HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll make you suffer for this another night, I promise.”

  “You’re aces, kid,” Mark said, throwing her a lopsided grin. He snuck past the bathroom and darted into the bedroom, quickly shutting the door before Paull opened his. He vaguely heard Abby making small talk as he stabbed Hugh’s office number into the phone.

  “No, that’s fine,” Hugh said to his annoyance. “Tell you what, we can even reimburse you for the cost of the groceries, if you’ve got a receipt. That’s a nice touch, the home-cooked meal.”

  “Hugh…don’t you have a problem with any of this?” Mark asked, trying to keep his temper in check.

  “No, we can petty cash this sort of thing, it’s no problem at all. Just need that receipt, like I said—”

  “What? No, not the food…” Don’t blow up. Don’t blow up. “Hugh, he just got in my car. Is that normal? Why is he here?”

  Now it was Hugh who sounded confused. “He’s…here to see How We Do Things Here. Didn’t I go over this at the store?” Mark could almost see him run a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Just wants to follow you around, see how the routine goes…why? Has he said something about me?”

  “Uh, no, Hugh, but—”

  “Because if he…” And Hugh’s voice trailed off. Mark crept to the bedroom door, opened it a crack. He could see Mr. Paull, sitting grumpily at the table, waiting for his promised lasagna.

  “I haven’t mentioned this,” Hugh said, “to anyone at the store. But apparently there’s a List going around. I haven’t seen it yet myself...”

  Mark’s tongue began to sweat. “Wh-what, what kind,” he asked, “what kind of List?”

  “It’s never a good List, Mark,” Hugh said bluntly. Mark knew he was right. They never sent around Lists of Presents or Surprise Parties. Either Cuts, as in staff, or Closings, as in stores.

  He had a sudden stark, vivid, screaming image of twenty-nine thousand, eight hundred dollars piled high on a table in crumpled up dollar bills, doused in gasoline and set on fire.

  “He might be here to decide who lives and who dies, Mark,” Hugh said. “You cannot show fear. They can smell that. You can’t let him know what you know.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” Mark said. He watched Paull rifle through his Lazy Susan.

  “Good, go with that,” Hugh said. “Just don’t act nervous, don’t question anything he says. You know how the economy is right now, Mark.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mark said. The panic was rising in his stomach again. “So…so do I…after dinner, I should…?” He waited for Hugh to fill in the blank.

  “Yes, exactly,” Hugh said, giving him no help whatsoever. Hugh seemed very nonchalant about the whole thing. Had it just been expected that he’d put the VDPO up for the night? Maybe…Mark mulled it over…maybe it was normal? Expected?

  He wound down the phone call with Hugh, hung up, and went to rejoin the dinner party. He hoped he could summon at least a modicum of Smile-Power.

  ***

  Mr. Paull’s buzzsaw snoring drilled a hole through their bedroom door and kept them awake most of the night.

  “Dinner went pretty well,” she said.

  “I sure hope so. Was he going over the recipe with you?”

  “Yeah. I think he wanted to make sure I was doing it right.”

  “I’m really, really sorry about this, babe. I had no idea Hugh was expecting me to put him up.”

  “Can’t they afford a hotel room for their bigshots?”

  “Hugh said—” Don’t mention the List. No need to worry her. “Uh, he said there’s been some cost-cutting going around.”

  “So they’re even making their…their what, VPs?”

  “VDPOs,” Mark said.

  “Even they have to crash on somebody’s couch?”

  “Guess so.”

  Abby snuggled against him. “Maybe that’s reassuring,” she said. “Makes him just like you.” Just Like You!

  “We’ve Got a Friend in the Home Office,” he recited.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sweets. Go to sleep.”

  “’kay.”

  “He’ll be gone early tomorrow.”

  “’kay.”

  ***

  Mr. Paull was not, in fact, heading to the airport that day. He was heading back to the store. With Mark. By the end of the day, Mark had cleared off and disassembled every shelf, reassembled them (because “the screws needed tightening,” Paull said), then carefully redistributed each shelf’s load so as to maximally disperse the weight, to reduce wear and tear. “Shelves eventually collapse from stock constantly being thumped down on it, with no regard for balance,” Paull had told him sagely, about three hours into their efforts. “Over time, the shelves begin to bow on one end from the cumulative effect. Taking the time to properly distribute shelf loads could add weeks to each shelf’s life, saving countless dollars for the store’s bottom line.”

  Mark hadn’t even been able to mumble a “Yes, sir,” to that one.

  Hugh was nowhere to be seen that day. During a merciful break when Mr. Paull had stepped into the employee bathroom, Mark caught up with Nancy (Assistant Store Manager), who told him that Hugh had called out sick that day.

  “Is this something that happens a lot?” Mark said, pointing his thumb at the bathroom door.

  Nancy gave him a funny look. “Depends on what he eats, I’d say,” she answered.

  “Har har. You know what I mean. He’s…he’s been with me for over twenty-four hours straight now. Just came home with me last night. Is that normal?”

  Nancy laughed. “What did you expect him to do, sleep in the store?”

  Mark was dumbfounded. I expected him to get a fucking hotel room, or maybe just go home instead of riding my ass for two days in a row! He didn’t think this was something that had to be said out loud. But Nancy, like Hugh, just stared at him blankly, as if he were the one being unreasonable.

  (Was he?)

  “Do you think he’ll be here for much longer?”

  “I couldn’t say. I haven’t actually spoken to him yet, he’s been with you all day if you haven’t noticed.” Oh, I noticed… “Looks like he’s a fan of your work.” And she smiled at him. And Mark picked up a strange vibe from her.

  She’s…jealous?

  Is this a good thing, Mr. Paull’s constant attention? Was he, who knows…grooming him for something bigger and better? Was Hugh on his way out? Nancy’s smile was ever so slightly out of sync with the rest of her face, like a glitchy digital photograph. Was this how things were handled? Some kind of weird corporate hazing?

  And then Mr. Paull emerged from the bathroom and sauntered over. Nancy politely made herself scarce. “Your debit card,” he said simply, not looking up from his legal pad (which by now had been thoroughly tattooed with endless notes on their activities and inspections).

  “What?”

  Mr. Paull swiveled his eyes upward. “Your,” he said calmly, “debit. Card.”

  And he kept looking.

  And Mark looked back.

  (It seemed crazy, but the three employees in his field of view stopped what they were doing and stared at him.)

  And Mr. Paull said nothing.

  (So did the six shoppers in their vicinity. Carts clattered to a halt, heads turned, hands froze mid-way towards cantaloupes and bunches of grapes.)

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Paull asked.

  “N-no,” Mark said,

  (Go. Leave the store, now. Slap your keys down and walk out.)

  taking out his wallet,

  (You are not doing this. You are not fucking doing this, Mellon. Get out. Get the fuck out of here.)

  and handing the VDPO his ATM card.

  Mr. Paull took it and went over to the nearest ATM.

  “PIN!” he yelled from thirty feet away.

  “I…” Don’t just yell it across the store, jag-off. And he trotted over to Paull’s side and said, “Five oh five eight.”

  Th
e man had wanted him to just shout it out for the whole world to hear, but he had refused. He’d held his ground.

  In a way.

  “Here, give me your wallet,” Mr. Paull said. Mark handed him the wallet. Mr. Paull stuffed withdrawn twenties into the billfold, tucked the ATM card in its slot, and put the wallet in his pocket. “Okay, let’s take a look at that bathroom,” he said.

  Mark stood there.

  At least five employees had seen that. At least five. One of them was a department head like him. None of them said anything.

  Why?

  (Was it just him?)

  Why hadn’t anyone reacted?

  (Was this expected of him? Was he doing something wrong? Was his name on the List?)

  Mark hustled into the bathroom, doing his best to mash the uneasy thoughts against his dinner plate until he couldn’t recognize them anymore.

  ***

  At the end of the day, Paull followed him to his car again but stood by the driver’s side. Waiting.

  “I’ll need the keys, young man,” he said patiently.

  “Right,” Mark said.

  He hadn’t even buckled himself into the passenger’s seat before Paull backed out of the parking slot and barreled his way out of the lot. He drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of the passing lane and cutting off at least three cars, earning them back a round of laudatory honks and extended middle fingers. Five minutes from home, a police cruiser peeled out of nowhere and hit its siren, and Mr. Paull cursed under his breath and pulled over to the shoulder.

  “License and registration, please,” the faceless officer (from Mark’s position, anyway) said. Mr. Paull reached across and popped open the glove compartment, grabbed Mark’s registration and insurance card, and handed it to the officer’s gloved hand. And then he reached into his pocket, pulled out Mark’s wallet, and handed Mark’s license to him. The cop examined all three items without comment.

  “Huh,” Mark said.

  “Do you have any points, Mr. Mellon?”

  “No, sir,” Fred Paull answered.

  “Did you realize you were driving fifty-three in a thirty-five?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t, officer,” Paull said. “I was just in a hurry to get home, my girlfriend is making dinner for me and my boss here, and I must have leaned on the gas a little too heavily.”

  “I see,” said the officer. And now he leaned in to look at both of them, and clearly, clearly at this point, he had to see that the driver’s license photo was of him and not the man driving. There was just no doubt whatsoever. The game was over.

  “Wait here, please,” the officer said, returning to his cruiser.

  They waited in silence. The officer seemed to take about seven years to return back to Mr. Paull’s window. He handed Paull a ticket.

  “I’m giving you a ticket for display of unclear or indistinct license plates,” he said, “on account of the dealer’s frame you’ve got around your rear plate. It’s a forty-seven dollar fine, but no points. Just ease up on the gas going forward, okay?”

  “Wait. Wait a second,” Mark began.

  “Mr. Paull,” Mr. Paull said, “I appreciate what you’re about to say, but the officer here is doing me a favor.”

  “But…”

  “Really,” Mr. Paull said.

  Mark looked at him.

  “All right,” Mark said, “Mark.”

  Well, that was it.

  Mr. Paull started the engine again and slowly pulled out. “They’re not too bad around here,” Mr. Paull said. “If you don’t give them excuses they’ll usually go easy on you.”

  “I see,” Mark said.

  He wanted to look around for the camera or microphone that had to be hidden inside the car, recording him. Recording his every reaction. Waiting for the moment when he would blow up.

  He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, as if trying to smile.

  “We almost home?” he said. “I’m starving.”

  “Almost, sir,” Mr. Paull said.

  “Your girl makes good lasagna,” Mark said, smiling fully now. He had done it. He had crossed through and was now In On It. It was going to be all right.

  “I think so, too,” Mr. Paull said. He turned into Mark’s development.

  ***

  Abby kissed him at the door, smiled at Mr. Paull, and waved them both in. She had already set a third place at the dinner table for him. By now, Mark was suspecting that she was In On It too, and the realization was an immense relief. They had a very open and honest relationship—it was one of their strengths—and he wouldn’t have been comfortable pretending or concealing something from her.

  “That,” Mr. Paull said afterwards, “was maybe the third best meatloaf I’ve ever had in my life.” Mark smiled and Abby giggled.

  “Oh, really? The third?” she teased. “Do you keep a meatloaf journal?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Paull said solemnly. He waited a second before winking, earning him some major league Smile-Power from Abby. Mark grabbed a broom and swept while Mr. Paull did the dishes.

  Abby stood, staring at them. “Such liberated men I’ve got here,” she said, kissing Mark’s cheek.

  “Hey,” Mr. Paull said, tapping his cheek. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

  “Oh, of course not,” Abby said, hopping over and planting one on Mr. Paull’s cheek. Mark rolled his eyes theatrically as Mr. Paull slipped his arm around Abby’s waist.

  “Same plan for tomorrow?” he asked the VDPO.

  “I only wish,” the man replied. “There’ll only be time for a quick stop in to confer with Hugh, and then it’s off to the airport. Flight to Cincinnati leaves at five after noon.” (That’s it! You’ve made it, Mellon, you’ve fucking made it! You’ve won the Game!) “So it’s off to bed for me.”

  “Moi aussi,” Mark said. He was almost giddy with relief.

  “You mind taking the couch?” Mr. Paull said. “I’ve got some lumbar issues.”

  “I insist,” Mark said. “Let me just grab a pillow and a blanket.” And he bolted to the bedroom, came out, and began to set himself up on the couch. Mr. Paull hung his suit jacket up on the coat rack near the door and retired to the bedroom.

  “You’re awfully chipper,” Abby said, taking his hands. He loved when she did that.

  “Honey,” he said, “it has just been one bitch of a week.” He kissed her lips, gently and longingly. “I really appreciate you being such a good sport. I mean it.”

  “Of course,” she said, looking into his eyes. They kissed again, deeply, and he felt a fluttering in his chest. She smiled at him and pecked his cheek. “Night!” she called over her shoulder as she bounced towards their bedroom and shut the door.

  (Wait)

  Mark kicked off his shoes, shirt, pants, folding them neatly on the recliner in the corner

  (Wait, hold on a sec)

  and flopped down on the couch, laying back on the pillow. He was still too wired to sleep. Maybe there was a game on

  (Wait, hold on, think about what’s hap)

  or something.

  He fell asleep ten minutes later, the remote control still in his hand.

  ***

  Someone shook his shoulder. “Sir, excuse me,” he heard. “We don’t want to be late.” He blinked himself semi-awake. Mr. Paull—was that Mr. Paull? Yeah, it looked like him, but it was damn early—was standing there with a glass of orange juice in each hand. He sipped one and handed him the other.

  “Be careful,” Mark said, sitting up. “You don’t want to spill that on your uniform.”

  “What? Oh,” Mr. Paull said, wiping a few drops of orange juice off of his namebadge. HI! I’m FRED, it said, Grocery and Pet Care. “Thanks,” he said. “Uh, Abby was up early and ironed your clothes for you, they’re on a hangar in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Mark said. He pushed himself up off the couch with a groan. “Getting old,” he muttered. He stumbled off towards the bath
room and emerged fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, and as presentable as he could manage.

  “Ready to go?” Fred asked.

  “I think so,” Mr. Mellon said. Fred kissed Abby goodbye and the two of them headed out to the car.

  “It was nice meeting you,” Abby called to him. (Really playing it to the hilt.)

  “You as well,” Mr. Mellon said grumpily. Probably shouldn’t be too friendly, right? He got into the passenger side as Fred started the car up and pulled out onto Johnson Street. Mr. Mellon found himself looking around, curiously wistful. Weird to think that you’re leaving a place you’ll never see again, he reflected to himself. He took in as much as it as he could, the Petersons’ crooked red mailbox, the overturned tricycle on the Patels’ front lawn. The car pulled away and they all receded from his sight. Vanishing in the rearview mirror.

  They walked into the store ten minutes after opening. Mr. Mellon took note, as he always did, of how everyone stood up a little straighter and was just a little more focused on the task in front of him as he passed. Every store he visited had a touch of Potemkin village to it, which was sad, in a way. He never really got to know a store’s employees. Not even Fred.

  Fred swung his arms back and forth jauntily as they strolled down Aisle 5, towards the stairs leading to Hugh’s office.

  Hugh met him at the door, a stack of folders held out as an appeasement. “My apologies for taking so long on this,” he said, turning his head and hacking up something wet and disgusting. He looked like hell. So his sick day yesterday had been legit after all.

  Mr. Mellon took the manila folders and thumbed through them, pretending to examine their contents. “Looks good,” he said.

  Hugh stuck out his hand, and Mellon shook it.

  (Hugh, standing in the street, getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.)

  Given the turnover at the Home Office level, that was probably a good guess. He’d probably never visit this store again. They’d rotate him to another region, or bump him over to another department. Or can him.

  Mr. Mellon—Mark—felt very frightened all of the sudden.

  “Fred,” he said, “I…I wonder if you could walk me out.”

  “Sure thing,” Fred said. “I’ll be back in a few, Hugh.”