When I step inside Fred Meyer on Monday, the store is both familiar and not. It’s like when I look at Nora and see the old Nora just underneath. This Fred Meyer has the same typeface on the signs as the store where I work, the same store-brand groceries sitting next to the name brand, but the pharmacy is in a different corner, the electronics section is bigger, and there are two more aisles of toys. It’s like when you dream about a familiar place, but the dream version isn’t the same.
“Where can I find the PIC?” I ask the guy behind the electronics counter. He has a few strands of gray hair swirled around his mostly bare scalp.
His brows draw together at the sound of store lingo coming out of the mouth of someone he doesn’t know. PIC means “person in charge.” He points. “His office is down that hall, past the restrooms.”
The hall smells like bleach. Shallow plastic bins mounted on the walls hold job applications, workers’ comp forms, and vacation request forms. A sign between the restrooms warns against taking merchandise inside. At the end of the hall is an unmarked door, and after a moment’s hesitation, I knock on it.
“Come in,” a voice barks. I open the door. The man behind the desk is stocky, with a shaved head and pale blue eyes.
With what I hope is a professional and friendly smile, I put out my hand. If I’m going to stay in Medford, I need to find a job before I do anything else. “I’m Olivia Reinhart. I wanted to ask if you have any openings.”
“Chuck Tobart.” He barely squeezes my hand before releasing it, his eyes already going back to the paperwork on his desk. “Forms are out in the hall.”
“I’m hoping to transfer. I work at the Burlingame Freddy’s.”
He looks at me again. “Up in Portland?”
“Yeah. In the deli.” I slice cheese and meats and encourage people to try samples. It isn’t a bad job. Our manager, Bill, always lets me have day-old stuff for free. And when he found out that I got off work five minutes after the bus left and that it didn’t come again for another hour, he shifted my schedule back without my asking.
“How long have you worked there?”
“Seven months.”
“I don’t have an opening in the deli.” He says it like the conversation is already at an end.
“I’ll do anything. Even be a cart jockey.” Pushing carts is the worst job. Your shins and hips are bruised from bucking carts together or apart, from shoving them in huge clumps across the parking lot. “I’m moving down here, and I need a job. I’ll work as many hours as you give me, and I’ll work hard.”
He cocks his head. “Aren’t you still in school?”
I let Duncan think I was a year older, but there’s no point in lying to the manager about my age, because the other store will give it to him. “I’ve got my GED.”
“The only opening I have is in produce.” His lips twist. “And I doubt a girl your size could lift fifty pounds.”
Not only is fifty pounds a lot, but produce boxes are usually big, making it hard to use your legs instead of your arms and back.
“I’m really strong.” I’m stretching the truth and worried it sounds more like a flat-out lie.
He grunts, unconvinced. “Fill out the form, and I’ll talk to your manager up in Portland.”
My manager. Crap. The first thing I need to do is call Bill and give him a heads-up. I know Bill likes me—but will that change when he learns I’m planning on leaving him in the lurch?
It’s possible I could end up with no job at all.