Taking Stock (5 page)

“You wouldn’t?”

“I’d refuse. You’re not even on shift right now, and that isn’t sanitary. Go home.”

“But he’s my boss.”

“He’s your boss during working hours. And even then, I’d tell him to go screw himself. You’re allowed to refuse unsafe work, you know. There are probably things living in there.” With that grim prophecy, Brent enters Spend Easy, leaving me with a barely diminished mound of waste. Now that I’ve disturbed it, flies are buzzing peevishly around, landing on my shirt and skin. I fight an urge to vomit.

Brent’s right—this is bullshit. I’d be well within my rights to abandon it, at least until my shift starts, and probably then, too.

I consider whether Mom would have continued cleaning out this garbage. I’m thinking yes. Not because she was the sort of woman to put up with bullshit, but because she was such an idealist. I’m pretty sure she would have been nodding right along with Ralph’s pep talk. She wouldn’t have just earned her paycheck—she would have gone way beyond that.

It turns out nothing larger than a fly lives in the garbage. There is, however, a congealed mixture of coffee, melted ice cream, and soda waiting for me at the bottom. I return to the Service counter and ask Betty for paper towels. She tears off a few sheets. I tell her I’ll need the whole roll.

*

I never knew my father. He contributed his sperm, and not much else. Mom never spoke about him, except once, when I asked if he was alive—yes—and if she knew where he was—no. After that I decided I didn’t care to learn anything else about him. If he gave up my mother, then he wasn’t very interesting to me.

Mom studied business and philosophy in university. Business helped her navigate the world as a single mother. Philosophy helped her die.

Her favourite philosopher was Plato. I didn’t learn to read till I was nearly seven, but even as I struggled with kindergarten readers, I knew the principles behind Plato’s
Crito
backward and forward. It was one of my bedtime stories, and Mom would do the voices—calm and wise for Socrates, slow and dumb for
Crito
. I knew why it was Socrates’ duty to drink the poisonous hemlock, even though he felt his sentence was unjust. He did it to uphold the laws of Athens.

Socrates believed we should obey the law simply because we’re citizens—because the law keeps us safe. That’s called a social contract. 2000 years later, I think Mom assumed everyone had signed the contract. She would leave her things unattended in public places, since, you know, theft is against the law. And guess what? Her stuff was always waiting when she came back. Purse, laptop, shopping bags—nobody ever stole them.

I wish they had.

My mother would walk across crosswalks with her eyes straight ahead, heedless of traffic, since, you know, pedestrians have the right of way. This is how she lived. Cars would screech to a halt, inches away, horns blaring, and she would just smile. She lived in a better place. It wasn’t until she was 37 that disillusionment came.

Two years ago, on June 30th, my mother was killed by a drunk driver while crossing the crosswalk two kilometres from our apartment. It was 5:37 PM.

*

My bedroom floor is a sea of white, grey, and black, with a single patch of bright yellow near the bed, which I pick up and pull on. I dig a pair of black pants out of my closet, as well as some old black shoes—not Velcro, this time. I’ll never wear those again, if I can help it.

In the kitchen, I hit the microwave’s RESET button and the time appears: 4:50 PM. 10 minutes to get to work. I go outside and get on my bike.

I enter the warehouse a couple minutes to five. Gilbert is sitting on a big box of toilet paper, doing something on his smartphone, and Ralph is standing at his desk, using the computer.

I have a punch card, now. I drop it into the punch clock, which makes a sound like a strangling robot.

Ralph walks over. “Evening, Sheldon. I want you to keep an eye on the cart corrals outside. Bring in the carts when you see the corrals getting full.” He turns to Gilbert. “Hey. You’ve been sitting there for an hour. Time to do some work.”

Gilbert doesn’t look up. “I have been working.”

Ralph raises his eyebrows. “I think we’re operating under different definitions of the word.”

“Think so? Mine is ‘anything you’re paid for’.”

Tonight I’m fronting with Matt, who was hired the week before I was. He’s short, with greasy black hair and a lot of pimples.

“I’m practically a midget,” Matt says, “and my face is covered in pimples. I smell, because I don’t shower enough, because I’m lazy. And I’m too old to be working here.”

“You’re not that short,” I say.

There are a lot more guys on in Grocery than there were yesterday. Gilbert, Brent, Ernie, Matt, a guy I haven’t met yet, and me. Ernie happens by occasionally with a cartload of product to stock, but the guy I don’t know is the only one I see frequently, and he doesn’t stop to chat. He goes as fast as his towering cartloads will allow. He turns corners quickly, his tower wobbling, and he only pauses long enough to rip open a box and cram its contents onto the shelf. Then he throws himself against his cart and speeds away.

Matt and I have fronted our way to Aisle Three when the store intercom emits two beeps. “Grocery personnel to Aisle Two for a cleanup.”

“I should probably go get that,” Matt says. He runs a hand through his greasy hair, and fronts a stack of tuna cans.

“It’s fine. I’ll get it.”

There’s a box of spaghetti noodles on the floor of Aisle Two, the majority of its contents scattered around it.

Lesley-Jo is behind the Service counter today, looking bored, but she grins when she sees me coming. “I hear I accidentally sold you contraband, yesterday.”

“The roast duck?”

She nods, and adjusts her glasses. “Rumour has it you turned down Eric when he offered you a position. He told the cashiers to alert him if you buy anything containing meat. He’s pretty pissed. Vegetarians might as well worship Satan, as far as he’s concerned.”

“Well, a lot of people don’t understand the lifestyle, you know.”

“You’re not really a vegetarian, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

Her grin widens. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She passes me the broom and dustpan. “It’s probably safe with most of the other girls, too. But I’d still be careful.” Her gaze drifts up and over my shoulder. “Frank is watching.”

I look. A head-and-shoulders silhouette stands at the tinted window.

The spaghetti noodles group together as I sweep them into the dustpan, resembling some sort of mutant porcupine. I dump them into the garbage near the cash registers. Glancing out the big window, I see that both corrals are pregnant with carts. Like, really pregnant. Oops.

I go to Aisle Three, but Matt isn’t there. The guy I don’t know is, though, yanking bottles of canola oil out of a box, two by two, and putting them on the shelf. I clear my throat. He doesn’t turn. “Excuse me?” I say.

He cries out and drops one of the bottles. It’s glass, but miraculously doesn’t break. He whirls around. “Jesus Christ!”

“Sorry.”

He’s staring at me like I’m frothing at the mouth. “You need to not sneak up on people when they’re in the middle of something.”

“I’m sorry. Ralph told me to keep an eye on the carts, and it looks like they’re ready to be brought in. I’m Sheldon.”

He studies me a few seconds more, his eyes wide. He doesn’t introduce himself, but his nametag says Casey. “This God damned order is never getting put up,” he says. He marches past me toward the front end. “Come on.”

I follow him to a coat rack that sits against the wall near Lane Five. He tosses me a flimsy orange vest with yellow reflectors, and takes one for himself. Mine is tangled up, and I have a hard time finding the arm holes. “Why do we have to wear these?”

“Regulation,” he says as he walks briskly toward the exit. “If we’re struck and we’re not wearing them, we can’t sue the bastards.”

An elderly cashier glares at Casey’s back from Lane Three.

Casey takes the corral on the left, and directs me to the other. On my way across the parking lot I almost have an opportunity to sue the bastards, but the black SUV stops just in time, the driver leaning on his horn and scowling. I make my way to the carts and start fumbling with them. Almost immediately, I squat my thumb.

Across the parking lot, Casey is moving with superhuman speed, swinging the carts from the stall and swiftly assembling them into a line at least 12 carts long. That done, he leans forward so his head is nearly level with the first one’s handle, and pushes with all his might. I can see the tendons on his neck from over here. He’s a regular cart cowboy.

He makes quick work of his corral, and comes over to help with mine. He puts together some carts, but before bringing them in he points at a sign hanging from the corral’s roof. I didn’t notice it before. “CARTS ARE PROVIDED FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE. PLEASE BRING THEM TO THE CART CORRAL WHEN YOU’RE DONE WITH THEM.”

“Now tell me this,” Casey says. “See if you can explain this one to me. Why would they put a sign asking customers to bring carts to the corral right on the God damned corral? Isn’t that sort of preaching to the fucking choir?” He spins around and starts pushing his carts toward the entrance. “Morons!”

Matt’s back in Aisle Three when I return, and I tell him I’m taking my break. I grab a bag of chips—Sour Cream and Bacon—and bring them to the Service desk. Lesley-Jo glances at the flavour. “You’re walking a fine line,” she says as she scans the barcode.

I take my chips to the break room, which is upstairs from the warehouse. Gilbert, Brent, and Ernie are all sitting around the table. “He kept asking me if I like rain,” Ernie is saying as I enter. “Apparently he loves it. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Rain!” Ernie chuckles. “Seriously, though. I always feel bad when I meet a mentally challenged person.”

“I don’t,” Gilbert says. “I think of them as angels, sent by God to help us be thankful for what we have.”

“Wow. Really?”

“No. I don’t believe in God.”

I sit down and open my chips.

“So, Sheldon,” Ernie says, “I hear you’re a vegetarian now. Is that true?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, but I find vegetarianism so stupid. Like, why are animals more important than plants? Why the plant discrimination?” Ernie chuckles. “And what about bacteria? Isn’t it a sin to kill them, too? Maybe we should all lie in bed and not move, to avoid killing bacteria.”

Silence.

“The problem with good jokes,” Ernie says, “is no one knows what to say afterward.” He gives a half-hearted laugh. “What are you doing tomorrow evening, Sheldon?”

“Um, not sure.”

“Would you like to grab a beer?”

“I’d have to check the schedule, to see if I’m working.”

“I already checked it. You’re working John’s shifts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you aren’t working tomorrow.”

“Oh. Great.”

“So, do you want to?”

“Sure.”

Gilbert says, “He doesn’t actually want to, Ernest. He’s only saying yes to preserve the tattered remnants of your self-esteem.”

“Nice haircut, Gilbert,” Ernie says. “I heard you got it in the middle of your shift.” Ernie turns to me. “Gilbert takes slacking off very seriously.”

Gilbert glances at the microwave clock. “You’ve been up here five minutes longer than your sanctioned break, Ernest.”

Ernie leans back. “The order tonight isn’t that big. There’s no need to kill ourselves out there.”

“That’s debatable, in your case.”

Ernie stands up. “Want to meet at the bar across the street, Sheldon? Tomorrow at 6:00?”

“Six it is.”

“See you, then.” He leaves.

Brent coughs. “Have fun with that, bro.”

Chapter Four

Socializing is like a job. You work to make money, and you socialize to accumulate social currency. In both cases, you give up some freedom. Where you go, what you do, what you eat—these are things you negotiate with the person paying you. If the pay isn’t high enough, you quit.

Agreeing to hang out with Ernie doesn’t feel like a very good deal. That wouldn’t matter to me, if I thought Ernie had redeeming qualities. But I don’t. I’m frustrated with myself for humouring him. He’s a bastard, and now my co-workers will probably associate me with him.

Not that I care.

I find Ernie sitting at a corner table, as far away from the bar as it’s possible to get. He has his chin stuck out, and his hands are folded over his stomach. He’s wearing a smug little smile.

“Thought you’d get here sooner,” he says. “I ate a burger while I waited.”

There’s an empty plate in front of him, smeared with grease and ketchup. At my seat, a Caesar salad awaits. I sit.

“I bought that for you,” he says.

“I can’t eat it. It has bacon bits.”

“Oh. Shit. I’ll have it, then.” He slides it over. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll buy my own.”

Ernie’s urge to pay for everything always made me slightly uneasy.

We walk to the bar in silence, and order a beer each. Ernie leaves a tip equal to the price. We make the long walk back to our table.

“So,” Ernie says once we’re sitting again. “How do you like Spend Easy?”

“It’s all right. Eric kind of creeps me out.”

“Eric’s a good man. Did you know he hires mostly underprivileged youth to work in Meat? He teaches them meat cutting—a marketable skill. He’s been on the news because of it.” I can tell Ernie really enjoys telling me this. His expression is getting smugger.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Are you aware that Cassandra also works at Spend Easy?”

“Yep.”

“Is that hard for you?”

“Why would it be hard?”

“Well, everyone knows you’re in love with her.”

“Everyone?”

“You know. People we went to school with.”

“I don’t talk to anyone we went to school with. Do you?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Then who are you talking about?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Well, for your records, I’m not in love with Cassandra.”

“That’s probably for the best,” he says, “because she’s still with Sean. You’re finished your beer already?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” I stand up. “It’s been great chatting, Ernie.”

*

I was grateful when Sam brought my MP3 player to the psych ward, because I thought I could use it to avoid conversation with the other patients. I was wrong. My second day there I was sitting in the common area, listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody”, when a man walked over and picked up my MP3 player from the coffee table in front of me. He was short, balding and wiry. I took out an earbud. “Hi.”

“This device contains components made from cassiterite, wolframite, niobium, and tantalum. These minerals were almost certainly bought from rebel groups in the Democratic Republic of Congo, who used the money to arm themselves. Your purchase not only helped sustain the conflict there—in which nearly 6,000,000 have died since 1998—but also contributed directly to femicide, the systematic raping, beating, and killing of women.”

I took out the other earbud.

“Do you think karma exists?”

I shook my head.

“I hope you’re right. Because our society conducts itself on land acquired by murdering the original inhabitants. We pretend we’re much more civilized than our ancestors, but we finance suffering around the globe. We wear clothes made in sweatshops, we dump our waste on poorer countries, and we buy electronics bathed in blood. So I hope you’re right.”

He put down my MP3 player and walked away.

Another patient came over and offered his hand. It was very large. I only hesitated a little.

“How ya doin’? I’m Fred.”

“Sheldon Mason.”

“I see you met the Professor.”

“He’s a professor?”

“He wishes he was. He doesn’t even have a degree. Want to sit with me during lunch? The food’s gonna be here, soon.”

We walked to one of the cafeteria tables in the middle of the room. The second we sat down a woman wearing purple appeared, pushing a metal trolley taller than she was. “Wasn’t she an extra in
The Hobbit
?” Fred whispered to me. She left the trolley at the end of our table, and Fred pointed at it. “Let’s go there and back again.”

Patients trickled in. There was little conversation, and a lot of shuffling. I found a tray with my name on it and followed Fred back to our spot.

“Hey,” he said. “Isn’t she about your age?”

“Who?”

“The girl sitting on the couch over there, staring at you like you’re the last man left on Earth.”

I looked, and she looked away. She was very thin, but attractive all the same. “This is the last place I’d look for a girlfriend,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” Fred picked up a slice of turkey between two thick fingers and inserted it into his mouth. Next, a hard ball of mashed potato. He finished his meal in fewer than 10 mouthfuls. Then he looked at mine, untouched. “The nurses check your tray to make sure you’re eating, you know.”

“I’m not hungry. You want it?”

Fred pulled my tray toward him.

*

For the first 15 minutes of my shift, I front alone. Then Matt shows up.

“I’m 20 minutes late,” he says.

“Doesn’t concern me.”

He looks down. “My shirt should be tucked in, too. We’re supposed to tuck them in.”

I loosen my belt and stuff my shirttail into my pants.

Other than volunteering the occasional piece of self-criticism, Matt is fairly untalkative, and as we front Aisles Two and Three I’m mostly left to contemplate myself.

He does ask me what I think of the décor.

“What?” I say.

“Spend Easy’s colour scheme. Red, white, green?” He grasps his shirt with both hands and pulls it outward. “Yellow.” He grins.

“It’s fine.”

“So natural, isn’t it? So vital. The yellow of sun. The green of trees. The red of blood.”

Cassandra comes by and asks if I’d like to take a break with her. I tell her I wouldn’t, particularly—but she’s already purchased me a salad. It’s difficult to refuse free food, especially when it conforms to one’s newfound dietary restrictions. So I follow her to the break room. It’s what anyone would have done.

“You didn’t wave to me, the other day,” she says. “You didn’t wave back.”

The first forkful of salad is already being masticated. This was a bad idea.

“Are you upset with me?” she says.

“Why would I be upset?”

“You don’t have to snap. Ernie said you were upset last night, when you two were hanging out.”

I stop chewing. “Ernie?”

“He said he brought me up, and you looked like you were going to cry.”

“What the fuck?”

“He told me you stood up and left.”

“I left because he makes me nauseous. I needed to go home and vomit.”

“It’s okay to have feelings, Sheldon. It doesn’t make you weak. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“I’m not hurting!”

“I do have a boyfriend, though, Sheldon, and I love him. You need to come to terms with that.” She sighs. “I think you and I should avoid seeing each other. I don’t think it’s good for you.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

Someone is stomping down the hall toward the break room. Cassandra and I exchange looks. I try to think of who I would least prefer to walk through the door right now, but I can’t decide.

The door swings open, and Matt stomps in. He places a two-litre bottle of pop in front of a chair and sits down.

“Why were you making so much noise?” Cassandra asks.

“I wanted to give you enough time to stop talking about me.”

Her brow furrows. “We weren’t talking about you.”

“Thank you for saying that. That’s really nice.”

*

Bernice the therapist attempts neither to conceal nor draw attention to her attractiveness. But that just makes her more attractive. I wonder if this is an issue with many of her patients.

Today, her brown hair is swept back and held in place with a purple clip. She’s wearing a white shirt with black buttons, and a patterned skirt. She looks at me with an expression that isn’t quite bored, but isn’t quite interested, either. If I want interest, I will have to earn it.

“So,” she says.

“So,” I say.

“Since our last visit, have you given any thought to what you’d like to discuss?”

“I haven’t given thought to that, or anything else.”

“No thoughts.”

“None.”

“Nothing’s on your mind.”

“It’s very Zen.”

“I’ll bet. Do you socialize much, Sheldon?”

“Not much, no.”

“Do you work?”

“I got my first job last week. At a grocery store.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Your first job? How old are you?”

“Mom earned enough for us both to live, so I kind of just…lived off her.”

“Where’s your Mom now?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.” She writes something on her clipboard. “Why didn’t you want to work, before?”

“I was afraid my co-workers would end up being people I went to high school with. I didn’t want to spend any more time with them than necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Because they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them.”

“It’s improbable they all disliked you.”

“Well, I had two friends. But even they didn’t invite me to parties, or anything. I think people were wary of associating with me too much—afraid it would hurt their status, I guess. Their brand.” I give a dry chuckle. “I mostly felt invisible in high school. Except—that’s not exactly right. More like, I felt like a book with the covers ripped off.”

“And there’s been no one you’ve connected with since high school?”

“Well,” I say, and pause. “I did meet Theresa—she was in the hospital, too.”

“Have you spoken with her since?”

“No. She didn’t want to keep in touch. But I confided in her.” I take a breath. “I told her why I wanted to kill myself.”

Bernice raises her eyebrows. “You did?”

I nod.

“Would you like to tell me?”

“No.”

“Okay. Why didn’t Theresa want to keep in touch?”

I shrug. “Maybe she didn’t like me enough.”

Bernice thinks I “overgeneralize” when it comes to others’ opinions of me, and that I “magnify negatives”. She suggests that, next session, we start Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which is supposed to help overcome such “maladaptive behaviours”.

I tell her I’m all for it.

*

Paul takes a box of Borax off the shelf. He hands it to me. “Check that out. It’s called the Droste effect.”

“Huh?”

“See how the girl is holding a box of Borax, which features another girl, holding another box of Borax? The idea is that it goes on forever—there’s an infinite number of girls, holding an infinite number of boxes. The Droste effect.”

“If there’s a purgatory,” I say, “I bet it looks a lot like Spend Easy.”

“I could have been working on the order, tonight, you know. But I volunteered to go fronting with you instead.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’ve been reading the book you recommended. My Dad already owned it. You were right—it’s good. But I want to ask you something. King says to be a writer, you have to read a lot. So, can you recommend some stuff I should read?”

“You mean, stuff that will help you write a book about a grocery store?”

“Sure.”

“I have no idea.”

“Does he know yet?” someone says from behind us. Paul and I turn to see a guy with wide eyes standing near the end of the aisle. He’s clutching a tattered magazine against his chest. “Have you told him, Paul?”

“Go away, Tommy. You need a hobby.”

“He deserves to know. It concerns everyone.” Tommy appears to be in the process of going bald, though I’m sure he must still be in high school.

“Know what?” I say.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Paul says. “Why are you here? You aren’t even working tonight.”

“I’m quitting.” He takes out a piece of paper tucked between the magazine’s pages and holds it up. “This is my letter to Ralph, notifying him of my resignation, effective immediately. I’m leaving it on his desk.”