MARTians (16 page)

Life isn’t priceless. There are at least two departments at AllMART where you can buy it: One is the Garden of Eden; the other is Petlandia. Somehow, I never end up getting trained to work in the Garden of Eden, although I want to very much. AnnaMom and I always used to walk through there, even when we didn’t have money to buy a new potted orchid or the need for more Bats of Happiness genuine guano fertilizer for the daylilies. We walked through there because the air was rich with water. The colors were brighter. It was hot in there too, but that seemed okay. It was hot everywhere. I miss the Garden of Eden. I miss the smell of plants and water. And I miss being there with AnnaMom. But for some reason, I never get assigned to work in that department. I think I would be good at it too.

Petlandia, though, today I’m assigned to Petlandia.

Most of the work involved in Petlandia has to do with sanitation. Every living product produces by-products that must be removed. Smelly by-products must not distract the potential shopper from the fun of shopping. Out of sight, out of mind, out of smelling distance: That’s the ideal. There is a time and place for discussing by-products. That time is after the main sale is solid, after the consumer has fallen completely in love with the living product. Then comes the up-selling phase where the shopper is guided to buy the extra things they need. No kitten sale is complete without a bat-able squeaky bat: “It’s a mouse with wings! It’s kitten happiness!” No iguana should be sentenced to life without an Iguana-Logg: “Perfect for sunbathing! (SunnyDaze sunlamp not included.)” And that’s when the by-products matter. They should be mentioned delicately in the context of helping the shopper make additional purchases like an electric self-sweeping Kitteh-Kommode or a jumbo box of jungle-scented birdcage “carpets.”

I never had a pet.

But I should be careful to use the correct vocabulary. We sell animal
companions
at Petlandia. Not pets: companions. That’s what they said during training: It’s an important philosophical distinction that matters to the consumer. I should always say “companions” even though the department sign says Petlandia. It will always say Petlandia because rebranding is costly and causes consumer anxiety. I think about the difference this way: I never had a companion except for AnnaMom, and she was surely not my pet.

Maybe, just maybe, I was hers.

Do you remember, AnnaMom, when I wanted a hamster dyed to look like a tiger for my birthday? But then my birthday came and I opened my presents and there were mittens that looked like tiger paws and a furry hat with tiger ears, but there wasn’t any striped hamster. I cried and cried. And you said, “Look, Zoë-Zoë-ziger-cat. Look in the mirror. Look at your tiger ears!
Kawaii!
Zoë-ziger.” And maybe the hat was
kawaii,
maybe it was cute. But it wasn’t a little living pet. It wasn’t what I asked for so I yelled at you and said, “I can’t love a hat!” And you said, “Enough now, Zoë. That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t enough. And I never ever wore that hat, not once. I wanted something to love, and a hat is not that. Never, never, never. But it’s okay now, AnnaMom. I understand now. I know about the by-products and the extra work. I understand you didn’t want me to learn too soon that love wears out too, faster than a hat. I understand how quickly pets wear out, faster than love. Working here in Petlandia has taught me the most unpleasant thing about working in a department that sells live products. They die.

Dead hermit crabs smell terrible.

Mother hamsters eat their babies.

No one buys rosy-red minnows or pinkie mice as companions. Those are food, live food for other animals. They will be consumed. This shopper must love her companion snake. This shopper must love his piranhas. I try to remember that, to respect that love, when I package those little slivers of fish, those hairless, shrimping mousies. I try to remember that and smile. My smile is AllMART’s welcome mat.

“Zero, you can have an inventory shift tonight if you want.”

What I want is to go home to the Warren and stand under the shower. The water will rinse the itch of litter off my skin and the waxy urine from under my fingernails. But it will not wash the ghost of Petlandia by-products out of my nose. So what I want is a shower and a nose that forgets all of this, but what I say is “Yes, thank you.” And I smile because I’m supposed to be cheerful about extra hours. My smile is AllMART’s welcome mat. Then, when I’m alone, I take a picture of the sign over Aisle 5 and send it to the Warren list. In a couple seconds, I get a photo of my underpants, twisted up into a flower, sitting like a hat on Pineapple’s bright red hair. I don’t have to worry about 5er. Pineapple has it covered. I just wish my underpants weren’t involved.

Inventory is a little different in Petlandia. In Petlandia, the products move, and they don’t have individual scanning codes. So inventory of the live products is sort of old-school. It requires counting. That isn’t so hard with iguanas, which are large and slow, and it’s sort of fun with the puppies and kittens. And Double Half-Moon Beta fish are easy because they sit on the shelf in separate plastic cups of water or they would fight to the death. But it is terribly difficult with the smaller birds, the finches in constant nervous motion, every one of them alike as numbers.

I know I’m not the only one. There are other trainees scooting like raccoons through the deserted, dim aisles. I hear the rumble of the ladder-stairs moving from place to place. Sometimes there is laughing or swearing. It depends on what that person finds during inventory. Along the top shelf of the Great Outdoors there are stray feathers and feet. Here in Petlandia, I find a little white mouse on a can of cat food.

“How did you get here,
kawaii
mousie?”

The mousie doesn’t answer. It rubs a tiny pink paw along even tinier whiskers. It poops a tiny dark-brown rice grain of poop. I’m so in love. I even love the poop. I put my scan gun down and move my hands slowly. The little mousie doesn’t run away even when I touch the top of its tiny round back with my fingertip. It lets me scoop it up and hold it in the hollow of my hands. I think it is also in the hollow of my heart. Kawaii
baby mousiekin, I’m your ZoëMom.

“What are you doing, trainee ZERO?”

“Inventory. You assigned me.”

“Inventory means scanning product codes. Where is your scanner?”

I nod at the cat food shelf. My scanner sits on top of the cans.

I smile and hold up my hands that embrace and make a little sphere, a little world, a little egg. I can feel the bright and busy feet and heart moving on my palm and fingers. “I found something.”

She holds out her hand, I hover mine above, and the little speck of mousie is transferred.

“Damn popcorn mice!” she says. Then she flicks the little white life to the floor and steps on it. There is nothing but a smudge of damp meat.

“Look, when you find them, just kill them. Throwing them hard on the floor will do it with the bigger ones, but the popcorns, step on them or dump them straight into the incinerator. Those little suckers are hard to kill. They can’t be returned to inventory once they escape the cages. Quality control. And these ones, the juveniles, they are escape artists. We don’t sell them at this age because they are unmanageable. They climb and they jump. They jump so high they might as well be able to fly, I swear. A real pain in the ass. I mean, if a couple of them got to maturity, this whole store would be knee-deep in mice a week later — one consumer posts one photo of one mouse sitting on a cupcake in the bakery case and it’s a disaster. So good for you for catching that thing. I’m glad you aren’t squeamish or jumpy. You will be a real asset here in Petlandia. Make sure you sweep the turds onto the floor. Janitorial will be around in a couple of hours. If it happens on the day shift, call for cleanup-on-aisle.”

At the end of my shift I pass by the fancy mice sleeping in Super-Savr Sanitary Shavings, pine scented. Tiny motions of their breathing in and out. Somewhere hidden inside is the tiny heart, a little wet unstoppable engine. That heart doesn’t require any tiny mousie thoughts to command it. Like mine, it just keeps beating, even when forgotten.

When I get to the Warren, Pineapple and Luck want to play keep-away with my pink underpants. I’m too tired for that kind of fun. I’m too tired for any kind of fun. They give up and leave. I should take a shower, but I don’t even have energy for that. I just stand there and stare at the screen.

It’s Belly. The beautiful bat-herd is Belly.

I watch the entire cycle of news stories and product promos time after time. That bat-herd looks like Belly every fleeting moment she appears on screen, tossing her shining hair. And then the moment passes, and doubt and uncertainty make me sit and wait for it all to happen one more time. Next time I might know for certain. Next time there might be closure.

That is how Timmer finds me when he finally returns to the Warren after his late-night adventures.

There is a scratching at the door. I decide it is a raccoon.

Why would a raccoon want in at the door? Why would it persist in making the same
rattle-tap-scratch
? I look at 5er squatting on top of a washing machine, pulsing with the rhythm of the agitator. He doesn’t need to know the answer to that question. I’m the adult. I’m the one who needs to know. It is my job. I walk through the mop room toward the back door.

Rattle-tap-scratch.
I will open it just a crack and peek out — that’s the plan. There might be rabies out there or . . . I don’t know what else. But I’m ready to grab the big wooden-handled mop and fight. I’m ready to defend my home. I am ready to kill the rattle-tap-scratch. I’m afraid, but I’m ready. . . .

It’s Juliette. She has her hands full. She is embracing two mannequin legs and a pale body. She holds a sharply jointed arm by the wrist. She pokes me with the plastic fingers. She holds a shopping bag in her teeth.

I reach out and take the handles.

“Little help?” says Juliette. She pecks out her lips and points at the ground behind her in the alley.

She’s lost her head. It’s sitting in the gravel. If it had eyes, it would be looking away, but it doesn’t have eyes. It is smooth as an egg. That was the theory back in the day when this mannequin was cast: The silent salespeople don’t need eyes; they don’t need to see; they only need to be seen. Some mannequins didn’t have heads at all, only necks that extended, unbowed, into nothing. I put the head in the shopping bag. It nests on crumpled tissue paper.