Dyscountopia (23 page)

Aha!
 
A screw-driver! Albert grabbed it and turned to the vent.
 

“Shit!”

It was a Philips.

With the unrivaled strength of a man suddenly pushed to the extreme limits of patience, Albert leaned down and tugged maniacally at the vent.
 
He became a wild animal, frothing at the mouth, so misused by life and by circumstance that he no longer remembered his capacity for rational thought.
 
He tore madly at the metal cover, blaming it for all his misfortune – for firing him into space, for the death of Dr. Zayus, for the creation of the Rhinocermoose.
 
The vein in his forehead bulged as the hated vent cover resisted, then gave in, springing loose in his hands.
 
He tossed it wrathfully aside and dove head first down the metal rabbit hole as the door crashed open behind him.

“Stop in the name of the law!”
 
A hand caught Albert’s foot as he tried to wriggle free.
 
He kicked sharply with the other foot and the hand let go with a cry.
 

Albert hurried ahead through the narrow metal duct, squirming along on his knees and elbows.
 
He came to a steep downward slope and pushed forward with his toes, his metal zipper scraping the polished surface as he slid down the aluminum shaft with his hands held protectively in front of him.

Spang!
 
Albert crashed through the flimsy duct cover and launched through the open air, landing face down in a patch of smooth, hard, river cobbles.
 
Dazed, blinking liquid drops of red from his eyes, he wiggled his toes to see if he was paralyzed.
 
He wasn’t.
 
He managed to roll over on his back.

Roma Tomatoes, 7¢
 
/ lb.
! declared the paper sign above him.

“Bargain…,” he groaned reflexively, acquainting himself with his new surroundings.
 
He was lying in a bin of unripe tomatoes.
 
In Produce.
 
But what grid square?
 
What quadrant?

The woman in the leopard print scarf, staring down at him through cats-eye glasses as she clutched a plastic bag between two white knuckled hands, returned a sense of urgency to his day.
 
He pushed her roughly out of his way as she opened her mouth to scream, sprang from the Romas, and hurried from the scene of the accident, slipping and sliding on the tomatoey mash that caked the soles of his shoes.

He made his way by naked instinct through the gawking hordes of Saturday evening shoppers, driven toward a half-remembered place that recalled the safety of his mother’s womb.
 
He skittered around another corner, leaving crimson handprints on the wall, dashed by the desk of an idle secretary chatting on the phone, and crashed through a purple door.
 
He slammed the door behind him and slumped heavily against it, as if bracing against a pursuing tsunami.

He was in an office.
 
His office?
 
It was impossible to tell.
 
Just as every Produce department looked alike, so too did every office of every floor manager.
 
The bookshelf, the carpet, the chair, the lamp, the desk, the young man at the desk, all familiar and yet lacking any defining character.
 
Especially the young man at the desk.

His clean-shaven features, self-doubting expression, his rumpled white shirt and tie, his vacant stare at something on the wall above Albert’s head; these were all things that might have been found in any of a thousand offices.
 
And yet Albert recognized the young man.
 
Albert knew him like he knew his own reflection in the mirror.

For a moment Albert forgot the danger that hounded him, transfixed by this unexpected ghost of Omega-Mart past.
 
Robbed of the trappings of youthful individualism – his unadorned ears, his close-trimmed, hastily combed hair, and only a tiny scar where a fish-hook once pierced his right cheek – and despite the faded neck tattoo that suggested his name was Andy, Albert could never have been fooled into thinking it was anyone other that who he knew it to be.
 
It was himself.
 
It was Albert.

Albert sitting in Albert’s chair at Albert’s desk in front of Albert’s computer staring at Albert’s wall clock, wishing the seconds of Albert’s life away.

He sat corpse-like, save for the slow, faint swelling and collapsing of his chest and the occasional swift flutter of an eyelash; his mind on a leave of absence.
 
Albert knew where his mind was – it was beyond the roof, beyond the sky, beyond even Pog, maybe.

The young Albert would watch that clock for another two decades, the moments of his life dripping away as if from a leaky faucet.

Drip.
 
A sweaty, fat man hands him the key to his first apartment, small and dark and windowless, with a neighbor who slams his wife against the wall every night and wakes him up.

Drip.
 
Standing next to a woman in a large white dress, knowing that someday she’ll stop loving him, if she hasn’t already.

Drip.
 
A birthday with chocolate cake and too much booze and he said something funny and nobody laughed and everyone left upset.

Drip.
 
Fired into space.
 
Standing in the middle of an office that wasn’t his anymore, covered in human shit.

He would never feel quite up to the task.
 
Others would purposely make him feel small and sad and stupid in order to convince him that they were big and happy and smart.
 
No room would ever be given him to dawdle with creative thought, to explore the many facets of the human condition.
 
He would cease to ask the question
why?
, to avoid the ridicule of others.
 
He would leave his human soul at home in his closet, hanging next to his gray woolen suit, taking it out and putting it on even less often than he went to weddings and funerals.

An absurd notion crept into Albert’s head just then, very unexpectedly.
 
Perhaps due to its abrupt emergence or to Albert’s already agitated state, his mind failed to recognize the notion as careless whimsy, and embraced it instead as a first-rate idea.

Albert would do his young self a favor.
 
Albert would murder him.

He approached his unconscious prey stealthily across the carpet, his hands outstretched toward the young man’s windpipe to throttle him, convinced that it was the only humane thing to do.
  
But the heavy gestapo flapping of reinforced rubber boots on the vinyl tile outside brought Albert to a halt.
 
Guardians.
 
With a last reluctant look at that Albert of the past, Albert of the present abandoned his mercy mission and fled through the door he had entered only a moment before, rushing again past the chatty secretary and turning the corner.
 
He came face to face with a familiar brown smile.

****

The Guardians jogged purposefully down the aisle, armed for a small war, wedging their way through the milling crowd in the direction of the floor manager’s office – Albert Zim’s last known whereabouts.
 
So focused were their minds on the upcoming melee, which struck them as a nice diversion to their otherwise uneventful spring day, that they scarcely noticed the kindly-faced, brown skinned – perhaps Mexican – gentleman who passed them by pushing a cart of mounded tangelos, wearing a slightly more guilty posture than was appropriate.

Later that day, the cart would be found abandoned at the edge of Produce, Grid Square 717, small orange orbs scattered to all sides of it and a vaguely man-shaped depression in its center.
 
Javier would receive a gentle scolding from his manager, Andy, for his uncharacteristically negligent misplacement of valuable Omega-Mart property, which Javier would bear with his usual mild good humor.

****

“Alright, Susan.
 
Read that back to me.”
 
Mr. Edd sat up in his chair, showing off his perfect posture and a gleaming white smile that was so white that it made white seem like some other color – gray, maybe.
 
Or beige.

The woman in the tight pony tail sat opposite Mr. Edd, on the other side of his desk.
 
She flipped back to the first page on her notepad and began to recite.

“To all floor managers, Alpha Quad, attention; the 9 foot rule will no longer be in effect as of Monday, June 27
^th
at 9 o’clock a.m.
 
The 8 foot rule will now be in effect, which requires all associates to focus their attention on any customer that approaches an eight foot radius; to look them in the eye, greet them, and ask if something can be done to assist them.
 
The 8 foot rule replaces the 9 foot rule, which formerly required that attention be paid to all customers in a 9 foot radius, initially established as the 10 foot rule.
 
The reduction of the rule by twelve additional inches is designed to reduce the number of times per day that associates must greet customers, thereby providing additional time for associates to engage in more immediate activities, subsequently reducing the cost to the customer.
 
Please observe the 8 foot rule as of 9 o’clock a.m., Monday, June 27
^th
.”

“In addition, my office has received a number of questions concerning warm-ups for morning calisthenics.
 
While participation in morning calisthenics constitutes company policy in order to promote the health and well being of all Omega-Mart family members, all preliminary stretching and bending exercises must be performed by associates prior to clocking in.
 
No stretching may be performed after 8 a.m. in the workplace, and injuries sustained by associates during morning calisthenics directly or indirectly resulting from failure to properly stretch will not be the responsibility of the Omega-Mart Corporation.
 
Thank you for your understanding on this matter.
 
Together, we can help to reduce costs that must inevitably be passed on to the customer, and create a better world in the process.”

“An additional note regarding Omega-Mart’s open door policy.
 
In order to treat all questions, concerns, and comments in a fair, open-minded, and unbiased manner, the Omega-Mart Corporation, as always, has an unlimited open-door policy.
 
However, to ease any unnecessary administrative burden (we’re all very busy working for the customer), questions will be limited to each third Wednesday of every month, from 9 to 11 a.m.
 
Thanks for saving your very important questions until then.”

“Thought for the day:
 
Rome wasn’t built in a day, but over lots of days, with a lot of Roman people helping each other out, lifting heavy blocks and carving statues.”

Mr. Edd leaned back in his chair and sighed, feeling very satisfied with himself.
 
“Sounds good.
 
Hey, can you check on that Roman thing to make sure it’s accurate – I don’t want to look stupid.”

“I will, sir.
 
Hello … yes?” The woman in the pony tail turned her eyes abruptly aside, holding her perfectly manicured hand to her headset.
 
“I’m sorry, Mr. Edd is in a very important meeting.
 
Can I take a – what’s that?
 
Are you sure?
 
I see.
 
I’ll give him the message.
 
Bye-bye.”
 
She turned her attention back to Mr. Edd.
 
“That was a call from Produce, 717.
 
It seems that Albert Zim is back….”

Mr. Edd sat forward in his chair and pressed his fingertips firmly together, fixing his intent gaze on the woman across from him.
 

“Who?”

****

Albert peeked carefully out from behind a seven foot tall purple giraffe, surveying the surrounding landscape.
 
It was 4:02 a.m. and Omega-Mart’s Alpha Quad Playland was deserted except for the skeleton crew of custodians and stockers that patrolled the department at all hours.
 
Albert set the giraffe aside and tip-toed carefully down the aisle, serenaded by the sweet, lilting voice of Lulu Fontaine, whose heartbreaking lyrics of pre-adolescent love fell softly from the foam roof tiles like crumbling leaves on a cool autumn day.