Discount Noir

by Patricia Abbott

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want you to steal a telly.”

  “An that’s if the alarm even goes off. I remember you said that if you put a 2p coin over the tags, then the gates don’t go off?”

  “You planning to wrap a forty-six inch TV with coins and sneak out?”

  “What I was thinking, right, is I lift a couple boxes of tin foil from the cooking bit, right, then I carry those in each hand while also carrying the TV. Then maybe the gates won’t go, and I just walk out like I paid for it.”

  “You know what? You could just do what I said with the credit card, then walk out like you’ve paid for it.”

  I heard him walking now, breathing hard.

  “Cal, you already carrying the telly?”

  “Aye, I’m talking to you on the bluethingy headset.”

  “So you’re walking round Megamart UK with a forty-six inch telly, two boxes of tin foil, and a microphone on the side of your head? But you’re whispering so you don’t attract attention?”

  “Uh, yeah. You gonna come pick me up then?”

  “No. Cal, I’m telling you, don’t do this.”

  “Look, it’s fine. Like I said, I’ve worked it out, yeah? Even if this tin foil don’t work—and of course it will because it’s my idea—I can outrun the old dude and be away.”

  “Cal—”

  “Here we go.”

  I heard him breathing hard and stepping up his pace. I heard somebody shouting, and then I heard deet deet deet. Seconds later I heard a loud crash and the sound of something heavy smashing. I hung up and leaned back on the sofa. I lit the joint I’d rolled earlier and switched over to the sports channel.

  An hour later I got a call from the boss. He wanted to know why I’d sent his son to steal a poxy telly from Megamart UK, and told me to pick him up from the police station.

  Crack House

  By Anne Fraiser

  I live in Megamart. No, really. I live in Megamart. A few years back I dated a guy who’d been involved in the construction of the Super Megamart on Highway 8 in St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin.

  “There’s an anomaly in the wall,” he’d told me. “A crack you can squeeze through.”

  I’d thought he was lying, and I’d insisted he take me there, show me the crack. He was almost too fat to squeeze through. But me, I made it easily. Once inside, we pulled out our key chains with their little lights. A room about twelve-by-twelve. Cement block walls. Cement floor. “Somebody could live here,” I’d said, laughing.

  And then the recession hit.

  You wouldn’t recognize the place now. Green shag rug, red lamps, posters, inflatable couch and an inflatable bed. A small television. It’s really quite cozy.

  I usually sleep late, then wake up to hit the restroom, followed by a visit to the Megamart cafe, before taking my usual spot in the traffic outside. I was still nursing my eggnog-flavored coffee when one of the security guards approached my table near the front of the store.

  “Afternoon, Molly.”

  I’d guess him to be close to my age, maybe twenty-six. He’d asked my name once, and I’d told him.

  “Hi,” I replied. That one syllable ended in a cautious lilt as I wondered what he wanted.

  “Enjoying your day at Megamart?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “I’ve noticed you’re here quite a bit.”

  “I like to people watch.”

  “Me too.” And now he was giving me one of those you-know-what-I-mean looks.

  He knows. He knows about my secret room.

  I hated to think of moving. Especially now, over Christmas. I glanced around, expecting more guards to materialize. When they didn’t, I calmed down.

  “Well, have a nice day,” he said.

  Once he was gone, I remembered I was dressed in insulated Carhartt overalls, a wool stocking cap, and a red scarf. Not attire for a day of shopping. I wasn’t fooling anybody.

  Outside, I took a spot on the median so people in cars were forced to look me in the eye as they entered the parking lot. The cardboard sign I held said Merry Christmas in black magic marker.

  Panhandling was against the law, but nobody could really do anything about a sign saying Merry Christmas. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t mean it. Christmas was my favorite time of the year.

  Two hours later, I’d had enough of the near-zero temperature. On my return to Megamart, I passed the Salvation Army worker ringing her bell, shifting from one foot to the other, her breath a cold cloud. I removed a mitten, reached into the pocket of my overalls, pulled out a ten, and tucked it into the red kettle.

  Inside, I sat down at a table near the soft pretzels and popcorn to count my earnings.

  Two hundred dollars. It would last a few weeks if I didn’t go crazy.

  “You might want to move along.”

  I looked up to see the young security guard standing there, a stern expression on his face, his eyes cold.

  “Sure. Okay.” I gathered my money and shoved it in my pocket. Movement caught my eye, and I turned as a group of teenagers sauntered away.

  When I swiveled back around, the guard’s face had lost its chill. I pulled off my stocking cap and tried to smooth some stray strands of hair.

  “We’ve had a lot of robberies lately,” he explained.

  I’d always taken care of myself, and I didn’t need anybody watching out for me, but all the same his concern felt nice.

  “What’s that button?” I pointed to his lapel.

  “This?” He tugged at the blue pin with an upside down V that looked like a roof. “I’m a member of Have a Nice Day. It’s a secret society for hidden spaces.” He was giving me that look again.

  “You know about me, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Your space? It’s not unique. Not a mistake. There are close to ten thousand Megamarts in the world, and all of them have at least one secret space. Most superstores have more than one, and don’t even get me started about MegaWarehouse. A hidden city.” He smiled. “We just think of it as reclaiming what used to be ours.”

  “What about surveillance cameras?” I’d often wondered why I hadn’t been caught.

  “We take care of that.” He pulled a pin from his pocket and gave it to me. A yellow smiley face.

  “This isn’t like yours.”

  “The blue pins designate the builders; the yellow pins, the occupants.” In a gallant gesture, he found my hand, almost brought it to his lips but seemed to think better of it, then said: “Have a nice day.”

  Secret Identity

  By Kathleen A. Ryan

  The police are looking for my dad, but they don’t know his name—yet.

  I began calling him Dad a little after he moved in with me and my mom, about six months ago. My real dad died seven years ago—just before I was born.

  It all started a few days ago, on Christmas Eve. Dad said, “Let’s go to Megamart, kid. I’ve got the munchies.” I wondered when Dad was going to put up the tree the way he’d promised Mom before she left for work. I’d tried to get her to stay home.

  “Billy, the restaurant will be very busy tonight, and the tips should be really good.” She gave me a big hug and a kiss.

  The smell of Christmas trees outside Megamart made me wish for a real one instead of the fake one we had at home. The Greeter looked just like Santa Claus. I was worried the real Santa wouldn’t leave any presents if our tree wasn’t up in time. We walked to the beef jerky aisle. Dad grabbed a jar of Cheez Whiz, some Slim Jims, and a box of Ritz Crackers. “Pick out some crap in a can,” he said.

  At the checkout, the woman in front of us accidentally left her wallet behind. The cashier was too busy to notice, and before I could say anything, Dad grabbed the wallet and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He shot me a look and hissed, “Shut your mouth!”

  When we got home, Dad ate his munchies, drank a few beers, and fell asleep. He never put the tree up. I left out some cookies for Santa—just in case.

  Christmas morning, I got out of bed and r
an down the stairs. The whole house smelled like pine. Santa must have heard my secret wish, because in the living room stood the most magical thing—a real tree—with blinking lights, ornaments, and an angel on top. Packages with bows were under the tree. Santa must have been hungry—all the cookies were gone!

  A few nights later, while Mom was at work, Dad fell asleep early again. I turned on the TV and froze when I saw the news. There on TV was a video of Dad taking the woman’s wallet at Megamart. The camera must have been up in the ceiling because you could only see the top of our heads.

  A cop was telling the reporter, “The guy failed to do the right thing—and even worse, he did it in front of an innocent child.” He described it as a “crime of opportunity,” but I thought it was called stealing.

  The Crime Stoppers number flashed on the screen. I’d seen it in the newspaper before when Dad checked the “Wanted” column. He’d say things like, “I wouldn’t mind turning in a dirtbag to make some fast money.” But I didn’t understand why cops would pay for dirty bags.

  This was my chance; I knew I could do the right thing. My hands shook as I dialed the number. The officer who answered the phone sounded like the one I saw on TV. “Do I have to be a certain age to give you a tip?” I whispered.

  “No. We don’t ask names or ages. We don’t tape our calls or use Caller ID.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I know who stole the woman’s wallet at Megamart on Christmas Eve.” He asked me questions about the “suspect’s” name, his description, if he had tattoos, and what kind of car he drove. I told him what I knew.

  “If your information leads to an arrest, you’re eligible for a cash reward.”

  “Oh, I don’t want a reward. Can you give it to the woman whose wallet was stolen?”

  He paused. “I’m sure we could arrange that.” He didn’t say it, but I think he figured out that I was the kid in the video. Then he asked, “Do you know where he works, and when?”

  “I think he works ‘off the books,’ but I’ve never seen any books at the gas station,” I said.

  The next day, Dad didn’t come home from work. He called Mom and said he wasn’t coming home.Ever. Dad getting arrested for the wallet was on the news, but they called him by a different name. Turned out he was wanted for bank robbery in another state and had violated something called “parole.” Mom cried and said she was sorry she let him live with us.

  “We’ll be better off without him,” she said. “We don’t have to buy any more beer, so we’ll save tons of money. We’ll start the new year fresh—just you and me, Billy.”

  What a nice thought. Save money. Live better. Megamart, I love you!

  A Place Marked Malmart

  By Eric Peterson

  “You hate women?” Meg Russ-Heart shot Jimi one of her looks.

  “You hate men?”

  “I never see you out?” Meg said, not letting it drop.

  “No means no. Right?” Jimi leaned in. His mug and her to-go cup moved in their own dance. Their owners secured them, keeping them from being spilled.

  “Yes.” Her reply was automatic, unequivocal.

  “But if you say yes the first time, you’re,” Jimi knew the argument well, “easy.”

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative.” Meg leaned in now.

  “No means no, but you aren’t going to say yes the first time. You can’t win. It’s a game; I’m not playing.” Jimi blinked and sat back.

  Meg played with the ends of her crimson hair and took a sip of coffee. Around them, the coffee shop buzzed. People in and out, talking, working on laptops. College kids, professionals, baby boomers trying to look young and hip.

  “You find her?” Back to the business at hand.

  “Yeah, I did. You owe me big.” Jimi took the folder from his messenger bag. “I had to enter a fuckin’ Malmart to see her. And it wasn’t one of those Hicksville-please-sterilize-me Malmarts. No, no, it was upscale—a ‘Shop Malmart because it’s the American Thing To Do’ one.” Jimi handed the folder across the table to her.

  “What happened?” Meg opened the folder.

  “Her mom and dad freaked out ’cause she was seeing some guy who wasn’t…of the faith.”

  “You mean he was—” Meg asked, thinking of Gwen, a tall long-legged, blonde Dutch girl: a westsider.

  “Worse. Atheist, a local one. Arrogant about it, too. They were appalled. That’s not who they sent their little girl out into the world for.” Jimi took a slug of his lemon ginger tea.

  “They didn’t send her out to take her clothes off on the Internet either,” Meg whispered.

  Meg had Jimi on retainer for a lot of things. Making sure that girls who pulled a vanishing act had not been snatched by a customer was one of them. She ran Skiff Yee Media, an Internet company specializing in fantasy image fulfillment. Models dressed and undressed, playing your favorite fantasy—film, TV, sports figures even.

  “Ok. Mom and Dad whisked her away. She’s nineteen, right?” Meg put the file in her bag.

  “She has younger sisters. If she ran off, what do you think would happen to them?” Meg nodded. Gwen had said as much and more in the note contained in the folder.

  “Tell me about your trip to Malmart.” Meg said.

  “Like I said, they raptured her back home, deep-sixed the sinner BF. Mom wouldn’t let her out of her sight, no phone, mail, Internet. I had to wait two days for them to leave the house. Then Mom takes her shopping. A little retail reprogramming, who knows.” Jimi paused for another hit of the tea.

  “I follow them into the Malmart; it’s a zoo, upper-middle-class riff-raff with too much money and not enough junk. Gwen manages to get a couple aisles ahead of Mom and I catch up to her.”

  Meg nodded.

  “She recognized me from the office; I told you letting me come and hang would pay off.” Jimi was allowed past reception for various reasons.

  “She tells me what happened; I get her to scribble you that note. That’s when Mom shows.” Jimi started to smile.

  “And?” Meg started looking worried. Girls like Gwen weren’t just employees to her; they were her little sisters. Gwen had been part of the team, part of the inner circle.

  “Mom starts yelling and then hits me with her purse, one of those whadya you call ’em, Cooch bags?”

  Meg couldn’t help but smile.

  “Damn thing bursts, spilling all of her unmentionables. That’s when the claws came out.” Jimi pushed up the sleeves of his well-worn black leather jacket. Meg could see the deep, scabbing scratches under the cuffs.

  “Anyway, Mom slugs, and then the Juniors’ manager breaks it up. Gwen’s screaming. What a scene.” Jimi killed the rest of the tea, his cuffs settling back into position.

  “And then?” Meg leaned forward.

  Jimi fished a couple of papers out of his jacket.

  “Cops came and trespassed her. She was all shades of red sitting in the back of that squad. I let her stew, talked to Gwen. Mom’s lucky I didn’t press charges. Figured one trip to the west side is enough for the year.”

  Meg gathered up her purse, trying to hide her smile, took a last look at her coffee, and pushed it to the middle of the table.

  “One of my best girls gone, poor kid.” She stood up.

  “Someday.” Jimi looked up at her.

  She slugged him in the arm, then bent in for a peck just below his right ear. “Yes,” she whispered and headed for the door, not looking back.

  Jimi watched her leave and killed the last of her coffee.

  For One Night Only

  By Chris Grabenstein

  “I love you, Megamart. No, really, I mean that folks.”

  That’s how a comedian would say it. If you don’t believe me, check out Don Rickles. Right after he skewers someone in the front row, he always says, “Hey, I kid. I love the black people and the Jews.”

  I know this because Megamart taught me.

  I’ve wanted to become a comedian since I was a kid, but my parents were rig
ht: I needed a serious job to make serious money, pay a mortgage. Well, now I’m sixty-seven. Retired. My wife passed away six years ago. The children moved out ages ago. We don’t talk much. They don’t visit. I have very few “responsibilities” anymore.

  So, after a lifetime of selling insurance (Home, Auto, and Life), I can now do what I always wanted to do—become the next Shecky Green, a stand-up comic cracking one-liners and put-downs.

  I sincerely do love Megamart, really, because, thanks to their everyday low prices, my lifelong dream came true. Megamart was where I honed my comic craft or shtick, which is a Jewish word. A lot of comedians are Jewish. I’m not, but I wanted to learn from the pros. Oh, schmaltzis another Jewish word and something you should add near the end of your routine. Schmaltz is saying how much you truly, sincerely love your audience. It comes from a word for chicken fat. I don’t know why. Like I said, I’m not Jewish.

  Anyway, after dreaming about becoming a comedian for decades, I decided I needed to you-know-what or get off the pot. Megamart became my comedy boot camp. They don’t like potty humor at Megamart, which is why I say “you-know-what” instead of you-know-what.

  I went into the nearby superstore almost every day and picked up DVDs like “Laughing Out Loud: America’s Funniest Comedians” at 30 to 40 percent off. (Save money. Live Better. Learn Shtick.) Thanks to Megamart and their everyday low prices, I was able to study with the master craftsmen of the comic trade.

  Jeff Foxworthy. Larry the Cable Guy. Bill Engvall. Ron White. Last Christmas, I gave myself “The Bill, Jeff, Larry, & Ron Box Set.” List price $39.99. Megamart price? $20.86. I saved 48 percent. It was like going to the Harvard of Comedy at junior college prices.

  Of course, I’d always done a little shtick while I sold insurance. Comedy was in my bones. My funny bones. Once, we had a sales awards banquet and I made a speech where I worked in a killer joke: “Insurance agents are premium lovers.”

  Badda-boom-bah!

  I could’ve sold bumper stickers.

  Hey, insurance can be a gold mine for material. Here’s a good one: A woman was in the hospital. Her doctor says, “I have some bad news for you. You only have three months to live.”