Mary Bliss stopped at the jewelry counter and checked her appearance in a small mirror. She’d bitten all her lipstick off during her interview with Jeff Robertson. Now she carefully applied another layer of Raspberry Glacé.
“Can I help you?” The woman on the other side of the counter had closely cropped hair and a huge smile. Her name tag proclaimed her “Your Sales Associate—Queen Esther.”
“Oh. No, no thanks,” Mary Bliss said quickly. “I was just fixing myself up a little. I’m actually reporting for a job.”
“Where? Here?” the woman’s smile disappeared. “You sure you got the right place?”
Mary Bliss straightened her shoulders. “I’m one of the new product demonstration hostesses.”
“You? Honey, you don’t look like no sample lady I ever seen.”
Mary Bliss didn’t know whether it was a compliment or a cut.
“Why not?” she asked.
The watch saleswoman looked her up and down. “You wearing heels? And all dressed up? What you supposed to be handing out today? Caviar?”
“They didn’t tell me,” Mary Bliss admitted, beginning to feel flustered. “I’m supposed to find Mrs. Peabody.”
“She’s up there,” Queen Esther said, pointing toward the front of the store, where an elevated catwalk looked out over the cavernous warehouse space.
“But don’t be calling her Mrs. Peabody. Imogene Peabody likes to be called Miz. And I mean M. S. Peabody.”
“Any other advice?”
“Pick you up a pair of sneakers before you go on up there,” Queen Esther said. “And tell ’em you’re very religious. Can’t work Sundays. Otherwise, you be working the shifts the other sample ladies won’t take.”
“Thank you,” Mary Bliss said.
Her feet were already aching by the time she’d climbed the metal stairs to the catwalk. Mary Bliss paused before Imogene Peabody’s office door. It actually wasn’t an office at all. More like a cubicle. The woman sitting at the desk was talking on the phone, gesturing wildly, cussing a blue streak, oblivious to everything going on around her. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and the deepest tan Mary Bliss had ever seen.
Mary Bliss coughed softly.
The woman whirled around in her chair. “Yes?”
“Miz Peabody?” Mary Bliss said. “I’m Mary Bliss McGowan. Jeff Robertson at Market Concepts sent me over. I’m the new product demonstration hostess.”
Imogene Peabody reached into a large cardboard box beside her desk, bringing out a bright blue baseball cap with the Bargain Bonanza Club logo, and a matching bib-style blue apron.
“Here’s your uniform,” she said, tossing it in Mary Bliss’s direction. “Today, you’ll be in frozen foods, back of the store. Station D. Tell whoever’s at that table that you’re relieving them. They’ll show you what to do. Don’t forget to hand out the manufacturer’s coupons with the samples. It’s after noon now, so you won’t get a lunch or dinner break. Fifteen minutes, that’s it. We’re staying open ’til ten tonight, because it’s grand opening. At quarter ’til, break down the station, wash up all the equipment, and make sure you take the leftover unopened stock and replace it in the walk-in freezers. Got it?”
Mary Bliss blinked. “’Til ten?” she asked. “Mr. Robertson didn’t tell me that part. I have a teenaged daughter. I need to be at home when she gets off work. I could stay ’til six, possibly.”
“Ten,” Imogene Peabody snapped. “Did you bring your own gloves?”
“Gloves?”
Miz Peabody snorted, reached down into the box, and tossed a plastic bag in Mary Bliss’s direction.
“You’re not allergic to latex, are you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good.” It was the first time Ms. Peabody had seemed pleased with anything. “Last week, some poor clown put on the gloves, and fifteen minutes later his lips were turning blue and he stopped breathing. He was allergic to latex rubber. You believe that?”
“That’s terrible,” Mary Bliss said. “Was he all right?”
“How should I know?” Ms. Peabody said, shrugging. “We had to get somebody from paper products to finish dishing out the party pizzas. It was a hell of a morning, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m sure,” Mary Bliss said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Time card,” Ms. Peabody said. She handed one to Mary Bliss. “Punch in as soon as you get here, punch out when you’re ready to leave. Make sure you check the schedule to see what time you’re on tomorrow.”
Mary Bliss remembered Queen Esther’s advice. “Ms. Peabody? I need to let you know about my religious concerns. I’m a very strict Methodist. And it’s absolutely against my religion to work Sundays. I hope that will be all right.”
“No.” Ms. Peabody didn’t look up again. “It’s not all right. We all work on Sundays. Got that, Mrs. McGowan?”
Mary Bliss threaded her way through the frozen food section until she found station D, which turned out to be a card table with a cutting board, a toaster oven, and a large cooler full of frozen food.
The product demonstration hostess at station D was actually a host. He looked to be in his early sixties, and the name badge pinned to his blue apron said ART.
“Hi, there,” Mary Bliss said, adjusting the bill of her baseball cap so that he could see her face. “I’m Mary Bliss. I’m your replacement.”
“Great,” Art said. In a minute, he’d stripped off the apron and tucked his own cap in the back pocket of his slacks. “Did they tell you the drill?”
“Only to hand out the manufacturer’s coupons and to replace the unused stock in the walk-in freezers,” Mary Bliss said. “Just what is it I’m going to be demonstrating.”
“Right there,” Art said, gesturing toward the cooler, which was stacked with colorful blue-and-white cardboard boxes. “Mrs. Korey’s Kod Kakes.”
“Fish sticks?” Mary Bliss felt her body sag.
“I guess it’s fish,” Art said. “It sure smells fishy. But I couldn’t guarantee it’s real cod. Anyway, here’s what you do.”
He pointed toward a small cutting board and a knife on the card table. “Cut the Kod Kakes into quarters, and toast them in the toaster oven for about five minutes. And don’t forget to keep putting out the cocktail sauce.” Mary Bliss noted that there was a two-gallon jug of Mrs. Korey’s Kocktail Sauce on the card table. “Without the cocktail sauce, they really are inedible.”
“Oh,” Mary Bliss said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with fish sticks. Are people really willing to try these? Are they big sellers?”
“Not by themselves,” Art said. “But with the manufacturer’s coupon, a carton of eighteen only costs about a dollar ninety-nine. That’s a lot of fish stick for the money. Mostly the people who buy them are your immigrant-type consumer.”
“I see,” Mary Bliss said.
People were starting to line up in front of the station. The timer on the toaster oven dinged.
“Your Kod Kakes are done,” Art said. He lowered his voice. “Did they tell you about your quota?”
“Quota?” Mary Bliss whispered. “Mr. Robertson didn’t say anything about a quota.”
“The bastards,” Art said. “That’s how they figure your pay. It’s all based on the number of samples you hand out.”
“The twenty-two an hour isn’t straight salary?”
“Twenty-two bucks an hour?” Art snorted. “Is that what he told you he’s paying?”
“Yes,” Mary Bliss said. “Isn’t that what you make?”
“I make eight bucks an hour,” Art said. “And I’m the highest producer in the company. God, I can’t believe they’re trying that trick.”
“Excuse me, but I would like to try a Kod Kake.” A short squatty woman in a bilious green-and-gold sari was at the front of the sample line.
“Oh yes,” Mary Bliss said. She fumbled with the toaster oven door, finally punching the knob that made the door spring open.
“I gotta go,” Art said.
“Wait,” Mary Bliss pleaded. “You said something about a quota system. What did you mean?”
“Just this,” Art said, slinging his apron over his shoulder. “You gotta move a lot of Kod Kakes. You know what I mean? Empty out the cooler you got, and refill it as soon as it’s empty. Keep moving that fish, that’s all. Cause it’s all about the numbers. And take it from me. You can forget that twenty-two an hour Robertson promised you.” He gave a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one. Twenty-two an hour. I gotta remember to tell that to the missus when I get home.”