The oatmeal is bland, the coffee is weak, and the melon reminds him why he doesn’t eat melon. But he wolfs it, places his trash and tray in the trash-and-tray area, and waits his turn for a blue plastic shopping cart.
He unfolds and smooths his list, sets it in the child seat, where he can read it, and works his way into the stream of angry cart traffic. In Health and Beauty Aids he finds the aisle of hair products. It’s crowded with three women, their carts jammed in a knot in the center of the row. They’re animated in their noisy discussion about which brand of hair dryer is quietest.
He snags a tiny tub of goop for his hair and waits patiently for the women’s debate to end. They are unconcerned that they block his way and ignore him almost completely. Except for one thirty-something woman in black yoga pants, bright white running shoes, and a fitted peach fleece zipper-top. She glances in his direction, evaluates him, and turns back to her conversation. All the women gesture with manicured fingers encased in flashy wedding rings.
He reverses direction and heads the long way around to the elastic hair bands. In the next aisle he picks up a box set of teeth-whitening strips, toothpaste, and mouthwash. Expensive but necessary.
He rounds the corner and has to stop to avoid a tiny blonde girl gawking at the Axe shampoo endcap display.
“Hi there,” he says.
“Hi.” She doesn’t look over at him. She’s obviously enthralled by the image of a very athletic-looking woman in tight clothes lathering a young, shirtless man’s hair into something that resembles a large dollop of whipped cream. The little blonde girl is dressed in a pastel tracksuit.
“Do you think that his head looks like a dessert?” he asks.
Blondie scrutinizes the image. Then she smiles. “Uh-huh,” she says.
“If we put a strawberry on top, we would have a nice treat.” He places a pretend oversized strawberry on top of the Axe man. He makes a strawberry placing sound effect and says, “Yum yum.”
Blondie giggles and looks at him. “Your shirt is funny,” she says.
“Yes. I agree. It is funny—very yellow. My name is Flip,” he says. He pushes the cart a little to the side and reaches over to give her tiny hand a shake. She only stares at him, seemingly confused by the social ritual. He turns his palm up and says, “Give me five.” Still nothing.
“You have a funny name. You’re funny,” she says.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says, dryly.
Yoga Pants comes around the corner. “Come here, Caroline. Where did you go? I told you to stay with me.” She doesn’t look at Caroline. She snaps the sculpted fingernails of her right hand and her jewelry flashes and clicks together. She extends her hand and Caroline moves over to take it. Yoga Pants gives Flip a warning glare, scoops her daughter into her arms, and marches away.
“Bye-bye, Caroline. Nice to meet ya,” he says to the empty space little Caroline had just occupied. He stands up and practices his breathing. A few measured exhalations later he claims his package of extra-thick black hair bands. The aisle is empty, but he can hear the gaggle of women making disapproving clucking sounds from nearby.
In the grocery area he buys fruit.
“Flip?” a woman’s voice asks behind him. He turns. She is forty with rounded features and wearing a conservative dress, probably on her way to church. She has her head cocked and is looking closely at him while moving in his direction; the long skirt and stiff upper body give Flip the impression she’s gliding across the store like a ghost. “Flip Mellis? Is that you? Connie. Darnel’s wife,” she says, indicating herself. The clop clop of her heels becomes audible as she approaches, then stops. She stands a couple of feet away, just inside his personal space. She has an uncertain look. He remembers her from various company dinners over the years. She’d hit it off with Lynn one holiday party. Darnel worked in accounting at McCorkle-Smithe. Correction: works in accounting. He’s a dud, the kind of guy who wouldn’t merit a hug at a surprise birthday party, only a cursory handshake. Flip sees she’s trying to decide if the fat man in front of her could possibly be the man she knew. Her expression asks, could this round man with the radical beard be the former marathoner?
“Darnel is around here somewhere,” she says, while making a vague gesture toward the front of the store.
“I am sorry,” Flip says with a robotic rhythm and a slightly lowered voice. “You must have me confused with someone else. I do not know anyone named Flip.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. You look a bit like someone who used to work with my husband. So sorry.” She still isn’t convinced.
“It is not a problem,” Flip says. “I have one of those faces. People often mistake me for others.” Worst lie ever. He turns his cart and points it toward the back of the store before Darnel arrives.
“Sorry again,” she says as he strides briskly away.
In the men’s department Flip searches the hanging dress belts for one that claims to be long enough to circumnavigate his own personal equator. He finds a fifty-inch belt in brown. But he needs black, plus when he tries it on his shorts, it’s a little snug. That, predictably, makes him feel like eating.
He looks a while longer, because he’s nothing if not persistent, and eventually finds a reversible black and blue belt with a giant decorative buckle. He unhinges the buckle and swaps it with something less offensive. It’s also listed as fifty inches, but seems to work better. He starts to unbuckle the belt and stops.
He looks around for the dark tinted domes that periodically hang from the ceiling to indicate a security camera. He sees several, but none are in a position where they could easily observe his actions. He impetuously leaves the belt on, rips the tag off, and tugs his shirttail over it.
The theft will save him some money. He feels anxious and excited as he drops a pair of dark dress socks in his cart. He looks at hats he would never buy and T-shirts that are too small, in order to give the impression that everything is normal. He calms himself and decides to check his list before leaving the scene of the crime. He moves back to the dress clothes end of the department and finds a rack of black vests.
He reasons that a black vest will hide many of the problems his ill-fitting suit might cause. He scours the rack to find one large enough. He throws it on and buttons it. It feels good. He considers removing the tag and wearing it out the front door, but knows it would be asking for trouble. Besides, it looks clownish over his tropical muumuu. He drops it in the cart and walks away, making a concerted effort to project innocence.
In home décor, he searches the candles until he finds a giant tiki. It’s piña colada scented and expensive. He agonizes over the price, but eventually sets it in the child seat.
He’s reminded, once when Sara was tiny, he failed to use the seatbelt in a cart; he turned away and she stood, tumbled out, and landed headfirst. The top of her skull hit the floor with a hollow crack, followed by a prolonged silence. And when she screamed, it was like the screech of a wild animal, a mix of shock, pain, and primal panic. He’d abandoned the cart and rushed his baby girl straight to the ER.
To be careful, he buckles the tiki candle into the child seat, tightening the strap as much as it will allow, before moving toward the front of the store.
Tiny blonde Caroline exits a row of backpacks to Flip’s left, crosses in front of his cart, and enters the greeting cards to his right. Her mother is nowhere in sight. Clearly, the girl has made a break for it again and is wandering unattended. He wants to help her find her mother, but immediately worries it’s a poor strategy.
“I bet her mom would freak out again,” he says to the tiki candle. The tiki candle pulls a horrible face.
“Well, I can’t just leave her alone in the store. What you say we peruse the cards? Maybe we will grab a thank you card for Dean. That’ll take the edge off when he sees I have shaved his masterpiece. What say you, Tiki Face?” He takes the candle’s stoic expression as tacit agreement.
Flip spies Caroline standing transfixed in front of a d
isplay. He noses his cart into the next row and hangs out among cards about love, friendship, and life’s various accomplishments. He can see the top of Caroline’s head between sections of cards. It looks as if she’s pulling down handfuls of wrapped stickers. He grabs a card from eye level and reads.
Several minutes pass. Flip makes his way through the sympathy cards. These are the kinds of hollow sentiments Lynn will get if I go through with my plan to kill myself. He takes down one of the cards, but it seems too morbid to read. It does, however, make him imagine the kinds of things people would say about him at his funeral.
“Flip was the kind of man who, like his own father, found a way to abandon his responsibilities when family became too challenging.” Or, “He lacked the emotional wherewithal to cope with common human challenges.” Or more likely, “He was a once-fit man who became too obese to fit in a normal casket. The increased charge for the extra-wide casket was significant, but a testament to Flip’s capacity to be as much a financial burden on his family in death as he had been in life.”
Flip is saved from further speculation when Yoga Pants passes the end of his row.
“Caroline,” she calls. “Oh, there you are. Where did you go?” There is finger snapping and jewelry rattling.
“Can I buy these?” a tiny voice asks.
“No. Now let’s put these back.” A horrible shrieking, like a car alarm or a tornado siren starts. “Caroline. Stop it. This is not going to work.” More shrieking. “Okay. You can pick one.” Abrupt calm.
“Can I have two?” Caroline squeaks.
“One,” Yoga Pants says, firmly.
More shrill shrieking.
“Two. But that’s all. Just pick two and leave the rest on the ground. Someone will clean it up. That’s what they’re here for.”
A moment later Yoga Pants storms past, carrying Caroline. Yoga Pants’ eyes widen slightly in recognition when she sees Flip. Caroline flaps her sticker packs in farewell and grins broadly over her mother’s back. Before she’s out of sight, she wipes her nose along her mother’s peach fleece shoulder. Caroline has a lovely smile, with perfectly spaced miniature teeth and the glare of a serial poisoner.
“They deserve one another,” Flip says to Tiki, who seems content to remain silent. He selects a card with a Van Gogh self-portrait on the front and a blank interior, then leaves.
Flip finds the shortest line, which turns out to also be the slowest. He has forgotten about the belt at his waist, until he reaches into his pants to get his debit card. His rubs the unfamiliar leather strap, and he is instantly nervous. He flings his card across the tiny counter at Kurt, the checkout man.
“Sorry,” he says. “It got away from me.”
“I got it,” Kurt says. He bends and retrieves the card. He passes it back to Flip and touches the keypad in front of Flip. “Just swipe it, enter your PIN, and follow the prompts.”
“I knew that,” Flip says.
Kurt hands him a small receipt and a large fistful of coupons. He bags Flip’s purchase and sets the bags in Flip’s blue cart. Flip pushes on toward the door where he entered.
“Excuse me,” a young male voice says. “Excuse me, sir. May I speak to you a moment?”
Flip turns to see two boys in dark blue store security uniforms.
“Would you come with us?” the bulkier of the boys asks, taking Flip by the arm with one hand and grabbing Flip’s bags of merchandise in the other. Flip can feel the soft meat on the back of his arm squish under the kid’s grip and he feebly pulls away because he doesn’t like being touched. The boy doesn’t let go. They leave the cart where it is.
On the way, Tyrone watches and makes her eyes big at Flip, her meaty hairless brow arches on her forehead. Flip shrugs.
Darnel and his wife are leaving the checkout with an overflowing cart. Darnel’s wife points toward Flip and says something to her husband behind her hand. Darnel looks at Flip closely as they pass. Flip turns his face away.
“That’s not him, honey,” Darnel says, with absolute certitude.
Unwanted Confession
The bigger kid steers Flip down a side hall and opens a door marked Security. The room is lit only by a series of monitors set in a console along one wall. A counter that runs the length of the console has three swivel chairs tucked under and a keyboard with a joystick attachment. In the center of the room is a square folding card table scattered with skateboarding magazines and two open soda cans. The kid releases him.
The thinner one rolls a chair over from the console and offers it to Flip.
“There you go, Mr. Mellis,” he says. He smiles and nods like someone might at the end of a joke, as if to say, You get it? Huh? You get it? Pretty funny, huh?
Flip does not get it. He suspects some neo-youth-culture form of good cop/bad cop.
“This shouldn’t take too long, Mr. Mellis,” Smiley says. “We will have you on your way in a few minutes.” He smacks Flip between the shoulders in an awkward attempt at a supportive gesture.
Realization dawns on Flip, something is amiss. Smiley keeps using his name, though he hasn’t given it to anyone. His eyes explore the room, trying to find an explanation.
The black-and-white monitors show bird’s-eye views of different departments around the store. On the various screens he recognizes Health and Beauty, Pharmacy, Jewelry, Grocery, Women’s Apparel, and Sporting Goods. Then the monitors cycle to different cameras and Sporting Goods snaps to Greeting Cards. The light in the room shifts slightly as the monitors change. Flip fears they’ve used facial recognition software on footage of him stealing the belt in order to ascertain his identity.
Bulky digs around in a drawer under the console and brings out some photocopied forms. Smiley rolls another chair and tucks it across from Flip. He’s still grinning like his life depends on it, as he gathers the magazines into a neat stack and places them out of the way. He tosses the soda cans while Bulky brings over the forms and a blue ballpoint pen with a missing lid, claps them down on the table dramatically.
“You know this guy?” he asks Smiley.
“Yes. This is Sara’s dad, Mr. Mellis.” Then it hits: Smiley is What’s-His-Face, Sara’s boyfriend. For a split second he starts to relax, the tightness in his chest eases. That explains the smiling; the kid wants to endear himself to Flip. I can use this. He suddenly feels back in control.
But relief gives way to utter terror as he realizes his daughter’s boyfriend has just busted him for shoplifting. That means Sara will find out, which in turn will play perfectly into the narrative she’s created, with little effort, of Flip being a totally inept father, and if Sara hears about it, then Lynn will know, and his mother-in-law. That will be the final nail in the coffin of his marriage, and by extension, his own life. But, at least that would decide things for him. One less decision to make.
“Well,” Bulky says, thumbs in belt, pelvis forward. “We still need to handle this fair and square.”
“Mr. Mellis, this is my supervisor, Jeffery Hartman. Jeffery, this is Mr. Mellis.”
“Okay, thanks, D. Now pay attention,” Jeffery Hartman says. Smiley pays attention.
Jeffery clicks his fingernails on the tabletop and bends a little forward to be closer as he speaks. “Mr. Mellis. A woman came to the front of the store with your description. She explained that you tried to touch her daughter in Health and Beauty. And later she found you watching her daughter in Greeting Cards.” This is great news, Flip thinks. They don’t know about the belt. “To be specific,” Jeffery continues in a mildly menacing tone, “the woman claims . . .” Serious Jeffery starts reading from an official complaint form: “‘The fat man tried to tell my daughter a shirtless man looked yummy to eat. Which clearly has inappropriate and sexual undertones. Then he touched my daughter.’”
“Big misunderstanding,” Flip explains. He tries to laugh, but it sounds forced and artificial, as if he were channeling a robot with hiccups.
“It very well may be,” Jeffery says, without any commitmen
t and puts his hand up to warn against further interruption. “We have not reviewed the tapes. But we will make a note of the general time, date, and camera numbers. In that way we can assure the digital file will not be deleted. It will be transferred to our archive. In cases like this we have to make a record of the complaint. And if it’s founded, we have to hold you for the police, review the tapes, and turn over copies of any pertinent visual documentation to the authorities.” Though Jeffery is probably fresh out of high school, he carries himself with a self-important authority and grave conviction that Flip is forced to take seriously.
Flip nods soberly. “I understand. May I explain?”
“Sure,” D says.
Jeffery frowns and puts a hand on D’s shoulder. The two boys look into one another’s faces and an understanding passes between them. The shadows in the room shift as the monitors cycle again.
“Sorry,” D says.
“Take down what he says,” Jeffery instructs.
While D digs in the drawer for the proper form, Jeffery tells Flip, “You need to fill this out with your personal information. I need a photo ID to copy.”
Flip hands over his driver’s license and takes up the Bic. He fills out the form with his particulars. He writes down the address of his home, and wonders if he can still call it his home address. D takes a seat, a clipboard and pen in his hand. Jeffery leaves the room with Flip’s ID.
When Flip finishes the paperwork, he pushes it away. He looks at D, who immediately smiles. Flip feels sorry for the kid. He seems so nervous. He must really like Sara. And that makes Flip like D, a little bit. The monitors cycle, the shadows jump.
“All done?” D asks.
“Yep. All done.”
“Now, in your own words, explain exactly what happened with the little girl in question. Do you recall the incident of touching the girl in Health and Beauty?”
“This is all a misunderstanding, D. May I call you D?” Flip is proud of this dodge, because he really doesn’t know the kid’s name, never bothered to learn it.
Good for Nothing Page 15