Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  They finish. The delivery guy moves the pallet into the walk-in dairy cooler, and exits through the back door. Ralph and I are alone.

  “You’re the new guy, right?” he says. “Sheldon?”

  “That’s me.”

  He offers his hand, and we shake—firm but brief. “I’m Ralph. You worked your first shift yesterday, with...” He checks a schedule lying next to a computer. “Gilbert and Paul. What was your impression of them?”

  “They appear to know what they’re doing.”

  “How much work did Gilbert do?”

  “Not sure—I wasn’t with him, much.”

  “I know for a fact Gilbert did very little last night. And I think you know it, too.”

  “Really?”

  “So, I know you’re not a tattler. Which is fine—I don’t need a spy to know what’s going on in my department. Besides, I already have a tattler. Do you consider yourself a hard worker?”

  “I’ve never had a job before.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something. Almost every new employee that comes through those doors is a hard worker. Pretty much everyone hauls ass when they’re first hired on. Yet Grocery is full of slackers. You, the new guy, you’ll put out a 100 cases of stock on order night, and they’ll put out 45. You’ll answer pages for carryouts and price checks, and they’ll relax in the warehouse. They’ll even make fun of you for working so hard. Eventually, you’ll start asking yourself why you should work any harder, when you’re only getting paid minimum wage, just like everyone else. Are you asking yourself that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you why. A decent person isn’t comfortable sitting on his ass and collecting a paycheck for it. A decent person knows that if someone’s paying you to do a job, you do it. Otherwise, it’s stealing.” Ralph turns and takes a clipboard from the desk. “We hired you to replace John. He was supposed to work today, 5-10. Can you work that shift?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’m in till five, so I’ll see you as I’m leaving.”

  The store got busier while I was in the warehouse, and leaving involves navigating around pushy customers wielding carts. I leave through Aisle Two, grabbing a few cans of cat food on my way—Turkey Giblets in Gravy, the only thing Marcus Brutus will eat. I take them to the Customer Service counter (Eight Items or Less), where Betty awaits. She scans the cans without speaking.

  “That’s ungrammatical, you know,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It should say Eight Items or Fewer. Not Less.”

  “You owe me $5.37.”

  Frank rushes past to my right, then backs up and scrutinizes the metal flaps that conceal the cigarettes behind Betty. Does he ever make eye contact?

  “Mason,” he says. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Do you want to change the outside garbage for me? Thanks.” He turns on his heel and marches down Aisle One.

  “I haven’t started my shift yet,” I call after him.

  “You’ll need rubber gloves,” he shouts back. He’s already past the dryer sheets. “You can get them from the Meat department.”

  I’m not sure Ralph’s pep talk prepared me for this.

  But this is the only job I have, and I’m not likely to get another. So I head for the Meat department.

  There are two entrances into Meat—one from the sales floor, and one from the warehouse. It has three rooms. The first room features a window through which customers can speak to employees working inside. I peer through. Eric’s not there. I go in and start searching for the gloves.

  The double doors that lead to the next room swing open, and Eric emerges, holding a long, blood-spattered butcher knife. Tiny rivulets of red trickle down his plastic apron. I begin inching backward.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Morning, vegan. What brings you to my den of sin?”

  “Rubber gloves. Frank said they were in here.”

  Eric takes a step closer, without lowering the knife. I take a step back. “This is my department,” he says. “Frank has no idea what I keep in here. For instance—” He turns abruptly, and I jump. He grabs a box from a shelf. “We have latex gloves. Not rubber.”

  He takes two from the box and throws them at me. I catch one, the other bouncing off my chest and onto the concrete floor.

  I pick it up, keeping my eyes on him. “Thanks.” I back through the door.

  “They’re disposable!” he says. “You throw them out when you’re done.”

  Betty supplies me with a big black bag, and I bring it outside. When I find the garbage disposal, I realize I’ll need more bags. The disposal consists of a concrete cylinder cemented to the sidewalk, and at this point, throwing trash here is a purely symbolic act. There isn’t room for any more.

  I put on the gloves and pick up a coffee cup. It’s half full, and some coffee spills out, narrowly missing my sneakers. I drop it into the bag and grab a burger wrapper. I can feel the grease through the latex—it’s like I’m not even wearing gloves.

  A guy walks by wearing the trademark yellow shirt. He notices me, and stops. “Whoa, dude. Are you new?”

  I drop a half-eaten slice of pizza into the bag. “I was hired yesterday.”

  “Where’s your uniform?”

  “Home. My shift doesn’t start till five.”

  “Looks like it started early to me, bro. I’m Brent, by the way. I work in Grocery.”

  “Me too. I’m Sheldon.”

  “Why are you digging around in that trash if you’re not in till five?”

  “I came in to find out when I’m working, and Frank asked me to do this.”

  “He told you to scour that disease pit, when you’re not even on?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know why he asked you, right? You, and not someone else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Because no one but the new guy would go near that. Look at it. It’s disgusting.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “It needs to be done, though, so who better than the rookie? And during his off-time, no less.” Brent shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do it, bro.”

  “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 le
arn 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 e
nter. “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?”