Taking Stock (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

I call in sick the next day, too.

As an apology, Gilbert brings me a big bag of weed, and the third day I smoke a lot of it and then call in sick again.

I still haven’t buried Brute.

“So, what are you sick with?” Ralph asks when I call in for the third day.

“I’m just not feeling well.”

“But, what’s causing you to not feel well?”

“Not. Feeling. Well.”

“I’m going to need you working tomorrow, Sheldon. We’re swamped, in here.”

“I’ll see how I’m feeling.”

Going through old photos of Mom, and of Brute, only makes it worse. I put them away and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. I’m beginning to feel like I did before.

I call Spend Easy again, and ask for Theresa’s number. It’s a small miracle that she isn’t working today, and that she picks up when I call her.

“Hello?”

“Theresa, this is Sheldon. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I think I need someone here right now.”

“Where do you live?”

She’s over within an hour. I tell her what happened, and she gives me a hug, and helps me bury Brute in the backyard. Then we watch
Fight Club
.

Partway through she leans against me, and I put my arm around her.

*

After Theresa leaves, I turn on my computer and open the word processor, but nothing comes. I switch it off. I go into the kitchen and sit at the table for a few minutes, staring at the wall.

I walk to my room and turn on the computer once more. I look up the number for the penitentiary.

“Hi,” I say when someone answers. “I’d like to speak with Herman Barry.”

“Is he a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Inmates can’t take calls.”

“Oh. Well, can I leave a message? It’s important.”

“Are you able to tell me his date of birth?”

“No.”

“Are you personally acquainted with the inmate?”

“I’ve never met him. But he killed my mother in a drunk driving accident.”

There’s a pause. “I see. What’s the message?”

“Tell him Sheldon Mason forgives him.”

Another silence. “All right. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

*

I’m back to work the day after Theresa comes over.

“Feeling better?” Ralph says.

“Much!”

But Ralph seems a bit off today, and he’s not the only one. A couple of the cashiers, who would normally say hello as I come in, seemed kind of standoffish, too. Does a guy really get this much flak for calling in sick? I mean, sure, it was three days in a row, but I’d never done it before. Doesn’t a high case count count for anything around here?

I’m restocking bottles of dish detergent when Cassandra walks up to me. “I read your story,” she says.

Uh oh.

“It must be nice, getting to say all those awful things about me.”

“I didn’t say anything about you, Cassandra.”

“Right. Sure. You know, Sheldon, you think you’re this fascinating enigma, when actually, you’re really boring. Do you know that?” She walks back to the cash registers without waiting for an answer.

Throughout the remainder of the shift, I slowly realize that everyone is like this, now. Co-workers who once greeted me warmly avert their eyes, or avoid me completely. When I go upstairs for a break there are already five employees there, and they all fall silent as I enter. Just like they used to with Randy.

“Told you so,” Gilbert says, when I describe the scene to him later.

Paul’s working the order tonight, too, and toward the end of my shift I run into him in Aisle Three. He doesn’t avert his eyes.

“You read the story?” I say.

“I did.”

“And?”

“No big deal.”

“So you know I didn’t base it on her.”

“Oh, it’s pretty clear you based it on her, Sheldon. Criticized her, in spite of the shit she’s been through. The shit you played a key part in.”

“But…no big deal?”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “Because I’m not worried about Cassandra. She’s keeping the baby, you know. Her Dad’s going to help her out with it. Plus, she just got promoted to Front End Manager—she plans to work as many hours as she can before maternity leave, and save some money. Cassandra’s going to be fine.”

“That’s awesome,” I say.

“I just hope you weren’t concerned your writing would have some kind of negative effect on her, Sheldon. Your writing doesn’t have that kind of power. So you can put your mind at rest about that.”

*

I’m getting sick of this whole ‘story scandal’, and it’s only getting worse. I send it to Theresa, and ask her what she thinks. She says the situation with Cassandra probably did influence it, but that’s how inspiration works. To some extent, all authors put their lives in their books.

When I take a break during my next shift, I realize I’ve forgotten my supper at home, and I don’t have any money with me. I go up to the break room, where Gilbert is spraying whipped cream on cookies and eating them.

“Where’s your veggie slop?” he says.

‘“Forgot it.”

“Want a cookie?”

“I’m guessing you didn’t pay for them.”

“You are correct,” he says around a creamy mouthful. “No stolen goods for Sheldon, though, right? Wouldn’t want people thinking he’s unorthodox.”

“I’ll have one,” I say.

He takes two, tops them with whipped cream, and mashes them together. I stuff them into my mouth, whole.

“These are delicious,” I say.

“Depravity always is. Wanna smoke a joint?”

Sometimes, on nights he’s running late, the guy who brings the order unhinges the truck’s cab and leaves the container there for a few hours. Gilbert unlocks the back door, and we go out and crouch under the container, near one of the tires.

I’m pretty buzzed by the time we go back in. Luckily, I keep some eye drops in my jacket for when I’m stoned in public, and I head up to the bathroom to squeeze some in each eye. Then I return to the break room, where Gilbert has resituated himself.

“Can I borrow five bucks?”

“Why? You don’t have to pay for stuff, Sheldon. Just take it.”

“That’s stealing.”

“So was eating those cookies.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna take a whole bag of chips.”

Gilbert rolls his eyes and fishes a five out of his pocket.

I grab a bag of Cheezies, a can of Pepsi, and a bar. I go to Lesley-Jo’s cash register, since she’s the only cashier working tonight who doesn’t currently hate me. She rings everything through.

“That’s $5.37, Sheldon.”

I hesitate, and then pass her the five-dollar bill Gilbert gave me.

“This isn’t enough,” she says.

I take it back. “Screw it, then. I’ll put it all back.” I gather everything into my arms.

“Why don’t you just not buy the bar, or something?”

“I’m putting it all back.”

I don’t, though. I keep walking, through the warehouse, and up the stairs.

*

I’ve noticed Eric spends his breaks sitting alone in his car. Last week, on one such occasion, I snuck into the Meat room and found the black binder with the employee schedule inside. After memorizing what nights Eric wasn’t working, I snuck back out.

Tonight is one of those nights. It’s also a Wednesday: no orders are due to come in, and staff’s at a minimum. The perfect night to have a look around the Meat department. Matt’s the only one working, and as soon as I see him go up to the break room I duck inside Meat.

I check the desk, rifling through folders and laminates. It all seems like standard Meat stuff, I guess. Information about orders, policies, procedures, and so on.

There’s a sound from the next room—the one with the window to the sales floor—and I freeze, holding my breath.

I’m starting to wish I’d stayed sober for this.

Other than the desk, there isn’t much of interest in here. Everything’s kept pretty tidy. Searching the next room would be too risky, since anyone can see into it.

The last place left to look is the small walk-in freezer that’s only accessible from here.

It occurs to me I should have brought a watch—I have no idea how much break Matt has left. I need to be quick, but I’m not eager to enter that freezer.

What if Eric drops in for some reason? There’s no camera here.

I go in and start shifting boxes, checking behind them. After every one I glance into the Meat room. But there are too many boxes, and not enough time. Besides, anything hidden behind product would be quickly uncovered by an employee—it’s not a good place to hide something.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

I crouch, and start feeling under the lowest shelves. My hand bumps against some plastic, and I realize it’s taped to the metal. I hear footsteps just as I’m ripping it off.

There’s no time to escape. The only way to conceal myself would be to pull the freezer door shut, and there’s no way I’m doing that.

Matt appears in the doorway. He sees what I’m holding, and his eyes go wide.

I look, too. It’s a plastic bag stuffed full of weed.

“You need to get out of here, Sheldon,” he says. “Please.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Donovan’s fridge is well-stocked. He has grapes. He has Orange Crush. He has the delicious parfaits in a cup we sell at Spend Easy. I grab two of those, and take them into the living room.

“Why don’t you help yourself, Sheldon?” Donovan says.

Gilbert takes out a cigar, and lights it.

“Gross,” I say. “Don’t smoke that in here.”

“It’s a blunt. It’s filled with weed.”

“Oh. Awesome.”

Gilbert takes a few hits and passes it to Donovan, who does the same, and says, “I’m quitting pot, by the way.”

“Sure you are,” Gilbert says. “This can be your retirement blunt.”

After I found the bag of weed in Meat, I figured Eric must be selling drugs out of his department. Probably packages it up with meat and gives it to customers. And he knocks around his employees who show any signs of exposing him.

Then I showed the bag to Gilbert. “Hey,” he said. “That’s mine.” And he plucked it from my hand.

It turns out Gilbert has stashes hidden in the cameras’ blind spots all over the store, for when he’s working overnight shifts. He isn’t worried about getting caught—there’d be no way to prove they’re his.

“Paul tells me he’s shopping his book to publishers, now,” Donovan says.

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe you should have sent your book to publishers. Instead of sending it to the entire Spend Easy staff.”

“That wasn’t me, Donovan. It was you. And thanks to you, working there is now a pain in the ass.”

“Actually,” Gilbert says, “I’ve solved that problem for you. Have you checked this week’s schedule?”

“No. Why?”

“I lobbied Frank to tell Ralph to schedule us for a bunch of overnights. You won’t have to deal with Cassandra. No customers. We can just sit around, get high, and eat.”

“Gilbert, I told you not to blackmail Frank on my behalf.”

“It’s not like I told him to give you a raise.”

“Well, I’m not slacking off with you. If we’re doing this, work needs to get done.”

“Agreed. That’s why I told Frank to schedule Tommy to work overnights too.”

“Why?”

“He does whatever I tell him. He can do all the work.”

“I’ll be working, too.”

“Suit yourself.”

*

Every time I look at the clock now, I see 37. I notice it other places, too. Donovan just bought a 37-inch TV. We drive down Route 37 all the time. I added up the barcode on my favourite flavour of chips, and I got 37.

The first overnight reminds me of the time we snuck in here and ordered 500 boxes of condoms. Most of them are still on a pallet in the warehouse, but they’ll probably expire before Frank manages to sell them all. An innovator would give them out for free, to promote safe sex and reap the attendant PR. Then again, I guess that would reduce Spend Easy’s future clientele.

We take it easy for the first hour or so, then we get to work. At least, Tommy and I get to work. Gilbert lies on a pallet in the warehouse and goes to sleep, using his coat for a pillow.

We finish checking the Frozen overstock around three, and then we start on the racks. Gilbert emerges half an hour after that, blinking.

“Slow down, cowboy,” he says.

“Can’t. Too full of energy. I love doing this stuff stoned.”

“I can see that. Reminds me of when I first started smoking.”

“When was that? Second grade?”

He laughs. “Way before that. Mom swallowed a joint during pregnancy, and I hotboxed the womb.”

“Man. We should get Tommy high.”

Tommy’s restocking canned soup at the other end of the aisle. I call out to him. “Hey, Tommy! Wanna smoke a joint?”

“No.”

“Come on. Everyone’s doing it.”

He looks over. “Stop peer pressuring me.”

“I’m not peer pressuring you. You aren’t my peer.”

He goes back to placing soup cans on the shelf. “Why don’t you write a book about it?”

Another overnight, Casey and Lesley-Jo visit us.

Lesley-Jo tells me she read “The King of Diamonds”.

“Did you like it?”

“I did. Some of it seemed a bit unrealistic, though.”

“Like what?”

“Well, a lot of the characters do horrible things, and the consequences never seem proportional.”

I frown. “How is that not like real life?”

Two weeks pass like this. Ralph compliments us on our work—he says he loves walking through neatly fronted shelves to a clean warehouse every morning. “Frank agrees with me,” he says. “He wants the overnights to continue.”

The truth is, I’ve been doing less work, and Tommy’s been doing more.

Gilbert talks to him a lot about the impending machine takeover. He suggests to him that our mechanical overlords may reward those who work the hardest to sustain the society that will birth the machines.

One night, when we’re all in Aisle Three, Gilbert says, “Tommy.”

“Yes?” Tommy stops working.

“I’m about to tell you something important.”

“What?”

“This is the only time anyone will say this to you. So listen carefully. You’re probably going to think I’m joking, or playing a trick. But I’m not.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t exist, Tommy. And neither does Sheldon.”

“You don’t?”

“You’re the only one who exists in the entire world. Tommy, the machines have already taken over, and they’ve created this world for you.” Gilbert plucks at Tommy’s sleeve. “This body—it’s not your real body. You’re really a brain floating in a nutrient-rich fluid, being stimulated electronically, by a computer. This whole reality is simulated. The machines are caring for you right now, Tommy. They’re always going to care for you.”

Tommy looks up at the fluorescent lights. He clears his throat.

“I don’t think I buy it, Gilbert.”

“You don’t?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

*

I’m beginning to understand the real reason Gilbert wanted to work overnights. We’ve started getting frequent visitors, whom Gilbert goes outside to meet. At night, he can sell them weed out of his Hummer with much less risk.

He comes back from one such trip and finds me restocking lima beans in Aisle Two. He stands there for a few seconds.

“Is something wrong with you?” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been pissy all night.” He pauses. “Wait. Is today your birthday?”

“It was yesterday. It ended at midnight.” I’m now 21, but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. “How did you know?”

“Donovan told me it was coming up. Not to mention you’ve been acting like a little girl this shift. It wasn’t hard to piece together.”

“Don’t make it a big deal, okay?”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t want to take away your opportunity to wallow in self-pity. But I am buying you a birthday present.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I will, though. I know just what to get you.”

*

Overnights end at seven in the morning. Gilbert drives me home, and I’m in bed by eight.

At nine, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. Finally, it stops. Then it rings again.

I get out of bed and trudge to the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, I’m Bradley. I’m calling you this morning to tell you that you’re awesome.”

“What?”

“You’re an awesome person and you deserve awesome things to happen to you.” His words belie his tone, which is flat and bored.

“Who is this?”

“Bradley.”

“Yes, you said that, but how do I know you?”

“You don’t. For your birthday, an anonymous person has given you the gift of being called every day and told how awesome you are.”

“That’s a thing?”

“It’s a service we provide.”

“How long will this go on?”

“30 days.”

“Can I cancel?”

“Your anonymous benefactor has already paid in full. So, no.”

“Great.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up.

*

Overnights have completely rearranged my sleep schedule. I sleep in the day now, and I’m awake all night, even when I’m not working. To make it worse, I still work the occasional day shift, which really throws things off.

Tonight is Saturday, and me and Gilbert are both off. Neither of us has slept in 24 hours. We’re sitting at his kitchen table, high, wide awake. With nothing to do.

“I’ll pay you to cancel that daily pep talk thing,” I say.

He looks up from his phone. “Sorry?”

“The guy calling me every day, telling me how awesome I am? I need it to stop.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know it was you. You said you were getting me a present, and then that started happening.”

“Maybe it was Donovan.”

“Donovan gave me his pipe.”

“All right. It was me. And I’m totally not cancelling.”

“Damn.” I cross my arms on the table and lean my head on them. Gilbert resumes texting.

“Know of any parties?” I say.

“No. Do you?”

I laugh.

“Wanna go for a drive?” he says.

“Okay.”

We grab some fast food and then cruise around town, seeking something interesting. We find it in the form of a party in a three-story townhouse. We don’t know who lives there, but the music is loud, and people are dancing in three different windows. The house number is 37.

We park a couple blocks away. As we approach, a guy and a girl leave the house and head down the street together in the opposite direction.

In the porch, four people are standing around smoking weed. “Hey,” some guy says when we enter.

“Hey,” Gilbert says.

“Who are you?”

“I’m with Sheldon.” He jerks his thumb back at me.

“Okay. Well, you guys want a beer?”

“Just one? Between us?”

“One each.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

The guy reaches behind him and extracts two bottles from a case sitting on the floor. Gilbert takes his and inserts himself into the joint circle. “So,” he says. “What are we talking about?” He glances back at me, and beckons me forward. “Don’t be shy, Sheldon. Join us. Grab your beer.” Someone passes Gilbert the joint, and he hits it.

“The Libya intervention,” another guy says.

“Why?” I ask. “That was forever ago.”

The guy smirks. “Dale’s a political science major. He brought it up.”

Another guy—Dale, I guess—says, “We’re talking about whether protecting civilians from Gaddafi was a good enough reason for all those countries to send in armed forces. I think it was.”

“That’s not why they went,” Gilbert says.

“Yeah it is.”

“No, it’s not. They went because all the uprisings had them spooked about the oil supply. The U.S. has defended their energy interests in the Middle East for decades. Now the rest of the West is waking up to the fact that oil’s running out. This is only the beginning. The resource wars haven’t even started yet.”

“The what?”

“Are you a poli-sci major?” Dale asks.

“I just read between the lines. Can we have more beers?”

The guy who gave us the first two shakes his head. “I only bought a dozen.”

We finish the joint, and our former beer supplier takes a second one from behind his ear. He holds it up. “This joint is a descendent of the first one I ever smoked. When we’re finished, I want the roach back. I’ll rip it up and put it into my next joint. The cycle will continue.”

“That’s legendary, dude,” the guy to his right says.

When we’re done, Gilbert ends up with the roach. The guy takes out a Ziploc bag and opens it. “Okay,” he says. “Drop it in.”

“What’s it worth to you?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s a lineage.” He steps closer.

Gilbert holds the roach near his mouth. “I’ll eat it. I will put this roach in my mouth and I’ll swallow it.”

“Okay, man. Okay. I’ll give you a beer.”

“One for my friend, too.”

“Two beer. No problem.”

“Give them to Sheldon.”

He does. Gilbert deposits the roach in the baggie. “Come on, Sheldon.” He starts up the nearby staircase. “Let’s check this shit out.”

I follow.

The staircase reverses direction halfway up, and Gilbert disappears around the bend. When I reach the top, he’s already talking to a girl leaning against the wall, drinking a cooler. He turns to me. “Look, Sheldon. I found you one!”