It is terrible when valued customers poop on the changing room floor.
“Maybe if this were just one large space it wouldn’t happen so often,” I say. I gesture at the mess. “Psychologically, I mean. It would discourage the behavior.”
Dawna Day looks confused. So do I.
“I mean losing your home in the fire. I saw the news. That is your neighborhood, yes? Terra Incognita? Do you and your mother have a place to stay?”
I use the time it takes to bundle the mess into the incinerator bag to prepare my answer.
“Yes,” I say. “Mom has an apartment for nights when she works late. It’s a long commute to Terra Incognita.”
“No need to worry, then,” says Dawna Day. “I would like to meet your mother sometime. She must be very proud of you.”
She turns to leave, but then she stops.
“Zoë, one last thing. When I looked at your file, I noticed you use medications.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Well, don’t forget to get your refill. Don’t wait until too late to make the appointment.”
“I won’t forget. I’ve got a responsibility reminder on my phone. Thank you, though. I should go back to work now?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s right, Zoë. Just go back to work.”
Dawna Day’s ring tone is the AllMART jingle. When I hear it, I have a strong impulse to jump to my feet, put my filthy hands in the air, and clapclapclap. I don’t. I just focus on the mess on the floor.
“Tell Dolly Lamb I don’t care if she refuses the severance package. She either resigns and takes it or she’s fired and gets nothing, which is what she deserves. . . . Refill her prescription and push her out the door. . . . Fine! Tell her she can keep the damn thought-control ears. That woman doesn’t have enough thought power to wipe her . . . Fine! I’ll be there in a minute,” says Dawna Day.
I look up and see her face. It is crumpled and hard, but when she looks away from her phone, when she sees me, she smiles.
“It isn’t easy managing Human Resources, Zoë. They aren’t all like you. I wish they were. And Zoë, that idea you had about changing the dressing room psychology. That’s brilliant. I’m going to make sure corporate hears it.”
“I had a visit from Dawna Day,” I say.
I expect Timmer to say Me too! He doesn’t. He just stops suddenly, halfway to nowhere in the parking lot.
“She wanted to know where I’m living now, since Terra Incognita burned.”
“Where are you living?” Timmer says.
“My mom has an apartment for when she works late. We live there now.”
“Good to know,” says Timmer. “Remind me to never believe a thing you say, ever.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I wonder where I’m living. Am I sleeping on your couch?”
“That would not be sexually responsible. I think you are living with your cousin Raoul.”
He is still laughing when we get to the Warren.
After Timmer is gone, I read to 5er until he falls asleep.
I use pliers I find in the mop room — with narrow jaws and little grabbing teeth.
Voice-over: Needle-nose pliers are perfect tools for reaching into small places. AllMART customers may ask for long-nose, pinch-nose, or snip-nose pliers. If the customer uses one of those names, make certain to mirror their language in your own reply. Mirroring creates trust. Trust sells.
It hurts more than I expected. I can’t just pluck it out. I have to tear a hole in my skin, which is difficult. But I always finish what I start. Or I think I do. Maybe I only finish what I start because my concentration is enhanced by the medicine. Maybe it’s the little pellet under my skin that keeps me focused. Maybe it is what helps me ignore the hurt while I push and scratch until the job is done and the little rod spurts out, greasy with blood.
It can’t help me focus and ignore pain anymore. I’m on my own.
I stand under the shower. My blood trickles thin, down my skin. I open my hand. My concentration, my modulation, my sexual responsibility: None of them amount to much. I hold my hand under the flow of the water, and when I bring it out, it is empty. I shampoo my hair in the smell of oranges and ginger. I scrub behind my ear with my pink-and-white-striped washcloth; the traces of blood are almost invisible. It wasn’t such a big deal. That’s what I think while the remains of Zoëkins-ZeeZeeBee-the-best-student-in-Room-2-B swirl away down the drain.
There are Tasers behind my eyes, zizzz-zaapp!
“I’ll stay with you,” says Timmer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, reaches out with the back of his hand, and touches my forehead.
“No fever,” he says. “I don’t think you’re sick.”
I’m shaking. I’ve thrown up until I’m nothing but a crumpled, empty bag. It hurts to use my eyes.
“I mean, I don’t think it’s contagious. Did you eat something weird? Did you eat something we didn’t?”
“No. No.” There isn’t any shape to that little word. Its edges are all melted off. It’s just a ragged gust of air.
Timmer looks at his phone. “We have about six hours to get you through this. Then you’ve got to get up and go to work.”
He stands and goes to the other room. He didn’t stay after all. And the whole world is thick and sad. My thoughts are thick and sad. Even my tears are thick and sad. But then the pain comes back, and jagged glass crawls inside of me. It goes on forever, until Timmer comes back with my adventure towel, cool and damp, and wipes away the stale sweat and dried-up tears and the traces of puke off my lips.
When the time comes, he makes me stand up and shower. He buttons my pants for me. He lets me lean against him until we come to the employee entrance. Then he steps back, and I’m on my own.
Have I scanned this can of octopus? I keep losing track. Thoughts start, and then they stop. None of them get anywhere. My head aches. I pick a can of octopus up. I put the can of octopus down. I pick the can of octopus up again.
I touch the wounded place behind my ear.
I ruined everything.
I’m not good anymore.
I’m stupid.
Close your eyes, Zoëkins. Close your eyes and open your heart to sweet dreams. Imagine we are shopping, Zoë-baby. We walk up to the doors, and they are so shiny and clean we can see inside and see so many wonderful things, but then we open the door and walk in, and we are the only ones there. Now walk with me, Zoë, walk with me to the escalator, the escalator that goes down. We just stand and the escalator floats us down, like butterflies, through the beautiful colors and smells. And when we come to that level, the music is on but the lights are a little bit dim. It is very peaceful, and we are the only ones there. Then we go to the next escalator and we float down that one too. . . . And now the things are the best things ever. There is a ruby as big as my heart, it is shining on black velvet, and it is just for you, my Zoë-heart. Everything and all the best things are for you.
“Zero? Yeah. That octopus just isn’t moving. People in this region won’t eat octopus. So get a cart, pull it all off, and then spread the other stuff out. Sorry I had you count it first. It’s all going to have to be counted again when they send it to the depot. So just stop with the inventory and pull it. Pull it all.”
I am sick and stupid and slow for days.
No one notices.
ZERO finds the air to say, “May I help you?” May, because of course she can. ZERO can lead the way to the vacu-packed celery. ZERO can suggest the DinoRoar TwinPac is the best birthday present ever; and, if it’s for a girl, ZERO points out that the DinoRoar Dream House sold separately is adorable. ZERO can and ZERO does. Her smile is AllMART’s welcome mat; the fact that the face around it is puffy with tears doesn’t change a thing.
I’m stretched out on the folding table, flat on my back with my eyes closed so I don’t start counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. I’ve been counting things all day doing inventory; unless I force myself, I will continue and end up knowing exactly how many holes fu
ll of nothing are suspended over my head. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel it up there, the nothing. It is surprisingly heavy.
Jingle-ting! Clank-a-ding!
There is a shopkeeper’s bell on the front door. This is the first time I’ve heard it ring. It’s the first time anyone has opened that front door, which is always unlocked and waiting for 5er’s family to come for him.
She is standing in the open door, tall and beautiful — so, so beautiful, though her face is grimed with slept-in, cried-in eyeliner. Tears are brimming up. They sparkle like broken glass.
“Are you here for 5er? Are you 5er’s mom?”
5er looks up when I say his name, but there is no reunion. His attention returns to the sock he is twisting into a bunny for the hundredth time or five hundredth time.
“I need Raoul,” the beautiful stranger says. “Is he here?”
“No.” I don’t elaborate, because I can’t. The only thing I know about Raoul is that he isn’t here.
“I’ll wait,” she says, and she sits down in one of the stiff orange plastic chairs. Her feet slide out of the sparkling slippers she is wearing. I recognize them. They were a special sale item last week. When they were gone, they left a gritty drift of glitter behind, a ghostly sparkle in the carpet of the shoe aisle. Janitorial vacuumed, but that only spread the glitter to other places. Today I saw it twinkle on the floor beside the duck decoys in the Great Outdoors.
She reaches down and rubs the arch of one foot, then she draws one knee up, wraps her arms around herself until she is folded like a wing without feathers. When she looks at me, I’m shot through with her need. I have no idea how to answer it.
I realize she is wearing an AllMART special-services smock. JULIETTE is embroidered in silver thread over her heart.
“Juliette? Juliette. I’m Zoë. How can I help you? Do you want a drink of water?”
She shakes her head no. She doesn’t want water; she wants Raoul. I get the water anyway, because I have to do something. When I hold it out to her, she takes it from me and drinks small sips without ever taking the cup from her lips.
“You work at AllMART?”
“Yes,” she says. It’s a tiny little answer, and she says it into the cup. Then she straightens up and says, “I’m bonded and certified. I work registers and special-services departments.”
She is not a family-hardship-waiver trainee. She is a real employee. She can count pills into the bright yellow-and-black bottles at the SpeedyMed pharmacy. She can pamper customers with spa footbaths full of nibble fish that kiss away flakes of skin and lavish crooked toes with attention like they were celebrities. She can sell lottery tickets at the service desk.
And she is still terribly sad.
I have no idea what else to do or say. The air is thick with nothing.
The back door opens, and we both look in that direction.
“Juliette!” The stranger is no stranger to Timmer. His voice bends with happiness when he says her name.
But she doesn’t smile back.
“Juliette, what’s wrong?” Timmer is on his knees in front of her. She droops down and onto his shoulder like a wilting flower.
“I need Raoul,” she says to Timmer.
“Yeah,” Timmer says, and he rocks back onto his heels. He grasps her hands, bites his lower lip, and shakes his head. “Yeah, he isn’t back yet. This scrapping job, it’s a big one — and far away.”
“But I need him,” she says. “We’ve been evicted.”
“What?” says Timmer.
“I went home after work, and they’d thrown all our stuff out into the parking lot. Even the food out of the fridge. My card didn’t work in the lock. There was this.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.
“Shit,” says Timmer. “Two months.” His shoulders sag. I can see he’s churning with this, trying to fix it.
“Raoul always paid the rent. He always said it wasn’t my problem. I just thought . . .”
“Well, for now,” says Timmer, “you have a place here. You know it.”
She doesn’t look happy.
“It’s just for until Raoul gets back. Then he’ll get a better place for the two of you.”
“But I texted him, and he didn’t even respond.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s just the satellite rain messing up the signals. Like they said on the news.”
Timmer cuts a glance at me. He knows that I know that he doesn’t believe what he just said.
“Come on, come on, Juliette,” says Timmer. “We’ll get you all settled. Right, Z?” He points at me, and I put on a welcome mat smile. I don’t know for sure what’s going on, but something has hit the fan somewhere. And I know that beautiful Juliette is part of the family. She needs help. She asked for it. And we will help because that’s the deal.
Sallie Lee: . . . continuing our coverage of the fire tearing through the so-called dark neighborhoods. We now have Jyll Blotwin, spokeswoman for American Dream Homes, via satellite.
Scene: Split screen showing Sallie and Jyll, side by side.
Sallie Lee: Thank you for being with us.
Jyll Blotwin: Great to be here, Sallie. I appreciate the opportunity to reassure the viewers.
Scene: Distance view of burning houses in the dark. Then the screen is divided in thirds: the top stripe shows the top of Jyll’s head; the middle stripe is a world on fire; the bottom stripe is Sallie Lee’s boobs, held at professional attention by her business corset.
Jyll Blotwin: Those properties are all insured and secured. The fire is a tragedy. But shareholders in American Dream Homes should know their investment is safe. “Safe as houses!” Just like we promise.
Sallie Lee: Well, I feel better after talking to you.
Jyll Blotwin: Glad I helped.
Scene: Sallie Lee’s face fills the screen.
Sallie Lee: The fire department describes the strategy as “watchful waiting.” Rather than expending resources, they will monitor the affected areas with dronicopters. Travelers should expect traffic delays and reduced visibility due to blowing smoke.
Chad Manley: Now some information from our sponsor, American Dream Homes.
Sallie Lee: Was that supposed to be funny, Sanjay?
I think about Jyll. Much as I hate her, I have to give her credit. First, back in the days of younger, cardboard Jyll, she sold houses. But real estate agents only get a commission if there’s a sale. The market shifted. There were way too many sellers and not enough buyers. So she adapted. She started staging houses, promising it would make the difference between SOLD! and sad-face emoji. Cool thing about staging: It’s a service, and the service provider is paid even if there is no sale. But Jyll’s best move was jumping to her position with American Dream, which put her in front of the cameras, explaining things to Sallie Lee.
I climb onto the mattress where I sleep and read and worry. 5er is curled into a ball no bigger than a pillow. I pick up the book from the bag. I stare at the ceiling. If I could see through through the leak-stained ceiling tiles and tar roof, through the smoke of distant fires, past the glare of the parking lot, would I see the satellites sparkling as they fall?
My fingers smell like blood and feathers. I made it through another day. I spent half of it crying and half of it wishing I had claws like the taxidermied polar bear so I could scratch Kral’s face right off his skull bone.
This is life without modulated moods.
Tomorrow I’m working in Petlandia. Will the little birds be frightened of the way I smell? No matter how much I try, I can’t wash that smell away. I think it is inside me now, because it won’t wash off no matter how much Ginger-Citrus BodiWash I use.
5er’s small hands are curled around my shoulders. His bony knees poke my back. We can’t sleep like spoons nestled in a drawer because he is so much littler than I am, so he clings to my hair and kicks me all night long. I wonder if he rides piggyback into my dreams. I don’t remember seeing him there, but then I don’t remem
ber dreaming, not since I started work. That’s one good thing about working.
Another good thing about working? At least I know who I’m supposed to be, and I know what I’m supposed to do. When my shift is over and I step outside, when the hot parking lot wind touches my face, it seems possible that I might blow away, like a bit of litter or a butterfly.
Life isn’t priceless. There are at least two departments at AllMART where you can buy it: One is the Garden of Eden; the other is Petlandia. Somehow, I never end up getting trained to work in the Garden of Eden, although I want to very much. AnnaMom and I always used to walk through there, even when we didn’t have money to buy a new potted orchid or the need for more Bats of Happiness genuine guano fertilizer for the daylilies. We walked through there because the air was rich with water. The colors were brighter. It was hot in there too, but that seemed okay. It was hot everywhere. I miss the Garden of Eden. I miss the smell of plants and water. And I miss being there with AnnaMom. But for some reason, I never get assigned to work in that department. I think I would be good at it too.
Petlandia, though, today I’m assigned to Petlandia.
Most of the work involved in Petlandia has to do with sanitation. Every living product produces by-products that must be removed. Smelly by-products must not distract the potential shopper from the fun of shopping. Out of sight, out of mind, out of smelling distance: That’s the ideal. There is a time and place for discussing by-products. That time is after the main sale is solid, after the consumer has fallen completely in love with the living product. Then comes the up-selling phase where the shopper is guided to buy the extra things they need. No kitten sale is complete without a bat-able squeaky bat: “It’s a mouse with wings! It’s kitten happiness!” No iguana should be sentenced to life without an Iguana-Logg: “Perfect for sunbathing! (SunnyDaze sunlamp not included.)” And that’s when the by-products matter. They should be mentioned delicately in the context of helping the shopper make additional purchases like an electric self-sweeping Kitteh-Kommode or a jumbo box of jungle-scented birdcage “carpets.”
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