soap?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pay special attention to your wrists and fingertips?”

“No. I didn’t.”

His mouth turns downward at the corners. “You disgust me.” He goes in and slams the door.

I grab another beer and make my way to the living room. Paul calls out to me from the bar. “Sheldon! Come have some Gladiators with us.”

I walk over. “Some what?”

“Gladiators. Half a shot of amaretto mixed with half a shot of Southern Comfort, dropped in a mixture of 7UP and orange juice.”

“Are you sure that’s what gladiators drank?”

“You’ll love it.” He makes me one.

Gilbert, Cassandra, and Paul are all standing around the bar. “Cheers!” We all drink.

Silence.

“That was anticlimactic,” Gilbert says.

“Ooh, that’s a big word,” Cassandra says. “Did they teach you that in your Philosophy degree?”

I look at Gilbert. “You have a Philosophy degree?”

“No. I don’t.”

“He would have a Philosophy degree,” Cassandra says. “If he did one more course.” She holds up a finger, to indicate ‘one’.

“Why don’t you, then?” I say.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for the vast riches that await me.”

Casey drinks even more, and is soon so drunk that he shuts down the party. He ends up in the backyard with an armful of drinking glasses, smashing them one by one against the fence. Paul’s already called a cab to come collect him, but until then he asks me and Gilbert to help restrain him. Gilbert tells Cassandra to watch for the cab, and we put on our shoes and head out back.

“Casey,” Gilbert says. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” Casey says. “It’s under control. I’m breaking all the glasses, and then I won’t be able to drink any fucking more.”

“You were drinking from a wine bottle, earlier,” I say.

“Wine’s gone. All I have left is Lamb’s.”

“Paul has plastic cups too,” Gilbert says. “You can’t break those.”

Casey falters. “We could melt them.”

“Do you have a lighter?”

“No. Do you?”

Gilbert shakes his head.

“Damn it.”

Casey puts the glasses down on the grass. We get him into the house and onto a couch. He’s passed out by the time a cab arrives. Gilbert takes Casey’s phone from his pocket, looks through the Contacts, finds “Mom”, and calls her. He gets her address, and says her son is on the way. We carry him out to the taxi.

Most of the guests are gone by now, and the rest of us gather in the living room to watch TV. I sit on the floor against the wall, and after a few minutes Cassandra sits beside me and takes my hand. She holds it in her lap and strokes it.

I don’t talk to her, and I don’t look at her. But I don’t pull away, either.

Chapter Twelve

Gilbert and I are at the coffee shop again, at a table near the window, with drinks he purchased sitting between us. He just finished his shift, but he offered to take me here on my break before he went home.

I have a fierce headache.

“You and Cassandra were getting pretty cozy last night,” he says. He sips his coffee and peers at me over the rim.

“I didn’t do anything. She came over and took my hand.”

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?”

“Probably.”

“Did you hook up after the party?”

“No. God, no. And I only let her take my hand because I was drunk.”

“Sure.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“Only if you have something more interesting to talk about.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Wait. I have something. I think Frank smokes pot.”

His coffee halfway to his lips, Gilbert puts it back on the table. “What are you talking about?”

“The guy who lives in the apartment above me is a dealer. I saw Frank leaving there this morning. Pretty funny.”

“Does Frank know you saw him?” Gilbert says.

“I don’t think. Why?”

“Just curious.”

*

Bernice says I should be proud of the progress I’ve made with Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.

She thinks I’m pretty quick picking up the techniques. There are four steps: identifying problematic situations; becoming aware of thoughts, emotions, and beliefs about these situations; identifying negative or inaccurate thinking in response to the situations; and challenging the negative or inaccurate thinking. There have been worksheets and exercises for each step, and we’ve already progressed to the last one.

Once I’ve ‘mastered’ CBT, I’ll be able to mentally apply all four steps, in a matter of seconds, during the actual situations. In theory, anyway.

During each session with Bernice, I come up with examples from my life where the techniques I’m learning might have come in handy. I figure the first party I’ve ever attended should provide an excellent source for today’s session.

“Casey was at the party,” I say. “A guy I work with. He was super drunk—he kept ranting about how women use Facebook to keep track of their boyfriends, or something. It was embarrassing.”

“How did it make you feel, listening to that?”

“Well, embarrassed, like I said. I tried to change the subject a few times, but he wouldn’t quit it—it was like he was intentionally trying to piss me off. There were people at the kitchen table playing cards, and I was worried they’d think I’m Casey’s friend. Not to say I’m not his friend. But I was afraid they’d associate his behaviour with me.”

“Do you think any of your perceptions were negative or inaccurate?”

“Um,” I say, and take a moment. “Probably my assumption was, that the others would associate me with what he was saying.”

“What about the perception that Casey meant to anger you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me why those thoughts were negative or inaccurate?”

“I guess there was no reason to think Casey wanted to piss me off. He was just really drunk.”

“Anything else?”

I shrug.

“Do you think it was rational to assume the others would connect you with Casey’s actions?”

“No—it’s pretty common, I guess, for people to say weird stuff like that when they get hammered at parties.”

Bernice prompts me for another example, and I use Cassandra taking my hand at the end of the party. But I’m not sure this is a good example for CBT. After all, my perceptions of a situation won’t always be negative or inaccurate. What am I supposed to take from her holding my hand, except that she was making some sort of move?

I have mixed feelings. Cassandra still goes out with Sean, and she’s broken my heart so many times my default instinct is to avoid her.

But it felt good—my hand in hers.

*

On Christmas Eve, Casey and I are the only ones working in Grocery. Everyone else requested the day off—even Gilbert. I wonder what he could possibly be doing. I try to picture him going door-to-door carolling, or reading the Bible to seniors.

For the entire month of December, we’ve been subjected to the same jazz versions of Christmas songs over and over. “Jingle Bells” is especially grating. Paul told me that last year, Gilbert kept sneaking up to the control room and switching the CD for one filled with death metal. He hasn’t done it this year, but I wish he would. And I hate death metal.

If you’re buying your kids’ gifts from a grocery store on Christmas Eve, I’m not sure what that says about you. But there are a lot of those people here tonight, and they’re tipping well. The carryouts are constant, netting me $35 in four hours. Christmas loosens everyone’s purse strings.

When we’re not carrying stuff outside for customers, Casey and I are working a Dairy order. Shortly after six, Donovan visits with gifts for both of us. Casey turns red, and takes his to the warehouse without unwrapping it.

“I think that means ‘thanks,’” I say.

“Of course.”

“What did you get him?”

“Beer glass.”

I tear mine open. It’s a box that contains an expensive-looking pen, with my name embossed near the clip. There’s a tiny note, too: “Keep on truckin’.”

“That’s damn good advice,” I say. “Wow, Donovan. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”

“That’s okay. Just write me a book with the pen. That will be fine.”

“I’ll get right on it. How did you know I write?”

“Word gets around. What kind of book is it going to be?”

I think about it. “Well, I do have one idea I came up with in high school. It’s kind of weird.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s just one scene, but I think there’s a story there, somewhere. A man’s lying on the ground holding a surgical scalpel, and the woman who broke his heart stands nearby. He keeps demanding she use the scalpel to cut out his broken heart. She refuses, and calls him crazy. It’s supposed to be funny, but also a little sad.”

Donovan touches my forearm. “If it pleases God, you’ll do well.”

“Do you think assisted suicide pleases God?”

“God works in mysterious ways.”

A few weeks ago, I heard a rumour that Donovan regularly visits Frank’s office and reads the Bible with him. When I asked, Donovan said it’s true. He said Frank doesn’t have many people he can discuss religion with. “He has a lot of questions. Especially about the Old Testament.”

When Casey comes back, I ask if he liked Donovan’s gift.

“I liked throwing it out.”

“You threw out his gift?”

“Damn right. I don’t want anything to do with fucking Christmas. I don’t celebrate lying.”

“What?”

“First, they lied to me about a fat guy who rides a flying sleigh. Found out the truth of that when Dad tried putting out the presents drunk one year. And they still expect me to believe thousands of years ago a guy was born who can turn water into booze and knows when I’m watching porn. Fuck it. Fuck Christmas.”

Personally, I always liked Christmas. Mom would put on the fireplace channel, and we’d eat caramel corn.

A woman named Felicity Rogers calls the store with a list of groceries she’d like someone to put together for her. If we’ll gather the items, she’ll send a taxi to pick them up. I write them down, hang up, and tell Casey. He rolls his eyes.

“That bitch again. She calls all the time. Too lazy to do her own shopping.” He grabs the list. “I’ll get these. I need a break from Dairy anyway. It’s cold in that cooler.”

After the taxi collects Ms. Rogers’ order, Casey asks me to take my break and walk with him to a nearby gas station, which is where he buys his coffee.

“Isn’t there supposed to be Grocery personnel on the floor at all times?”

“Is work all you think about, Sheldon? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

We put on our coats and walk to the gas station. Casey buys an extra-large coffee and stirs in ample sugar and cream. He confides he has no idea whether the cream affects the taste. He just can’t bear the thought of drinking liquid that looks like it was spooned from a bog.

When we get back, Betty tells us Felicity Rogers left a message for us to call her. Betty gives me her number, and I take it back to the warehouse.

Ms. Rogers tells me half her groceries didn’t arrive. I put her on hold, and I fish the list out of the trash, where Casey threw it when he was finished. I think I know what happened. I wrote half the order on one side of the page, and half on the other. Casey probably missed the second side. I go up to the break room, and he confirms my suspicion. Shit.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rogers, it appears my co-worker missed half your order.  He didn’t realize I wrote it on both sides of the paper.”

She tells me she can’t afford another cab.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’m going to try and fix this.”

Casey comes bounding down the stairs and grabs his cart from next to the cardboard compactor. He’s downed his extra-large, and he’s a lit light—an engine firing on all cylinders.

“She can’t afford another cab,” I say. “Now what?”

“Now, screw her,” he says. “Now, it’s her problem.”

He jitters out of the warehouse.

I follow him. “The error’s on our end, Casey. It’s not her fault.”

“You think Spend Easy will spring for a taxi? Forget it. Go back to work.”

I stare at the list in my hand. Maybe I should call Ralph and ask him what to do. I don’t want to bother him on Christmas Eve, though.

I walk up to Frank’s office. I don’t expect him to be there, but he’s there anyway, bent over his desk, poring over some papers. “Merry Christmas,” I say.

He looks up at the wall. He grunts.

I explain the situation, volunteering to round up the missing items. I ask if Spend Easy will pay for their transportation to Ms. Rogers’ house.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t want you wasting company time gathering them. There’s an order to finish.”

“But it’s our mistake, and she can’t afford a cab. She may need the groceries for Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

“Are there no prisons?” Frank says. “And the union workhouses—are they still in operation? I wish to be left alone, sir! That is what I wish! I don’t make myself merry at Christmas, and I cannot afford to make idle people merry. I have been forced to support the establishments I have mentioned through taxation, and God knows they cost more than they’re worth. Those who are badly off must go there. And if they’d rather die, then they had better do it and decrease the surplus population!”

Okay, so that’s not exactly what he said. But you get the idea.

I go back to the warehouse and decide to call Ralph after all. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ralph. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sheldon. Is there a problem?”

I explain the situation.

“I’m afraid we can’t do anything for her,” Ralph says. “Gathering Felicity Rogers’ groceries is a special service. We don’t have to do it, and we’re certainly not responsible for her cab costs. It isn’t Spend Easy’s fault not all the groceries arrived. You’ll have to excuse me, Sheldon. My family and I are late for church.”

I hang up, and stare at the receiver for a few seconds. Then I walk to the freezer, where Casey is loading his cart. “I’m taking my second break.”

“You just had your first,” he says.

“Yeah. And now I’m taking my second.”

By now, I’ve made over $45 in tips. That covers most of the missing groceries, and I buy the rest using my credit card. My break ends just as I finish.

I call Felicity Rogers to tell her someone can come by with her groceries shortly after 10:00. She gives me the address. She lives in a different part of town from me, but our house numbers are the same.

I return to the sales floor to find Lesley-Jo chasing Casey around the frozen goods bunker, a sprig of mistletoe dangling from her fist.

“Stay back, woman!” he shouts. “I’m wise to your schemes!”

“Come back here, Casey-face!”

After my shift, I leave my bike chained in the parking lot and get in the cab with the groceries. The driver is untalkative. When we arrive, I see it’s actually a pretty nice house.

I grab the bags and bring them to the front door. A woman in her thirties answers, a small girl wrapped around her leg. Somewhere behind her, a stereo plays “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

“Felicity Rogers?” I say.

“She lives downstairs. The door is around the house, to your right.”

I walk around and descend six steps to the basement door. My first knock produces no results, and neither does my second. After the third I turn to go, but the knob turns, and the door opens a little.