Taking Stock (9 page)

I look at him, my brow furrowed. “So? Just because they don’t have money doesn’t mean—”

“What are you guys doing up there?”

Brent is slouching over a cartload of ice cream, squinting up at us.

Two hours later, at the end of the shift, we’re all standing around Ralph’s desk.

“Do you guys think Frank will watch the cameras?” I say. “Will he be pissed we sat up there for so long?”

Brent laughs, and walks a little deeper into the warehouse. “Dude, I show these cameras my middle finger all the time.” He demonstrates. “I took a nap this shift. Shit, Gilbert stands in front of the computer there almost every night and jacks off stale-faced to gay porn. The cameras are always rolling, but no one ever watches.”

*

When a customer needs help locating a product, I try to provide the best service I can.

But it can be trying, sometimes.

One afternoon, I’m accosted in Aisle Five by a man holding a phone to his ear. He says, “Hold on, I think I see an employee. Hi! Excuse me. You work here, right?”

“I do.”

“Hold on, honey.”

“Sorry?”

“I was talking to my wife. Listen, do you carry chopsticks? We’re hosting a Chinese night for some relatives.”

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have them.”

“They don’t have them,” he tells his wife. His face falls at her answer, which is so loud I can hear it. “She says she bought them here before.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve never seem them.”

“He doesn’t see how that’s possible, honey,” he says, like a man defusing a bomb. The shouted reply makes him wince. He covers the phone with his hand and whispers, “She wants to know your name. I have to tell her your name.” He removes his hand. “His name is Sheldon, honey.” He covers the phone again. “She wants to speak to your manager. I’m sorry.” He uncovers the phone. “She says she wants to speak to your manager.”

“Um, it’s okay. Follow me.”

I tell him to wait outside the warehouse doors. Ralph is inside, working on the computer.

“Someone wants to speak to you,” I say.

He follows me out to the floor. “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

The man hands over the phone, and we both watch as Ralph takes it.

“Yes?”

The woman on the other end shouts something. Her husband is thin, but I imagine her overweight, sitting in an overstuffed armchair-throne. I picture her leaning forward, jowls wobbling, staring sternly into space.

“I find that hard to believe,” Ralph says.

She shouts again.

“Ma’am, I highly doubt Sheldon refused to find a product for you. I’ve seen him deal with customers, and he’s polite. But even if he did refuse, I wouldn’t reprimand him, because I can’t afford to lose him. He’s my best worker.”

The lady is shouting again, but Ralph gives the phone back to her husband, who wears a resigned expression. “Sorry, sir,” Ralph says. The man nods, and walks away. His wife’s shouting recedes with distance.

“Thanks for saying that,” I say.

Ralph shrugs. “Chopsticks are in Aisle Three, by the way.”

He tells me there’s a Frozen order coming in tonight, two pallets, and that Brent will be in at six. Which means I’ll be the one actually putting it on the shelves.

Ralph goes home at 5:00, and when 6:00 rolls around, Brent doesn’t even show up. He still isn’t here a half hour later, but by 7:15, I have the first pallet finished. At this rate, I’ll have time to sweep the warehouse after I’m done. Maybe work the overstock a little, too.

I won’t rat Brent out. I’m not a snitch.

On one trip to the cardboard baler I encounter Jack, standing near the trash compactor. He’s taking garbage out of a shopping cart and throwing it down the chute.

When he sees me, he stops. “Are you working alone, tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“No one showed up.”

“Do you regret turning down my offer yet?”

“No, actually. I don’t.”

“You’ll get there.”

He leaves the warehouse, and I go into the freezer.

As I’m stacking frozen juice onto my cart, the big, white door slams shut behind me, and I jump. There’s a safety knob on this side. I walk toward it.

The lights go out just as I lay my hand on the cold plastic. Between my fingers, the knob is a luminous green. Turns out it glows in the dark. I press it, but it doesn’t budge. I can’t open the door. Something’s lodged underneath the handle on the other side.

“Hey!” I shout, pounding on the door.

No one opens it.

Chapter Eight

One of the nurses, chuckling, told me how lucky I was to have a friend like Sam. He clearly cared a lot about me, she said. He’d been asking them all lately whether I’d been eating. “I assured him you have. I told him we check the trays after every meal. I think he’s a bit of a worrier.” She winked.

I don’t know why I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t rebelling, or anything. Like everything else, food simply held no interest. Fred certainly didn’t complain.

I felt pretty crappy after I ate the burger Sam brought me. Having eaten nothing for days, it was like a stone knocking around in my stomach.

During another of Sam’s visits, we were sitting in the common area when the same nurse unlocked a glass door to our right. The door let out onto a small garden surrounded by a chain-link fence. She smiled at us. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“It sure is,” Sam said. “Want to go out, Sheldon?”

“Okay.”

We stepped out into the sunlight. The other patients stayed inside.

“I bet I could get over that fence,” I said.

“Maybe. They’d bring you back, though.”

I looked back through the windows. They’d served lunch about a half hour before, and now the others were getting up from the tables and shuffling to their rooms. “You know, my Mom didn’t believe in mental illness,” I said. “She only believed in strong opinions. A psychiatrist might diagnose you with a superiority complex, but Mom would say you just have a bad case of ‘I have the answer to everyone’s problems.’ I’ve met a lot of people with strong opinions. I’ve met some afflicted with ‘I have nothing worth saying,’ others with a touch of ‘My morals are so inconsistent, I’m two people.’ During my stay here, I’ve even met someone with ‘Everyone around me is secretly working for the CIA.’”

“And what’s your strong opinion?”

“A self-diagnosis?” I paused. “I think I have ‘I don’t need other people.’”

“What if you had to diagnose the entire human species?”

“That’s easy. OCD.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you think that if you died, you’d get to see your Mom?”

I shook my head. “Mom is gone. She’s not anywhere. She doesn’t know about what’s happening with me. She doesn’t know how I felt after she died. She doesn’t know anything. I envy that. I don’t want to know anything, either.”

“You’re jaded.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Yep. Like the rest of your generation. Nowadays, the average age for becoming jaded is around 20. Humans grow accustomed to high levels of pleasure fairly quickly, and these days, young people are inundated with pleasure. Binging is the order of the day. If you binge enough, on food or media or whatever, you become desensitized. Nothing satisfies anymore.”

“What about, like, my Mom dying? Think that might have something to do with it?”

“It’s just an excuse. You’re jaded, Sheldon. Nothing unusual. It’s sort of boring.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Sam stood up. “I’m gonna go home and feed your cat. At least he eats the food that’s put out for him.”

*

The temperature drops immediately.

Jack. He must have snuck back after he left the warehouse. How long does he plan to leave me in here?

There’s a camera that points right at the freezer door. All I have to do is ask Frank to watch the recording tomorrow, and Jack will be fired. Maybe even charged.

It’s so dark.

For some reason, this reminds me of standing on that stool, in the shed I share with Sam. I was able to see in there, of course, and I could have left if I wanted. But I was trapped all the same. In a sense, Sam came and let me out. I don’t think he’s coming, this time.

I knock on the door again, and yell. I knock for at least five minutes. My knuckles begin to hurt, and I switch to my left, but it becomes sore even quicker. My throat feels raw. I’m already shivering. I stick my hands in my armpits, and start kicking. Eventually, someone will walk by and see whatever’s keeping the door shut. Someone will hear the banging.

I don’t know who, though. I’m the only one on in Grocery, and other than Produce the only ones with any reason to come into the warehouse are Meat employees. And who’s working in Meat tonight?

Eric.

Could he and Jack be in on this together? Maybe. Or maybe this wasn’t Jack at all—maybe Eric saw me enter the freezer, and acted alone. He seemed to be trying to send me some sort of message, with the story about the soldier in Afghanistan. Perhaps this is another message.

Jack, or Eric? Or both?

Will they let me out? Would either of them actually let me die in here?

The longer I’m trapped, the more likely it seems. My teeth are chattering. When I try to knock it’s like 1000 needles being driven into my knuckles. I feel like I’m standing outside in the middle of January with no coat on.

I fumble in the dark until I find my cart, and I slam it against the door. I bring it back, and slam it again. I have to stop—my fingers are sticking to the cart’s handle. Normally there are gloves in Ralph’s desk, but I couldn’t find any earlier. Maybe Jack took them.

“Help!” I scream, but I’m hoarse.

I’m crying, now. Sobbing. The tears leave frigid trails down my cheeks, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling ice.

“This is your chance, Sheldon,” I say out loud. “This is your big chance to die and not know anything, ever again.”

But I don’t want to die.

I say that out loud, too: “I don’t want to die.”

I start running on the spot. Stamping my feet. Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, my legs.

I try kicking the door again, but it’s too painful.

I try to yell: “Let me out!” It comes out a whisper. I sob again.

My heart is beating very quickly. In the dark, I see a parade of detailed images. I try shutting my eyes, but it makes no difference. Casey, heaving product onto his cart, slurping coffee, jittering. Jack, smirking. Tommy, eyes wide, ranting about impending apocalypse. Gilbert, wearing Ernie’s nametag, his head thrown back, laughing. Eric, standing with Joshua near the trash chute.

Blood dribbling from Joshua’s chin.

How long have I been in here? A long time. The store’s closed, now, I bet. Everyone is probably already home. Asleep.

Sleeping is the last thing I should do, right now.

But I could sleep.

I try running on the spot again, and stop. Moving requires such effort.

Sleep would mean escape from the cold.

I’ll have to, eventually. Everyone gets tired.

I sit down, just for a moment.

I try to stand.

I lay my head on a case of juice cans. Something crunches under my ear, and I realize it’s frost.

I fall asleep. And I know nothing.

*

“Sheldon,” someone says. “Wake up!”

“Mm.” I open my eyes, and see Cassandra.

“Get up. Come on!”

She’s leaning over me. Her eyes are wide.

“Hi,” I say.

“Sheldon, you need to move. Your lips are blue.”

It’s still dark in the freezer, but there’s light coming from the warehouse. Cassandra crosses her arms and hugs herself.

With Cassandra’s help, I stand and walk out of the freezer. There’s a cart nearby, and I sit.

“Is this what was blocking the door?” My voice still isn’t very loud.

She nods. “Someone wedged it under the handle.” She glances toward the punch clock.

I look, too. A few cashiers are gathered, peering over at us. An elderly lady, Marilyn, drops her punch card, and it flutters from her hand. She walks over and touches my forearm.

“Like ice,” she says. “Are you all right?”

“I guess I am.”

Cassandra touches me, too. “Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

I pull away, and stand up. My limbs are stiff. I shuffle past the desk, to where my coat hangs from a nail.

I pull it on, walk to the clock, and try to grasp my punch card. I can’t.

“Sheldon?” Cassandra says.

Marilyn takes my card and drops it in for me. “Cassandra noticed the cart blocking the door. Thank heaven she did.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“You don’t drive, do you?” Marilyn says. “My husband will drive you home tonight.”

“My bike is locked up out front.”

“You can come back and get it tomorrow. You’re in no shape to bike home. You need to get home and wrap up in some blankets. Who will answer my pages if you lose your fingers?”

I smile. Marilyn reminds me of my grandmother.

“You’ll tell Frank about this, won’t you?” she says.

“I will.”

I glance at Cassandra, who’s still standing near the open freezer door. She returns my gaze, blank-faced.

“Bye,” I say.

*

Frank’s office door is slightly ajar, and I push it open the rest of the way. He’s sitting at his computer. “Can I speak with you?” I say.

He looks up at me—looks me in the eye, for the first time—and then his gaze flits back to his computer screen. There’s a flurry of clicking. “Don’t they train you to knock in Grocery?”

“Um, I think that would have been my mother’s job.”

“She didn’t do it very well.” More clicking. If I were to guess, I’d say Frank is using his work computer inappropriately.

“I need to speak with you,” I say.

“That’s convenient. Because Ralph and I want to have a talk with you.” He picks up the phone and punches a button, making the store intercom beep. “Ralph Thompson to the store office please. Ralph Thompson to the store office.” He hangs up.

“Did you watch the camera footage from last night?” I say.

“I didn’t need to. It’s pretty clear what happened.”

“So you know who did it?”

He looks out the narrow window overlooking the cash registers. “Nobody did it. When we got here this morning, it wasn’t done.”

I decide to wait until Ralph gets here.

“Sheldon,” Ralph says when he arrives. “You’re not scheduled to work today. Why are you here?”

“I came to speak with Frank.”

Frank emits a dry hybrid of a cough and a laugh. His eyes swivel to the floor. “I hope you brought your letter of resignation, after last night.”

“Easy, Frank,” Ralph says.

“Wait,” I say. “What do you think happened last night?”

Frank laughs again. “Not very much.”

“The frozen order was only half done this morning,” Ralph says. “It wasn’t much work—between you and Brent, there should have been time to spare.”

“Slackers aren’t tolerated,” Frank says, which is so funny I could puke.

I recount the events of last night, which doesn’t take long.

Ralph’s brow is furrowed. “Where was Brent during all this?”

There’s no covering for him. They’ll see he wasn’t there on the cameras. “He didn’t come in for his shift.”

“Then we need to know why.” Ralph picks up Frank’s phone. He calls down to the Customer Service counter and gets Brent’s number from Betty. But there’s no answer when he dials it. He hangs up and tries again. This time, after a couple seconds, he says, “Brent? This is Ralph. Why weren’t you in for your shift yesterday?” He listens. “I see. All right, then.” He hangs up. “Brent says he called to see whether he was scheduled for last night, and Donovan told him he wasn’t.”

Ralph calls Donovan, who says he must have misread the schedule.

“It happens,” Ralph says once he hangs up. “Sometimes people look at the wrong day. It’s just bad luck.” He shakes his head. “You should have called Brent, and then called me if you couldn’t reach him. You should never be the only one working in Grocery.”

I nod. “Next time, I will.”

“Let’s check the video feed,” Ralph says. “That’s the next step. There’s a camera pointing right at the freezer door.”

Frank looks down at his computer mouse. “That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

He clears his throat. “The cameras weren’t on last night.”

Ralph speaks slowly: “Why wouldn’t they be on?”

“The cameras are never on.” Frank pauses. He looks across his office, at the wall. He clears his throat again. “The cameras are fake.”

*

As I exit Spend Easy’s sliding doors, a yellow Hummer pulls into the nearest parking spot—a handicapped spot. Gilbert sits in the driver’s seat. I walk over, zipping my coat as I go. It’s getting cold.

“Is this yours?” I say.

“I’m driving it, aren’t I?”

“Wow. You sure know how to make a stock boy’s salary go far.”

“I have multiple income streams.” His left hand is resting on the steering wheel, and he’s twisting his gold ring with his right. “I hear you chilled out for once last night.”