Dyscountopia (7 page)

The lonely cry of the check out station -- the only one open in a sea of deserted registers.
 
The young, freckle-faced cashier scanned item after item, placing them into bags, hardly seeming to notice the swiftly growing crowd -- scanning and bagging, scanning and bagging, like someone tossing pebbles into a canyon, never expecting to fill it up.
 
Albert turned sideways, eyes on the floor, awkwardly sidling through the motionless column of people that waited there like hapless refugees in a bread line.

Boop.
 
Boop.
 
Boopedy-boop-boop-boop.
 
Boopedy-boopedy-boop.

The bar-code scanners called out to Albert in a never-ending symphony, pleading with him to buy, buy, buy.
 
You’re not working, Albert
, they said.
 
So why aren’t you buying?
 
Why, why, why?
 
Buy, buy, buy.

Albert turned to evade them, seeking refuge in a bristling forest of fishing poles that stretched to the ceiling like young saplings.
 
The poles peered down at Albert with a thousand eyes, willing him to make a purchase.
 
But Albert didn’t want a fishing pole.
 
He had never wanted a fishing pole.
 
He didn’t like fish.
 
He quickened his pace and forced his eyes to lose focus, struggling to ignore the armies of golf clubs and boat oars and basketball hoops that besieged him, suffocating him.
 
He wanted to get away, but there was no getting away.
 
He wanted to run but there was nowhere to run.
 
Omega-Mart was everywhere.
 
Omega-Mart was everything.
 
Albert had the sudden deranged urge to grab something from the shelves and shove it under his vest, to run wildly through the scanners without paying for it.
 
He wondered insanely how far he would get before he was caught, before the Guardians ran him down and beat him to the floor.

Albert stopped in his tracks.
 
He felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck.
 
Someone was watching him.
 

He looked up.
  
Just above his head, a massive banner hung suspended from the ceiling.
 
The 20 foot high bust of a pale, dark-haired woman smirked knowingly down from the enormous glossy parchment as if she was reading Albert’s mind, understood the root of his sudden madness even if he didn’t, and found it amusing.
 
Albert thought he recognized the woman, thought maybe he’d seen her once on TV, in a museum somewhere.
 
His eyes fell to the caption below her:

WHAT AM I SMILING ABOUT?
 
OUR LOW PRICES.

A raspy voice spoke from behind him.
 
“Like it?
 
With Magic Paint’s Everyday Artist Paint-By-Number, you can paint your own masterpiece.”
Tick
.

Albert turned to face the grizzled old man.
 
His frame was stooped and his skin was dry and spotted like old paper, the skin of a man who’d grown up under a sun.
 
He grinned at Albert and winked.

“Painting not your thing?
 
How about some of Manny Remo’s Miracle Golf Balls, guaranteed to increase your drive by 50 yards, for the professional golfer inside every one of us.”
Tick
.

“You know I don’t golf, Dad.”
 
Albert’s father was a Mentioner, one of an army of geriatrics paid to wander the aisles of Omega-Mart, making small-talk with customers about new products in an effort to keep them better informed.
 
He wore a digital ticker on his wrist, voice activated to electronically count the number of times he mentioned each product.
 
The pay wasn’t great, but enough to supplement a retiree’s income; about twenty cents per mention.

“I know,” said the old man saucily.
 
“But I got a job to do, just like you.
 
And you could do yours a lot better with MicroSlam’s new B-250 Acti-fone.
 
MicroSlam -- keeping the world at your fingertips.”
 
Tick
.

“I’ll think about it, Dad.
 
How are you feelin’ today?”
 
The old man hadn’t always been a Mentioner.
 
Once he had built things.
 
Houses, churches, skyscrapers.
 
He’d even helped to build Omega-Mart – it was the last thing he ever built.
 
It was the last thing anyone had ever built.

“Feelin’ good kid, thanks to Vita-Rite’s Formula 105 Multi-vitamin, with over a hundred essential vitamins and minerals packed into one easy-to-swallow caplet.”
 
Tick
. “What’re you doing here anyway, slacker?
 
Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Albert didn’t know how to answer.
 
He wasn’t sure what he was doing there.
 
And then it occurred to him – he was looking for his Dad.

“I must have taken a wrong turn,” Albert muttered.
 
“A wrong turn.”
 
He stood silently for a moment, looking down at his feet.
 
“Dad, what was it like to build things?
 
To build buildings?”

The old man shrugged.
 
“It sucked, kid.
 
Crawling up scaffolds all day, hanging from high-rises, luggin’ tools and sacks of concrete, working outside without air-conditioning.
 
Sucked.
 
You got it easy, here, kid.
 
Hey, ya know what you might think about?”
 
He pointed an urgent finger at Albert.
 
“Hungry Eddy’s Three Cheese Lasagna Crackers.
 
Each cracker is just like a little lasagna crunching up in your mouth.
 
You can’t not love ‘em.”
 
Tick
.

“Alright, Dad,” Albert mumbled.
 
“I’ll try them.”
 
He turned to leave, and hesitated.
 
“See you later, Dad.
 
I’d better go to work.”

“You’d already be there if you had a JetCo 31 Electric Uni-scooter,” the old man called after him.
 
Tick
.
 
“Think about it, kid.”

****

“Awww, Sarge.
 
Quit pickin’ on ‘im.”

Sergeant Alexander circled her prey, her legs spread apart, her feet firmly planted, her small, lithe frame doubled over in a posture of perfect balance so that her finger tips brushed the floor.
 
The hapless young officer stared back at her, wheezing, fighting to suck air into his bulky chest as he rotated counter-clockwise in a defensive posture.
 
The Sergeant moved left, then right, toying.
 
She could read the trepidation on his big, red, sweaty face.
 
He was weak and pitiful, like an elephant afraid of a mouse, or a large dog peeing itself at a scolding glance from its master.
 
He was going down, hard, and he knew it.
 
The question was, how hard?

“Just put him out of his misery,” jibed some soft-hearted observer from the crowd of blue-clad spectators.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, LPT gathered for two very long hours of training exercises, calisthenics, and hand to hand sparring.
 
Alexander insisted it was necessary for keeping her men alert and ready to go at a moment’s notice, but her real motives were clear enough to anyone who attended.
 
She was there to assert her dominance, to impose her massive will on weaker minds, to manifest her mountainous rage in the most satisfying conceivable way – by physically hurting another human being.

The object of her abuse made an awkward, half-hearted lunge.
 
The Sergeant slipped under his arm as he reached out to grab her, her narrow curveless figure providing no handhold for the man’s clumsy fingers.
 
Alexander kicked deftly backward and sideways, and felt the gratifying crack of her opponents knee cap under her boot heel.
 
The man crumpled with a shriek, blinded with pain but thanking God that he’d finished the match with his skull intact.
 
He lay perfectly still, staring up at the lights as the shrill squeal of a whistle sounded, officially ending the match.

Relieved, he lifted his heavy head from the mat, only to feel it quickly slammed down again to the floor with a thud.
 
Stars filled his perception as an hundred and eight pound juggernaut crashed down upon his chest, thrusting the air out of him like a whoopee cushion.
 
Tiny fists pummeled his face, filling up his nose and mouth with blood.
 
His mind swelled up with terror, confusion, and the long piercing note of a whistle gone ignored.

“Jeezus Christ!
 
Sarge is gonna kill ‘im.”

Alexander had only meant to punch him once for good measure.
 
The second punch had come as a complete surprise to her, and after that she’d lost control.
 
She found herself on the passenger side of her mind, sitting next to an empty seat, watching the steering wheel tilt back and forth of its own accord.
 
Blood flew from her fists as, over and over, she pounded the face of the unconscious man between her knees.
 
The man was going to die.
 
She couldn’t prevent it.

“Sergeant.
 
Sergeant!
 
SERGEANT!!!”

The strength of ten men pulled her from the officer.
 
She kicked and jabbed her elbows, struggling to break free.
 
The fabric of her coverall tore away at the shoulder as she spun to face her assailants, but found only one standing there.

“You’re killing him.”
 
Sergeant Travis stared at her, open-mouthed.
 
He held her torn shoulder pad in his limp hand.

In a flash of humiliation, Sergeant Alexander looked down at her pale, bony, exposed shoulder.
 
Slowly, she leveled her gaze on Travis, quietly studying his eyes as they turned from stunned accusation to cloudy confusion to the sparkling realization of imminent danger, and it seemed to her that he hit the floor before her foot even fully impacted his groin.

“Alright,” she said distantly.
 
“Lesson’s over.
 
Everyone back to work.”

****

By the time he arrived at his office that morning, Albert was already fifteen minutes late.
 
A small, yellow, hand-scrawled note awaited him, scotch taped to the exact center of his computer keyboard.

ALBERT ZIM – SEE MANAGEMENT

Albert had seen that same message, placed in exactly that same spot, on only a handful of occasions, and it always made him sick to his stomach.
 
It meant that his safe, predictable little day was about to become very unpredictable, and never in a pleasing way.
 
He felt doubly nauseous on this particular morning, as he could scarcely believe that such a note following last night’s little gaff at the symposium was only a coincidence.

He shuffled out of his office, making a quick stop by the coffee machine to talk to Javier.

“Javier, I’ve got to go,” he said, breathlessly.
 
“Tell the fellas no coffee breaks today, okay?”

Javier grimaced.
 
“Reeely, Jefe?”

Albert sighed.
 
“Okay – only five minute coffee breaks, and spread them out over the morning, could you?
 
I have to go see Mr. Edd and I just found out last night that our fifteen minute breaks should only be lasting ten minutes.
 
Gotta run, Javier.
 
Give a hundred and fifteen percent today, will you?”

Javier nodded, then shook his head sadly as Albert hurried away.
 
“Good luck, Jefe.”