I wait for her to elaborate. Even though there are two settings on Belly’s world perspective — sucks and sucks infinity — she always explains. I’m learning from Belly.
“Living here sucks all of the sucking.” Belly groans. “I have zero social life now. Sorry, Zero, no offense. The guys are all jerks, ugly jerks. We aren’t allowed to go anywhere. It’s straight from work to the dorms. We each have an inky-dinky bed and an even inkier-dinkier locker. Dinner comes out of the Eateria and there’s no choice about it. We have to clean our own showers. During time off all there is to do is stare at a screen and sit on the couch. And we don’t even get the good TV channels. And the only thing allowed through the spam filters is online classes at Unicorn. As if!”
It doesn’t sound so terrible to me. That was what my life used to be like on Terra Incognita Circle: I went straight home after school. I ate food. I cleaned up after myself. I studied. I sat on the couch and stared at the screen. It didn’t suck. I had my AnnaMom. It was wonderful.
The shelf in front of me is empty. It’s supposed to be full of tuna cans, the small, flat cans of grated, packed-in-oil fish. I check the cart beside me, but there isn’t product to replace it. I have several cartons of canned octopus, but the shelf space for canned octopus is full.
“Belly, I’m going to call for supervisor advice.” I stare at the empty shelf.
“Why?”
“I don’t have the right product —” There is a meaty, thunking crash, and my back is pelted with gobs of wet. When I turn around, there is Belly, on the floor, in a puddle of blood and green. The label on the broken glass says “Pickle Relish.”
I touch my phone and the sound goes over the intercom: “Emergency assistance Aisle 27, groceries. Cleanup on Aisle 27. Help! Please, help!”
“Were the two of you talking while you worked?” Human Resources Manager Dawna Day’s hands hover over the tablet where she is compiling the accident report.
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, a little. It makes the work go faster.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It was work related.” This is true, generally.
“Work related? Are you sure Belly didn’t say anything else?”
I’ve already given her the best answer, but I can see she wants something different. “I asked Belly if she knew if the tuna girl custody case had been decided. I was stocking cans of tuna, and that made me think about it — the tuna-custody case,” I say. “You know, the one on the news? I asked her if that poor girl’s family had closure yet. It’s such a sad story.” I blink my eyes hard and a little tear squeezes out. Human Resources Dawna hands me a tissue. The conversation pauses.
“You are Belly’s friend.” Human Resources Dawna leans forward and tilts her head to one side. Her voice is tender but steady and targeted. Her voice is a nurse picking shards of glass out of a wound. “If she needs help, you need to tell me so I can get her the help she needs.”
Human Resources Dawna pauses. The room is very quiet.
“Zoë, does Belly use drugs?”
“What? No.”
“When I just talked to her she seemed very disoriented. Out of it. You know?”
“I think that was because of the jar that landed on her head. It was heavy. It knocked her down.”
“But why did the jar fall? Could it be that Belly was careless? If she wasn’t paying attention, maybe that’s an indication that she might have been under the influence of something. . . .”
“It just fell off the top shelf and BOOM! There was no way she could have seen it coming. I mean, her attention was on the shelf she was stocking — the lower shelf.”
“Did you see what happened?”
I think about my answer carefully before I speak. “No. I was working on the opposite shelf.”
“So you couldn’t have seen what happened.”
“I know she was kneeling.”
“You know what the saying here at AllMART is about accidents? Accidents don’t just happen. Accidents happen because someone isn’t doing her job correctly. Safety is everyone’s job. The surveillance will show exactly what occurred.”
I know the cameras don’t pick up sound — just visuals. The record will show that we were working as I described. It will not reveal that I was probing Belly for information about life in the welcoming shelter of AllMART’s dorms.
“But Zoë, never say ‘Help’ on the intercom. It confuses the customers. It makes them curious. They come to see what’s happening, and that makes it harder for the First Aid responder to do her work. Ask for cleanup. No one is ever curious about cleanup. I know it’s hard to remember that in an emergency, so I’m just giving you a reminder this time, not a reprimand. Don’t worry, Zoë. There are no black marks on your record.”
“Thank you.” I sound genuinely grateful because I am. I am genuinely grateful that this interview is over. I pause in the doorway as I leave to return to work. “Ma’am? What should I do with all the octopus? There is no room on the shelves for octopus. And I don’t have the tuna to put in the empty spots.”
Dawna Day looks up; that twitch across her face and intake of breath mean the question isn’t welcome. She answers it anyway: “Just fill the empty places with the octopus. And strip the tuna price tabs off the shelf. We want to avoid confusing the customers. I’ll tell marketing to push octopus.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. And then I go back to the aisle, which smells of pickle relish, and do exactly as I’ve been told.
My phone trembles.
It is set on work mode: I only receive alerts that pertain to work — and messages from WARREN — and AnnaMom, who will call. I get work-related messages all day long:
Take a moment to stretch!
Your smile . . . is AllMART’s welcome mat.
Lunch break begins now and ends in 20 minutes.
Just a reminder: All public lavatories have been locked to prevent theft. Encourage customers to stop by the Porta-Comfy stations in the parking lot. Suggest they include a bottle of HandiHandsanitizer in today’s purchasing.
Lunch break ends in five minutes. Are you ready to give your all for AllMART?
. . . and . . .
PAYDAY! Congratulations, your wages have been autodeposited in your account. Have a great day. Have an AllMART day.
I tap the link to my account, press my thumb to the screen, and enter my PIN: 1226. A to Z, Anna to Zoë.
I think I must have checked too soon. I don’t have any money.
No. That isn’t correct. I have less than no money. I am overdrawn. Even the little bit of lunch money I had left in my account when school ended is gone. That money didn’t even cover the cost of my physical. Blood tests are expensive. I trained, and I worked, and I have nothing to show for it. No. I have the debt I owe on my AllMART uniform. It cost a shocking lot.
When were still doing classroom training, we got some helpful budgeting advice from Pearl the Squirrel. She showed us how we could $trrreeeetch! our paychecks by shopping AllMART deals. Pearl bought nuts and berries, but only after comparison-shopping and checking to see if she had digital coupons. There was a real happy ending at the checkout stand. But Pearl the Squirrel is an animated cartoon animal. She doesn’t wear clothes. That may explain why the cost of the shirt on my back wasn’t included in the budget.
Meanwhile, I owe AllMART money. Then I think about compound interest.
I am not alone. Suddenly, short emphatic words punctuate the air above the shelving units and slither along the aisles. That passes, but I can hear a whispered weeping at the other side of the canned soups.
“I shoulda warned you about payday,” says Timmer. “But even when you know how it is, it’s a crap sandwich.”
“How am I supposed to live on nothing?”
“Same as you have been,” says Timmer. “Eventually, you will get money. I get money now, which is why we have delicious cereal.” He shakes the box. “Just be glad you aren’t living in the dormatorium. The kids in there will never
stop being in debt to AllMART.”
I think about Belly. When she complained about the dorms, she complained about everything — except the rent. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she thought she was living there free, like a squirrel in a tree. How much does an emergency ambulance cost? What about stitches? When Belly gets back from the SpeedyMed clinic, she is going to find that the dial on the suck-o-meter goes way beyond what she thought was infinity.
Scene: A young woman is standing in line. Her attention is on her phone screen. Suddenly, it is almost out of power, and the line she’s standing in reaches on and on; we see it from high above, coiling around and around.
Voice-over: Your right to vote is valuable . . . to us! Simply call us, Vote Bundling Services, and we will tell you how to turn your vote into something you want. Stop muddling with middlemen, faceless bureaucracy, and inconvenience. It’s time democracy worked for you! Call Vote Bundling Services now!
Scene: We see the woman dial.
Young woman: Hello, Vote Bundling Services? (Smiles. Touches phone screen. Close shot of throbbing green dollar sign.)
Closing shot: She walks away, confident and energetic, looking fine.
Voice-over: Vote Bundling Services, because you know what you want — and we give it to you.
If I had a vote, I’d sell it. I won’t have a vote to sell until my eighteenth birthday, and that’s 619 days away.
Chad Manley: We have a breaking update on the Delores Perdita Cash tuna-custody case.
Sallie Lee: Does that poor family finally get closure?
Chad Manley: I know this story is important to all our viewers. Over to you, Sallie.
Sallie Lee: (Taps her teleprompter pad and reads.) Siftyfour and now it did depend report from all pataries has whole received for the hues of the garvens of today. (Her professional composure wrinkles.) What?
Chad Manley: Huhhuhhuh! I think you broke the story good, Sallie. Sanjay? (Chad touches his earpiece, nods.) Actually, the tuna-custody case is still frozen.
The real story tonight comes to us from the campaign trail, where the Governor is rolling out a new jobs program.
Governor: Jobs. That’s what people want and that’s why they vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for jobs. Jobs. Job creators. Today we are here to cut the ribbon on a new facility, one that will provide jobs. And not just jobs — we are putting criminals to work. This empty, useless building . . . (The Governor waves.)
Hey, I know that building. It is Frederick Winslow Taylor High School, where I spent 2,942 hours in Room 2-B. I guess it is empty and useless now.
Governor: This waste government property is going to be put to use as a guano-mining facility. We — our corporate partner is Bats of Happiness — have already seeded in the colonies of bats that will be producing black gold. By next week, the facility will be fully staffed, putting prisoners to work as productive citizens.
Scene: The Governor steps forward with a pair of giant novelty scissors and cuts the giant novelty ribbon bow. At the same time, the lids on large cardboard boxes are flipped open. The camera focuses on the top of a box. Nothing happens. A guy in overalls appears, grabs the box, and shakes it. Bats fly out. Everyone in the audience claps, except the Governor, who ducks and covers her hair with her hands. Suddenly the camera is flipped down. All it shows is the sidewalk in front of what used to be Room 2-B.
(Back in the studio.)
Chad Manley: Things can get rough out there on the campaign trail. Wow. Bats. What do you think about bats, Sallie?
I can see a black, flapping shape rise up from behind Sallie Lee’s perfectly coiffed hair.
It jerks smack! right into her face.
Sallie Lee: I . . . (Screaming and flailing.)
Chad Manley: Don’t be such a girl! It’s just a toy. A bat-able squeaky bat. Available at Petlandia, AllMART! Show her it’s just a toy, Sanjay. Back in a minute . . .
“This here is a matter of life or death.” He waves his arms wide so I know he means his department, the Great Outdoors, Aisles 123–131. I put on my yes-sir-I’m-paying-attention-sir face and look around: shelves that reach to the metal rafter beams where the indoor sparrows nest, a taxidermied polar bear squishing a taxidermied seal, guns in glass display cases, guns on the wall. “Life or death. You get that, zombie?”
“Zoë, I’m Zoë,” I say, and touch my name tag. It doesn’t help much. My tag says ZERO. “You know how it is with the name tags, right, Karl?” I give him half a smile and a tilted-head shrug.
“I’m Kral. My momma named me Kral. You got that, zombie girl? And when I say zombie, I mean you’re one of them that’s not ready. You got you a bugout bag, zombie? You got you a bag that’s got what you need to survive when it hits the fan?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I’m not even lying.
“You got a secure shelter? Someplace to go when you can’t go home?”
I think of the Warren. It isn’t home, but it’s shelter. “Yeah.”
“You got food stores?”
I think about the wall of cereal boxes back at the Warren. “Yeah. We have food.”
“The world is full of crazies.”
I’m looking at one, but I’m not going to mention it.
“You got a gun?”
“No. But I’ve got friends.”
“Unless they’re friends with guns, they aren’t friends.”
I can see the gears shifting in Kral’s head. I’m nothing but a trainee-employee so young I can’t be bonded to handle money — even worse, I’m a gunless zombie. I’m worthless. And he is cursed with the thankless task of teaching me what I need to know to be useful in Aisles 123–131, the Great Outdoors, where it’s a matter of life or death if somebody doesn’t find the vacu-packed dehydrated celery.
At 9:45 p.m., the lights dim. Reducing the lights to 60 percent is a signal to the shoppers that they need to head for checkout. Their shopping day is over. By 10:30 the lights are down to 30 percent and the registers have been closed out and the lot wranglers are rattling long snakes made of carts with wobbling wheels home for the night. The store grows silent; the little sparrows close their wings and settle on the beams.
Kral calls me to the register station and inventory comm-terminal. With the main lights down, I notice that there are halogen beams focused on the handguns. I’ve seen that trick before, in the jewelry department: Sparkly, sparkly, don’t you want me? Except here there is no sparkle. The beams of light are swallowed up by gun-shaped chunks of darkness. Then that’s it. That light is gone forever.
“You did good today. You stayed busy.” The praise is grudging, but I earned it. I scurried up the ladder to the top shelves like a squirrel. I sorted out the squid-body fishing lures from the flashers and the dodgers and never once gave in to the urge to pretend they were earrings. When consumers passed through, I made sure I directed them to our special sale item, the Red-E-2-Go emergency kit. When I took my ten-minute bathroom break, I was back in seven. If Kral wanted an excuse to bash me in the training eval, I didn’t give him an obvious one. He starts to type, putting stuff into my permanent employment record. Then he stops and points to the stock cases behind him where the ammunition boxes are stacked behind lock and key. “You see how short the inventory is there?”
I do, and I wish I didn’t. It looks like there’s a lot of work to be done, filling the empty shelves, scanning the bar codes, and placing orders. I don’t get paid for overtime — not during training. And I don’t especially want to be stuck here, in the 30 percent gloom with a dead polar bear and Kral, doing unpaid after-hours work.
“We keep ’em short stocked,” says Kral. “It improves sales. Heightens the perceived value. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” I learned about short-stocking in Retail Psychology, but this is the first time a department supervisor at AllMART has suggested anything that deviated from the customer-happiness-comes-first AllMART way. Full shelves signal bounty and free choice, and empty shelves trigger anxiety and paranoia. That’s classroom kno
wledge. I’m not in a classroom anymore. The customer psychology of purchasing ammunition may differ from the psychology of purchasing radishes.
“You take these.” Kral hands me a stack of business cards:
“Anybody asks you about ammunition, you give them one of these cards before you tell them Aisle 127. You write your name on the back so I know it was a referral. I’ll make sure you get a fair taste.”
I put the stack of cards in my pocket.
“Now, hop up on the counter over there.”
I climb up. I’m almost eye to eye with the dead polar bear. I wonder, is that a real tongue behind those fangs? Or a plastic replacement? Is the polar bear a sort of mannequin, dressed in a fashionable winter-white coat?
“Little more that way,” says Kral. I take a few steps in the direction he points.
“That’s good,” says Kral, and then he unlocks the gun case in front of him.
Crap. I must be in front of the surveillance camera. Kral’s made me into a giant blind spot. He’s going to steal from AllMART, and I’m going to help him. I stand exactly still and shut my eyes so I can be honest when I say I didn’t see anything.
CRACK! CRACK! My eyes shock open. I freeze like a bunny.
“I hate them birds,” says Kral. He’s locking the case. The gun is back in its place under the glamour light.
“Think I got a couple. One’s on the floor, but you better take the ladder and check on top of the high stock. They stink real bad after a couple of days.”
I do as I’m told. The bird that landed on the top shelf is blown into bloody feathers and chunks, but I get as much as I can see and reach. My hands are full of bird parts when Kral calls up to me, “I’ll give you a good review.” Hearing that would have made me think it was worth it, but then he adds, “When it hits the fan, you come by my place and flash those zombie titties — maybe I’ll let you in.”
“I saw bras today that would hold wrecking balls, bras big as circus tents,” Timmer says. “I spent the whole day untangling hangers and shoving bras onto racks. When I thought I was done, they just pointed me back to the beginning. There were bras all over the floor already, like winter was coming and bra racks were trees.”
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