Dyscountopia (8 page)

Thirty minutes later, Albert Zim was standing on an elevator between two purple-armored Guardians, zooming toward the top floor at 50 miles per hour.

“
Oh, why can’t I ever just keep my mouth shut
?” he thought to himself.
 
“
They’ll probably put me up with the Roofers, now, or ship me off to Home Furnishing
.”
 
He shuddered.
 
They had all heard stories of floor managers who’d stepped out of line and were called to the top floors, never to be seen again.
 
Some said they were tossed out onto the roof, to live the rest of their lives as outcasts.
 
Others said they were sent to secret processing rooms where their flesh was stripped away and their bones were ground into a fine paste, to be used in the production of affordable, light-weight furniture.
 
They said that, if you walked through the Home Furnishing Department at night, you could hear the moans and whispers of those sad, lost souls.

Albert forced himself to smile.
 
Heh.
 
Children’s stories
.
 
He looked over his shoulder at the Guardians behind him, dressed in their bulky rubberized plastic body suits.
 
“Guess I must be in trouble,” he said unevenly, trying to sound lighthearted.
 
The Guardians didn’t respond.

Albert was led to a waiting room where he sat for two hours, perched on a small plastic chair.
 
He crunched nervously on a bag of Hungry Eddy’s Three Cheese Lasagna Crackers that he’d bought from the office vending machine as he gazed down at the same two pages of a magazine.
 
The page on his left displayed an ad for Lulu Fontaine’s new hit single,
Pre-Teen Daydream
, featuring a glossy, full-color photo of the 12 year old Lulu herself, draped across a leather couch, wearing a tight pink leotard and a seductive smile.
 
Albert’s eyes drifted uncomfortably from the ad to the neighboring page, to an image of Jesus dressed in white robes, standing in front of a shopping cart in the refrigerator aisle, holding a glass bottle of milk and smiling peacefully with a thin white moustache.
 
The message below it read:
 
Where would Jesus shop?
 

Bottles?
 
Since when did milk come in
glass
bottles?
 
If anyone came into Albert’s turf and started drinking milk from the refrigerators, Albert mused, he’d be obligated to do something about it.
 
Well, maybe not if it was Jesus.

“Mr. Edd will see you now,” said a young woman in a purple pant-suit, startling Albert back to reality.
 
She had her hair pulled back in a tight, sleek pony tail and wore a thin head-set with a small microphone extended in front of her mouth, as if someone might call on her at any minute.

Mr. Edd.
 
If Albert had known anything at all about mid-twentieth century situational comedy, the name might have amused him.
 
But he didn’t, so it didn’t.
 
Mr. Barnaby Edd sat with perfect posture behind his polished faux-mahogany desk, greeting Albert’s presence with a smile so big and so bright that it could lead ships to shore on a foggy night.

“Why, Albert!” he said with a voice like a cool breeze.
 
“It’s always great to see you!”
 
He stood up, his back as straight as an arrow, and strode halfway across the room, grabbing Albert’s hand and giving it a generous pump.
 
The strong, clean smell of soap invaded Albert’s nostrils.

Albert smiled despite himself.
 
He couldn’t help but smile when Mr. Edd shook his hand and called him by his first name.
 
Mr. Edd was the kind of person you just couldn’t dislike, no matter how much you regretted it later.

“How’s the wife and kids?” he asked.

Albert was about to say that his wife had seemed even more distant than usual lately, and that they’d never gotten around to having kids.
 
He cleared his throat.

“They’re fine, Mr. Edd.
 
Couldn’t be better.
 
Thank you for asking.”

Mr. Edd towered over him, tall as an oak and stiff as a statue, staring down at him with big blank eyes and a smile wide enough to land a 737 on, clutching Albert’s flabby hand.
 
He just kept staring, as if he was waiting for Albert to say something else.
 

Seconds ticked by.
 
One.
 
Two.
 
Three.
 
Four.

“Errrm,” said Albert finally.
 
“How is you … ah, … how’s the wife and kids for you?”
 
He desperately hoped that Mr. Edd had kids.

Five.
 
Six.
 
Seven.
 
Eight.
 
Nine.

“Ha!”
 
A single syllable escaped Mr. Edd’s throat, loosely approximating a laugh.
 
He clapped a firm hand on Albert’s shoulder and left it there, looming in closer.
 
“How long’s it been, Albert?
 
Two months?
 
Three months?
 
Things are always so busy around here.”

“
Not long enough
,” is what Albert was thinking.
 
But despite his reservations, he couldn’t help loving the man that stood in front of him; his warm manner, his unmatched smile, his perfect posture.
 
Albert fought the urge to collapse against his pressed white shirt and bury his face in his chest.
 
He smelled so much like soap.

“Well, ya gonna make me stand up all day, Zim, or ya gonna have a seat?” Mr. Edd teased him sometimes.
 
Mr. Edd liked to tease people.

Albert wanted to tease him back, but was much too afraid, so he quietly allowed Mr. Edd to plop him down into a smallish pleather arm chair.
 
Mr. Edd returned to his own chair behind his desk, sitting up straight and true like a golden retriever who thought he’d just heard someone at the door.

“Now, Albert,” he said, placing his elbows on his desk and making a perfect tent with his fingers.
 
“Why are you here?”

Albert placed his hands in his lap and shifted uncomfortably.
 
“Well, sir, when I came to work this morning, there was a note on my d—.”

Mr. Edd interrupted him.
 
“Albert, you know what a family is, don’t you?”
 
His smile could have lit up all of Alpha Quadrant.

“Well, yes, I think so.
 
It’s—.”

“And you know what it means to be a part of the Omega-Mart family.”
 
It was a statement.

“Well, yes, I think I—.”

“It means that you and I are family, Albert.
 
You know you can talk to me, don’t you, Albert?”

Albert’s throat suddenly went dry.
 
“S-sure, Mr. Edd.
 
I—.”

“So why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“W-well I don’t think there’s really anyth—.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the commotion at the symposium last night?”

Albert shook his head rapidly.
 
“Oh, no, sir!
 
Not a commotion.
 
Just a question – a silly question.”

“Hmmmm.”
 
For just a fleeting moment, Mr. Edd looked like he was going to stop smiling, and Albert held his breath.
 
Mr. Edd reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a single, crisp white sheet of paper, carefully examining the little black letters printed on its surface.
 
“It says here ‘commotion’.
 
That’s what it says here.”

“Oh, er, well … it wasn’t supposed to be a commotion, Mr. Edd.
 
It was supposed to be a question.
 
A silly question ….”

 
“Now, Albert, there are no silly questions.
 
Let’s hear it.”

“Sir?”

“The question.”

The blood drained from Albert’s cheeks.
 
“Oh, no, sir.
 
It really isn’t necessary.
 
The Speaker’s answer was more than, um, adequate….”

“Albert?”

“Yes?”

“The question.”

Albert wrung his hands.
 
“Oh, well, uh.
 
Just, I, er … about Javier’s teeth.”

“Javier’s having trouble with his teeth, is he?”
 
The name rolled off Mr. Edd’s tongue like he and Javier were old friends.