Shelf Life

by Robert Corbet

  Adam’s parents said that too much lying around wasn’t good for him, but Adam told them not to worry. ‘What about your homework?’ they asked. Adam told his parents he didn’t have any. But the truth was, his homework had been piling up for so long now that Adam could hardly bear to think about it. The pile had become a mountain, an endless high plateau that could never be crossed. In the end, Adam had no choice but to turn his back on it.

  ‘Adam,’ his father called again. ‘Open up. I’ve got some good news.’

  Mostly, when anyone knocked on his bedroom door, Adam would lie there until they went away. Usually, when it was his father, the news was anything but good. Adam was needed to unstack the dishwasher or put out the rubbish bins. It wasn’t that these requests were unreasonable, it was just that they always came when Adam was busy doing something else, like watching TV.

  Adam lay on his bed, listening to his father knocking. It was too late to open it now, he decided. If he opened the door now, his father would get angry and ask why he hadn’t opened it sooner. ‘What were you doing in there?’‘Why is the TV still on?’These were the kind of questions that Adam had no answers for.

  But what if the good news really was good? He opened his eyes. What if a rich uncle had died and left him a massive fortune, or his number had come up in a million-dollar jackpot? For a long time now, Adam had thought about getting a bigger TV and maybe a bigger bed, if only he had the money. He sat up. His father had stopped knocking, which in Adam’s mind was almost proof that the good news was, actually, good. With an unprecedented burst of energy, he leapt out of bed, ran to the door and unlocked it.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Good news,’ said his father. ‘I’ve found you a job.’

  The following day, instead of going home to watch Looney Toons Blue Ribbon Classics after school, Adam found himself standing in a linoleum passageway outside an open door marked ‘MANAGER’. A man in a suit was on the phone. He gestured for Adam to come in, but didn’t try for any eye contact. Adam stood waiting, while the manager continued speaking into the phone. The room smelt of cigarette smoke. On the desk there was a monitor switching between different security cameras. A poster on the wall said:

  The 3 Ps of Professionalism—Punctuality, Presentation and Politeness.

  Adam had scored zero out of three for Professionalism. He was late, his clothes were shabby and he had his hands in his pockets. The manager was a friend of his father’s, from the golf club. As a favour, he had offered to interview Adam for some part-time work. ‘A kick up the tail,’ his father had called it, ‘a sniff of what’s out there in the real world.’ Adam had told his father that he didn’t want to work, and certainly not in a supermarket. ‘I don’t have time,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my final exams coming up.’ But then his father got angry. ‘Graham is an important man,’ he said. ‘I told him you’d be there, and you will!’ Adam had never seen his father get so heated. Easier to go and do the interview badly, he decided, then he could go home and watch TV.

  The manager put down the phone and extended his hand.

  ‘Graham Powell,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

  The interview was very strange. Graham told Adam that his father was ‘top-notch’ and ‘a magician with a sand wedge’. He asked Adam all the usual questions and Adam tried to give the worst imaginable answers, without being too offensive or rude. Throughout the interview, the phone kept on ringing and Graham kept answering it. Adam got the feeling the manager wasn’t even listening to him.

  ‘Are you an enthusiastic, self-motivated person?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Why did you apply for this position?’

  ‘Because my dad said he’d take away my TV.’

  ‘What are your strengths and weaknesses?’

  ‘I like TV. I like having a good time.’

  ‘Any particular strengths?’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said. Having a good time.’

  ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years?’

  ‘Probably on a beach somewhere, soaking up the sun.’

  After the interview, Adam was introduced to Scott, the trainee manager who shook his hand and called him ‘mate’. Scott gave Adam an aptitude test which he quite enjoyed doing. There were multiple-choice questions about counting money, telling the time and units of measurement. Following that, Adam was taken to the training room to watch videos on how to lift boxes, how to use a fire extinguisher, what to do if someone swallowed detergent and the consequences of stealing from the till. Midway through the section on how to address customers, there was a long excerpt from the opening ceremony of the Sydney 2000 Olympics. Adam watched for ten minutes, thinking it must be some kind of motivational tape. But then it went to an ad break and he realised someone must have taped over the training video.

  At the end of it, Scott returned. He gave Adam a white shirt and a tie with the company logo on it.

  ‘Congratulations, mate,’ he said. ‘You start on Monday.’

  At eight fifty-seven on Monday morning, with his shirt unironed and his tie left loose, Adam stood outside the supermarket waiting to go in. He was three minutes early, which was ridiculous, considering how hard he had tried to be late. He looked at the plastic bags blowing around the carpark. There was broken glass everywhere and a shopping trolley lying on its side. On the wall was an advertisement for a famous brand of jogging shoes. Underneath, someone had written the word ANARCHY, with a circle around the A. Adam knew what the word meant, more or less, but it wasn’t something he had thought about much, until now. His comfortable lifestyle had been disrupted, but only temporarily. He had done what his father had asked him to do. He had gone to the interview and sat through the videos. He had got the job through no fault of his own, and now it was up to him to take control of his own destiny. Anarchy meant no laws. It meant chaos and disorder. Adam wasn’t letting other people decide his future for him. Today, he was going to get himself sacked.

  The store manager was seated at his desk, as he had been the day before.

  ‘Graham Powell,’ he said, shaking Adam’s hand as if they had never met.

  ‘I’m Adam,’ said Adam, just to be on the safe side.

  Graham spun around in his chair, leaned down and opened his bottom drawer.

  ‘Adam, Adam,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve got you in here, somewhere.’

  There were dozens of nametags in the drawer, but none of them had his name on it. Graham sorted through them all. Then he picked one out and showed it to Adam.

  It said Andy.

  ‘How about you wear this one until we get yours made up?’

  ‘But that’s not my name,’ said Adam.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Graham sounded slightly annoyed.

  ‘It’s mainly for the customers, you realise.’

  Adam took the tag and pinned it to his shirt pocket. It was on an angle, but he didn’t care.

  ‘Any questions?’ asked Graham. ‘Any concerns?’

  It was a good opportunity to be rude, crude, stupid, or all three. But before Adam could say anything, Graham stood up and began shaking his hand again.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll introduce you to the sharks!’

  He led Adam to a smaller room with four desks. There were two men and two women seated at the desks, and Graham introduced Adam to them, one by one: Nicola the dairy manager, Cameron the fruit manager, Amanda the grocery manager and Scott the trainee manager, who said, ‘How are ya, mate?’ as if he actually remembered him. Adam viewed each in turn, like changing channels on TV. Who would he have to offend, he wondered, and how, in order to be dismissed?

  Amanda the grocery manager had short, bleached hair. She was stocky, with strong arms and broad shoulders. Adam wondered if he could beat her in an arm-wrestle and decided probably not. Would she have a short fuse? he wondered. Would she lose it, when he did what he had to do?

  Amanda frowned at his name tag. ‘Andy?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Adam.


  He followed Amanda to the end of the linoleum passageway. ‘This is the tearoom,’ she said, showing him a room with a sink and a laminated table. ‘This is where you clock on,’ she said, stopping to enter his PIN number at a machine on the wall. ‘This is Brian the meat manager,’ she said, as a red-faced man tried crushing Adam’s fingers with a handshake. ‘That was Stephen,’ she said, as they passed another worker without speaking. ‘And this is the cleaning cupboard.’

  Amanda opened the cupboard door. A horrible, mouldering, primeval smell filled the air. It was as if the most unmentionably bad smells in the world had got together to do battle with the nastiest chemical smells, and the bad smells were winning.

  Adam took a step backwards as Amanda handed him a bucket and an old mop.

  ‘Here you go. Now come with me.’

  Pushing the bucket on its wobbly wheels, Adam followed Amanda into the store. As a customer, Adam had thought of a supermarket as a place to visit briefly. Now that he was a worker, he saw it as a labyrinth with no way out.

  Amanda turned the corner and he hurried to keep up with her. ‘This is Aisle Two,’ she said. Aisle Two was like a hardware store compressed into a single straight line. There was rat poison, super-glue, padlocks, matches, steel wool, garbage bags, clothes pegs and rubber gloves. The possibilities for anarchy were endless.

  Halfway along the aisle, there were two yellow cones with Caution/Slippery written on them in big red letters. Between the cones, Adam saw a pool of something black and sticky on the floor. It was impossible to say what it was or how long it had been there, but Adam knew what he had to do. Getting the sack was not just a good idea. It had become an urgent priority.

  ‘Not a problem,’ he murmured.

  When Amanda was gone, Adam dipped the mop in the bucket. The handle felt slimy in his hands and the filthy grey water had floating chunks of milk in it. The stepper mechanism jammed so the mop stuck as Adam tried to squeeze it. He almost tipped the whole thing over. Spilling a bucket would not be enough, though, even if the water was disgusting. He would have to do something much worse to make sure of getting the sack. Adam imagined himself being chased down the aisles by Amanda and the other managers. He imagined the cheers of the shoppers and co-workers as they escorted him to the door. Then Graham would ring his father and describe him as ‘terminally unemployable. The worse case I’ve seen.’ Mission accomplished. But how to make it happen?

  The black substance was stuck to the floor like tar. It was too thick and viscous to remove with a mop. Whatever it was, it would be hard to get rid of. He looked up at the cleaning products on the shelves above him: ammonia, bleach, caustic soda, borax, sugar soap. There were all the brand names he had seen on TV: Exit Mould, White King, Windex, Silvo, Mr Sheen. One of them would have to be right. And if he wasn’t allowed to use them, even better. Why not do the job properly, with a squirt from all of them? Adam imagined the brief but passionate exchange he might have with Amanda. She would use words like ‘irresponsible’ and ‘reckless’. He would use words like ‘freedom’ and ‘dignity’. Then Amanda would march him off to see Graham, and that would be the end of it. He could go back to bed.

  Adam got down on his hands and knees to inspect the mess more closely. Taking care not to dangle his tie in it, he lowered his head and sniffed. With his finger he touched the shiny surface and drew a large ‘A’ for Anarchy, inside a circle. It wasn’t enough to land him in much trouble, but it was a start. Adam was kneeling there, deciding what to do next, when he heard the sound of someone softly crying in the next aisle. It was such an unexpected, foreign sound in that bright fluorescent place that Adam thought he must be imagining it.

  The crying girl was seated on top of a stepladder in Aisle One. Her nametag said Louisa. She was pretty, he decided, for an Employee of the Month.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Louisa looked up at him. ‘Are you new?’

  Adam nodded as he took down a box of tissues from the shelf, ripped off the top and offered her one.

  ‘You’re not meant to, you know,’ said Louisa.

  ‘What can they do?’ said Adam defiantly. ‘Sack me on my first day?’

  Louisa took a tissue and wiped her wet cheeks. ‘Probably.’

  Adam glanced at her badge again. She was very pretty— quite beautiful, in fact—for an Employee of the Month.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Big night, eh?’

  ‘Twins!’ Louisa nodded.

  Adam tried to imagine her dating two brothers on the same night. She really didn’t look like the type.

  ‘I’m training to be a midwife,’ Louisa explained.

  Adam was relieved. ‘Do they pay you overtime at night?’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘They don’t pay me at all, but I don’t care. It’s what I want to do.’

  She smiled.

  Her smile was what did it.

  Adam was caught off his guard. Deep inside of him, something was stirring. It was as if some hibernating creature had awoken at the end of a long cold winter and begun to crawl out of its log. The hibernating creature was Adam’s soul and there was a light at the end of the log. It was a pretty girl with tear-stained cheeks who knew what she wanted to do with her life.

  ‘How about you?’ asked Louisa. ‘Are you studying?’

  Adam looked away from her, stalling for time. If he told Louisa he was still at school, she would find out he was younger than her, which would not be good. But apart from going to school, there was nothing he actually did. The only ‘further study’ he’d done was in TV documentaries.

  ‘Next year,’ he said.

  ‘You’re having this year off?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘It’s so hard to choose, I know.’

  She was beautiful, intelligent and caring. He was hook, line and sinker.

  ‘Nursing is such a good choice. It would be so great to have a job helping others.’ He was babbling now. He couldn’t help it. ‘If I was a girl, I would definitely consider nursing.’

  ‘Guys do it too,’ said Louisa.

  Adam felt the conversation slipping out of his grasp. He knew it was dangerously close to the edge.

  ‘Guys can be nurses,’ he assured her. ‘But midwives, that’s different. I mean, wouldn’t it be a bit weird, having a guy deliver your baby?’

  ‘The doctors who do it are mostly men,’ said Louisa.

  ‘All the more reason,’ said Adam,‘why midwives should be women.’

  Louisa laughed. ‘You don’t really want to be a nurse, do you?’

  Adam shook his head. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘I’d better get back to work,’ said Louisa. ‘Thanks, by the way.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he said.

  When Adam returned to Aisle Two, Amanda was standing with her hands on her hips, staring at the black stain with the circled ‘A’ for Anarchy clearly visible. Judging from the look on her face, he was in trouble.

  ‘Where have you been? I asked you to clean this up.’

  ‘I tried to,’Adam mumbled.

  ‘And this . . . this “A” symbol,’ she said. ‘Did you draw this?’

  Adam knew if he answered yes, then that would be the end of his supermarket career. Saying it meant A for Adam or even A for Amanda would not work. They both knew it meant A for Anarchy. And anarchy meant no rules. It meant having no respect for authority and not doing what the boss asked you to.

  ‘Are you going to sack me?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you want to be sacked?’

  Through a hole in the shelves, he saw Louisa climb down from her stepladder.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Amanda looked at Adam. Then, to his surprise, she laughed.

  ‘Listen,’ she said,‘to be sacked from this job you’d have to run naked through the deli with a string of gourmet sausages hanging round your neck. You’d have to cover yourself in cream cheese and dangle a smoked trout
between your legs. Even then, they’d just move you to the dairy section. Nobody gets the sack from this place. You leave when you’re ready to, or else when you die.’

  AISLE

  three

  MEDICAL/ BABY CARE/HEALTH & BEAUTY

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Fine thanks.’

  The man in the loose-knit woollen cardigan placed a small packet on the counter. Chloe started the conveyor belt and watched the tampons make their way slowly towards her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the man, politely. ‘Are those the right size for my girlfriend?’

  Chloe looked at him closely to make sure he wasn’t joking. She noticed his cardigan had a sailboat knitted into the design.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ she said as she picked up the packet of tampons, size Regular, and scanned it.

  Chloe could tell a lot about a person, not just from what they wore, but also from the things they bought. It was a game she played to keep from getting bored. She would guess if they lived alone or how long they had been married, how many children they had and what kind of pets, how much TV they watched and what kind of garden they had, how rich they were and who they voted for. It was all there in what they bought, the quantity and the brand name. You could never be completely certain, but a guy with 48 litres of Coke in his trolley was either planning a football club barbecue or else he was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction.

  The cardigan man picked up his tampons and went home to his Regular girlfriend. There were no more customers after him, so Chloe took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She placed her feet in a V and adjusted her neck and shoulders slightly to straighten her spine.

  She was pretty enough, she knew, but not a natural beauty, the way some other girls were. (Her face, when she studied it closely, was not quite symmetrical.) Chloe had worked hard to make the most of what she’d been born with. She set herself high standards. (Her thighs and upper arms were nine-out-of-ten, but lately her butt had slumped to seven, an all-time low.) At the gym she imagined a machine that could stretch her DNA like rubber, and the generations of perfect offspring that might follow.