Dyscountopia (26 page)

“I don’t care what they like,” the Sergeant barked.
 
“Tell ‘em to shut down or I’ll shut ‘em down.”

Officer Travis dutifully dialed up Maintenance as Sergeant Alexander screamed into her headset.
 
“Unit two, unit three, any activity?”
 
Her headset crackled.
 
Fipfipfipfip.

“Goddammit,” shouted the Sergeant.
 
“Repeat.
 
All units, repeat!”

Both replies crackled back to her, louder this time.

“Negative.”

“Negatory, Sarge.”

Alexander was growing agitated.
 
With only thirty minutes to go until the early morning crowd came rushing back into the Quad, she was coming very close to an embarrassing moment in her career.

FipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.

“That sunuvabitch!” the Sergeant bellowed.
 
“Get his tag number so I can find him later and kick his ass!”

Officer Travis stared dumbly back at her.
 
“Got –
FIPFIPFIP
- on the horn, Sarge.
 
They say they don’t –
FIPFIPFIP
- in this -
FIPFIPFIP
.”

“What?!?” she shouted, placing her ear next to Travis’ mouth.

FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.

“They don’t have any equipment operating in this sector!”

 
FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.
 
Screeeeeeeeeeep
.

There came a loud scraping of metal and two ominous crunching sounds from below.
 
The aluminum ladder toppled to floor with a clatter.

FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.
 

Alexander looked down just in time to see a Z-Class 38C Turbo-matic Ride-able Wax-O-Maton rumbling off at a high rate of speed, leaving a shiny, polished trail of scooter parts in its path.

She watched helplessly as the Wax-O-Maton disappeared behind a pyramid of white-wall tires, her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides.
 

“I hate that guy,” she said.

 

****

 

“Morale problems, you say?
 
This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
 
Barnaby Edd leaned back in his chair, holding the telephone receiver to his ear.
 
“What’s it all about?
 
Oh I see.”

Susan entered Mr. Edd’s office and stood patiently across the desk from him.
 
Mr. Edd nodded and held up a hand for her to wait.

“Well,
I
don’t like working early on Sundays either, but we all have to give 118 percent, you know.
 
Oh, you told them that already.
 
I see – well, sounds like we need to do another workshop like we did last month.
 
Yeah, the morale builder, remember; with the human pyramids, and all the people falling backward and catching each other – that was a gas.
 
Yeah.
 
Uh-huh.
 
What?
 
When?
 
How ‘bout Sunday at six.
 
Great!
 
No, I can’t make it; I’m having brunch with some friends.
 
Have fun without me.
 
Back at ya, sport.
 
Bye now.”
 
Mr. Edd hung up the receiver and turned his attention to Susan, his face exploding into a smile so bright it could have split an atom.
 
“What’s up, Suze?”

“Albert Zim, sir.”

“Who?”

“The one we talked about before.
 
Remember?”

“Ahhh, yes.
 
Albert.
 
Is he here?”

“No, sir.
 
The LPT are still looking for him.
 
He’s given them quite a chase.”

Mr. Edd’s eyes brightened.
 
“No kidding?
 
They’d better hurry.
 
Our customers will be out and rarin’ to go in, oh….”
 
He looked down at his watch.
 
“Twenty minutes.”

“LPT is aware, sir.
 
We have a Sergeant Alexander on line one for you.
 
She wants to ask you some questions about Mr. Zim.
 
Shall I tell her you’re busy?”

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Edd, genuinely excited to participate in some real law enforcement.
 
“Put her through.”

“Yes, sir.”
 
Susan turned sharply and strode out of the office.
 
Three seconds later, the phone on Mr. Edd’s desk lit up.

“Hello.
 
Barnaby Edd.
 
Yes, Sergeant, nice to hear from you.
 
Yes, I’ve heard.
 
I know – Albert was always very troubled, never much of team player, I’m afraid.”
 
Mr. Edd listened.
 
“Well, have you tried talking to his family?
 
Yes – a wife and two kids I think, and maybe even some parents.
 
Alright, then.”
 
Mr. Edd paused.
 
“Hey, wait a minute Sergeant.
 
Are you going to beat Albert very badly when you find him?
 
You are?
 
Would you mind not hitting him on the head?
 
I’d like to talk with him when you catch up to him.
 
Yes. Yes. Right.
 
Have a nice day.”

Mr. Edd hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair with a smile.
 
There was nothing in the world like being a Quad Manager.
 
You never knew
what
was going to happen.

 

****

 

The old man stood next to the plastic trash can in the dim light.
 
He stared at the purple stripe on the wall and wondered what the other side of the world must look like.
 
He’d built that wall – not all by himself, but he’d helped.
 
Someone else must have painted the stripe.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen your son anywhere, Mr. Zim?
 
We found the stolen Wax-O-Maton less than 300 meters from here.”
 

The old man turned to face the Sergeant, a youngish short haired woman with her feet planted firmly to the floor.
 
She might have been carved from granite.
 
Next to her and a little behind, a bored-looking gorilla-shaped officer stood messaging his neck with a meaty hand, silently reinforcing her questions.

“The best thing you can do for him now is to help us locate him,” said the Sergeant.
 
She was obviously very tense and trying not to show it.
 
“For his own safety.”

Mr. Zim took a long drink from an immense plastic bottle, swallowing a mouthful of bubbly pink liquid with a well-rehearsed sigh.
 
“Aaaah.
 
Have you tried Yumble-Snaps new Watermelon Mountain Blast, Sergeant?
 
It’s like paddling through a river of watermelony goodness with your tongue!
 
Cool, clean, refreshing.”
 
Tick
.

“Quit stonewalling me, old man,” Alexander growled, and Mr. Zim thought he detected a hint of amusement on the face of the man behind her.
 
The old man looked back to the Sergeant with that glassy eyed stare of confusion that only the elderly can effectively perform.

“I saw him eight months ago,” he said.
 
“Or maybe ten.
 
Not a very good boy – doesn’t keep in touch often.
 
And you know, with Multi-tronics new 3 cents-a-minute plan, there’s really no excuse not to call your parents every once in awhile.”
 
Tick
.

“That’s it!” barked the Sergeant.
 
She took a half step toward him, her finger tips brushing the handle of her plastic baton.
 
Officer Travis placed a cautioning hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off, settling back into a state of semi-contained rage.

“We’ll find him, old man, and when we do, I’ll have both your asses in a sling!”
 
The Sergeant turned and stormed away down the aisle.
 

The gorilla-shaped man approached Mr. Zim unhurriedly and offered him a tiny slip of paper.
 
“Here’s our number, sir.
 
Call us as soon as he makes contact.”

Mr. Zim took the paper and absently stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
 
“Certainly, officer, but I have to tell you,” he lifted the lid of the garbage can and tossed away his half-full beverage.
 
“He’s not going to contact me.
 
I’m the last person that little bastard would come to for help.”

Officer Travis nodded. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Zim.”
 
He turned and went off in leisurely pursuit of his sergeant.

Mr. Zim watched him disappear, wondering how in all this world full of interesting, talented, and unique people,
his
son had managed to attract the scrutiny of anyone as important as an LPT Sergeant.
 
He might have been proud, had he allowed himself to indulge in the sentiment.

“You can come out now, dumb-shit.”

Albert lifted up the plastic lid and set it aside, extricating himself from the contents of the trash can.
 
His head and shoulders were soaked with pink soda.

“I’m sorry, Dad.
 
I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.
 
I --”

The old man shook his head.
 
“Save it, kid.
 
It’s better if I don’t know any more than I already do.
 
Just get out of here before they come back.”

Albert considered his father.
 
Staring back at that withered septuagenarian face, he saw the father he’d grown up with; a lone, sturdy oak, an ancient builder of the world, a giant among small men.
 
His was the only man that Albert had ever wanted to be like.
 
Albert felt an urge to grab his bony frame in his arms and squeeze.
 
But he didn’t.
 
He only walked away.

“Son?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Don’t forget to try Hungry Eddy’s Three Cheese Lasagna Crackers.
 
They’re just like a little lasagna crunching up in your mouth.”
 
Tick
.

Albert nodded.
 
“I know, Dad.
 
I already did.
 
I love them.”

And then he was gone.

 

****

 

Albert followed the purple stripe home, making a mad dash down the row of purple doors, his bare feet flapping against the hard vinyl floor.
 
One-two-three-four-five
.
  
He stopped at the fifth door and felt around in his coveralls for his key card; he’d left it in his other pants.
 
Having long since tossed any measure of decorum out the window, Albert threw his shoulder against the door.
 
It burst open with a sad little
crack
and Albert hurried inside, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out breathlessly.
 

Clackety-clack.
 
Clackety-clack
.