by C. A. Pack
kitchen, and a delicate sage green for the bedroom and bathroom. She nearly emptied her wallet to pay the bill, and when she saw them stacking all her purchases on the counter, she realized she’d never be able to lug it all home. She asked the clerk to call a taxi for her, and once again she was broke.
Johanna spent all day Sunday painting her tiny cottage. She felt a new sense of place—of home—when she applied her last brush stroke. She discarded the supplies and plastic drop cloths that littered the floor and furniture, then threw open the windows and sat on her futon wrapped in her new blanket—in the cold—while she waited for the paint to dry and the odor to dissipate. As she sat there, she envisioned what the space would look like with curtains, a picture on the wall, and an armoire in the bedroom for her clothes. The dress she had just purchased remained in a thin plastic garment bag hanging from a nail sticking out of the bathroom door.
She thought of her finances. She owed money to Derrick, Amaranda, and the department store. To make matters worse, her rent was due the following week. Her stomach flip-flopped when she realized she couldn’t pay them all. She would have to put her friends off again. Her rent was going to eat up her entire paycheck. At least the department store hadn’t sent her a bill yet. She hoped it would forget all about her but knew it was only a matter of time.
The next day, her boss told her he needed her to work on a special weekend project. “It’s important. I need you to stay late Friday to start the inventory and come in Saturday and Sunday until it’s done. Everyone else has commitments. You’re the only one who can do this. Your job depends on it.”
“Will there be additional pay for it?”
“We’ll work something out.”
In a way, Johanna was relieved. It meant she had an excuse not to see Derrick or Amaranda, and perhaps by the time she did, she might have the money to pay them.
In the days that followed, Johanna found herself avoiding both her friends. For the first time, she felt happy about not having a phone. It meant neither of them could easily reach her.
After work on Friday, her manager brought her back to the warehouse. She had never been there before and was overwhelmed by its sheer size. “What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Count the books. All of them.”
“Who will be helping me?”
“It’s just you. No one else is available. We need this as soon as possible so our accountant can submit it with our year-end assets summary.” He handed her a clipboard filled with blank forms. “If you need more forms, there’s a copy machine up there.” He pointed to a door connected to the main floor by a rickety set of stairs. “I’d better unlock it for you.”
He soon returned and handed Johanna a couple of extra pencils. “Use a new form for each shelf, and be sure to write the shelf number on top.” He showed her where to find that information. “Normally, we would ask you to write down the ISBN for each carton of books.” Johanna felt faint. “But seeing that you’re doing this alone, we’ll make do with just the total number of cartons on each shelf. That is, unless the box is open. Then we’ll need you to count the books inside and give us an item count.” He pointed to a tall metal ladder on a runner. Every bank of shelves had one. “You can use that to inspect the boxes on the top shelves. Make sure they’re not open. If they are, we’ll need an item count. And that’s it. Have a nice weekend!”
Johanna felt overwhelmed but knew the only way to get past it would be to begin. Start at the top, she told herself, while I still have strength.
She shivered as she started counting cartons. The wind howled outside, and it didn’t feel like there was any heat inside the warehouse. Hours passed. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, when she had consumed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that she brought from home. It was closing in on midnight, and she was cold, tired, and hungry. She looked at the sections she had finished. Maybe, if she were lucky, she was ten percent done. She’d have to work faster if she wanted to get done on time. But right now, she needed sleep. She walked to the door and tried to pull it open. It was locked. She looked around for a key but couldn’t find one. Not hanging on a nail nearby; not in the desk in the office; nowhere. She was stuck there. I can die here and no one will miss me until Monday. She carried her coat and bag up to the tiny office and closed the door. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least she couldn’t hear the wind whistling quite as much. She sat at the desk and put her head down and immediately fell asleep.
She woke up with a blazing headache and a crick in her neck the following morning. Then, her stomach rumbled. She looked through the desk again for something that had caught her eye the night before. She found it tucked between a box of staples and a container of paper clips—a granola bar. She took it and got herself a cup of water from the water cooler. She nibbled the bar and took sips of water, praying it would fill her up enough to keep her going until someone let her out. After her impromptu breakfast, she returned to counting. It was mindless work and she allowed her thoughts to wander back to the foundling home. She had been miserable there, but at least it was hot in the laundry. Too hot, perhaps, but she would welcome that steam right now. Then she thought about the cafeteria. The food was like pigswill, but at least it filled her stomach three times a day and she didn’t have to worry about where her next meal would be coming from. I should have stayed longer. Saved a little longer. I wouldn’t be stuck in here right now, if I had.
That evening, she guesstimated she was halfway done with the inventory. Though exhausted, she rummaged through the rest of the warehouse to see if there was any more food. She found a bag of licorice in a metal desk in the receiving area, as well as a can of soda. A veritable feast. She ate half the candy and drank the can of soda. Then she managed to count a couple more shelves before exhaustion set in.
On Sunday, she pushed herself to finish the job. She worked straight through until the last book was counted. By then it was ten p.m. She knew that because she owned a watch that had put her into hock. She wondered how much the company would pay her? She had been there all weekend. If she didn’t get out until Monday morning, she would have spent sixty hours straight in the warehouse. That was like a week and a half’s pay. More if they paid her overtime. They have to pay me overtime. That would help straighten her bills out.
She woke up Monday morning when she heard the bay door open. She looked at her watch. Six a.m. She picked herself up and straightened her clothing. She slowly descended the stairs. The lack of food made her lightheaded.
“Hey, you,” the foreman called out. “What are you doing in here?”
She explained why she was there. The foreman’s eyes widened when he heard she was locked in all weekend without food. He handed her a brown bag with his lunch in it. “It’s just a couple of bologna sandwiches and an apple, but you’re welcome to it.”
Johanna really wanted to go home and shower, but she was too hungry to refuse. “Just one sandwich please, and I’ll be on my way.”
A second warehouse worker walked in. “Hey, who’s your friend?”
“She was told to do the inventory—by herself—and they locked her in.” Johanna would have added to the story, but she was too busy eating. “So I gave her my lunch. She looks a little shaky. Maybe you ought to drop her at home.”
“Do you live far?” the worker asked.
She gave him her address, and he gave her a lift to her cottage. She showered and changed, but dared not lie down—even for ten minutes—or she might fall asleep and be late for work. Instead, she walked back to town to start another week.
Johanna lived on instant soup and peanut butter sandwiches all week, and avoided going out the front door at work because she didn’t want to run into Amaranda or Derrick until she had their money.
Finally, it was payday. She ripped open her pay envelope and stared at the check. No! She marched inside her boss’s office and waved it in his face while she repeated how she had been locked in the warehouse for sixty hours and deserved time and a half for that, besides h
er regular salary, but the check was made out for one week’s pay, the same amount she received every week.
“Now, Johanna, don’t get upset. I’m just waiting for the higher ups to approve the time sheet you submitted. They’re having a hard time understanding how you could put in for one hundred and three hours of work for a single week. They weren’t going to pay you at all, until I convinced them to at least let me pay you for your regular workweek. We’ll sort it out.”
She left his office with tears in her eyes, snuck out the back door, and walked home. As she turned the corner in front of her landlady’s house, she spotted Derrick’s car parked in front of her cottage. She didn’t make it that far.
“Johanna, I have to talk with you about the rent.”
She turned to see her landlady standing in the doorway. “I paid the rent. In cash. It couldn’t have bounced.”
“No, dear. It’s just that a realtor was nosing around here, inquiring about the cottages. Apparently, some big mucky-muck is thinking of buying them all. So I brought an appraiser through your cottage to see what it’s worth. I explained I had a tenant, and he asked what I was charging you, and when I told him, he said the place looked so fresh and clean, I could probably get twice as