Aug. 29, 2008
On the day before I tried unsuccessfully to kill myself, I had been sitting on a railing between cash registers to rest my tired back and aching hip. A yawn tore its way out, and I didn’t bother to try to stifle it. At 6:30 in the evening, half an hour till I got off shift, I was more than ready to go. This was my second day shift that week, and I hated it.
Ordinarily, I worked night crew, and my body could never adjust properly, bouncing back and forth between days and nights. With economic times being tough in general, and particularly the past two months since the Walmart Supercenter had moved in across town, Fleet’s Grocery was taking a massive hit and was probably about to go under before much longer. I understood the belt tightening. Barry Fleet, the manager, had been forced to lay off a few part-timers already. I had been with the store long enough—since I’d dropped out of high school, in fact, and I had seniority over a number of people—that I was spared being laid off or having my hours cut because I was classified as full time. But my exclusive night-crew shifts were broken up, as were Kurt’s—the other night-shift stocker—each of us having to pull a day shift and work the register. But my schedule had changed to include two day shifts now as conditions worsened. That sucked pretty hard, but I was a team player. Barry had kept me on even though I was anything but a model employee—far too many tardinesses and sick days throughout my tenure. But Barry was a pretty cool boss, and I appreciated his leniency.
Nell’s bubbly laughter came from one of the aisles nearby, and I sighed. She liked wandering off and BSing rather than manning the quick-check register she was assigned to. At this time of day, we should’ve been at peak business, but maybe ten shoppers total were in the store, which was pretty sad.
I yawned again, briefly considering grabbing a Mountain Dew or something so that the caffeine would wake me up, but I knew I should spare the buck. A $550 repair bill for a new alternator had put a big hit in my budget earlier this month, and I needed to conserve my meager funds.
To make my day even worse, she was suddenly there, with no warning. Laura Turner had somehow entered the store unnoticed and was being forced to come through my register since Nell had disappeared. I imagined my eyes bulged out in a sense of animal panic. Laura’s mouth tightened with the realization she would be forced to deal with me, and I felt for her. I felt for myself too.
“Uh, hey, Laura,” I mumbled as she put her stuff on the conveyor belt. “How you doing?”
“All right,” she returned reluctantly, words barely audible, and she avoided eye contact.
I scanned her order, primarily consisting of diapers, baby food, a prepackaged salad, and a couple other things. She avoided looking at me as she waited, either rummaging in her purse or focusing on the screen tallying her order.
“That’ll be thirty-six seventy-seven.” I packed her stuff into one bag, save the diapers, which were too big to fit.
She nodded and swiped a credit card through the reader. We waited in awkward silence for the molasses-slow system to process it.
While we stood there, I couldn’t help but notice the swell of her belly under her green Starbucks apron. Laura already had a couple kids that I knew of and, evidently, a third one on the way. She had that beaten-down-by-life aura about her that I imagined I also emitted, the way a nuke leaked radiation. Laura had no makeup and wore her hair shorter these days. She seemed much older than her twenty-eight years, equal to my own, and had put on weight since high school. But despite the mileage, she still looked beautiful to me, like the neighbor kid and onetime friend I’d always had a crush on.
The register finally took pity on us and beeped as the transaction went through. The receipt spat out, and I stuffed it into her bag.
“Have a good one,” I said as she hustled away without any further interaction.
Such was the state of my life.
“That looked super awkward,” someone said behind me in a chipper voice.
Nell had a ready smile. She was a college kid, six or seven years younger than me, and also Barry’s niece, so she had a guaranteed summer job here. This was her last week because she would be going back to CSU after Labor Day when the new semester started.
My anger flared over her casual indifference. “Where the hell were you? Shit, Nell. I could’ve used you just now.”
She flashed another irritating smile. “Talking to some customers. It’s all about the personal touch at Fleet’s Grocery, you know, Jason.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, thanks, Miss Corporate Responsibility.”
“Anytime.” She sauntered back to her quick-check register, two down from mine, and focused on a customer. “I can help you right over here, sir.”
Nell was probably the closest thing I had to a friend these days. That wasn’t saying much, but I disliked her less than most everyone else. However, her bubbly personality could be annoying, as if she was clueless about how life could suck so bad. I wouldn’t really say she had taken a liking to me—pity was more likely. I wasn’t sure of her reason, but I figured it must’ve been because I once mentioned I played a little guitar. She was a music major at Colorado State up in Fort Collins and had once invited me to bring my guitar over to a get-together with her and some friends, but I’d blown her off. It seemed like a ploy to somehow let me humiliate myself, so I didn’t take the bait. She knew about me and Laura because I’d evidently spilled my sorry guts while drunk at another coworker’s Fourth of July party.
Nell must’ve felt my eyes on her, for she glanced back with a smile, and I hurriedly looked away. No doubt about it—she was easy on the eyes, especially in a small town like Pinehaven, where prospects were slim. She had warm hazel eyes and wore her dirty blond hair in a trendy pixie cut. She stood about five feet four, was slim, and had a cute ass, which I couldn’t help noticing during the excruciatingly boring shift since her register was located in front of mine.
Get off it, you idiot. Loser like me would never have a chance with her anyway. Plus, she’ll be gone in a few days, where she’ll have her pick of boyfriends from all the law and med students.
My anger evaporated—Nell was as hard to stay mad at as a puppy. Thinking of that comparison was funny because a puppy was the reason for my falling out with Laura years before.
The distinctive tinkling of breaking glass sounded just then, and I was almost relieved at the distraction.
“Going to get that cleanup, Nell.” I switched off my light and grabbed a dustpan, some paper towels, a bottle of cleaner, and an extra plastic grocery bag.
Engaged in conversation with her customer, Nell waved over her shoulder.
I quickly located the source of the cleanup on aisle twelve. A bottle of spaghetti sauce had taken a plunge, courtesy of a little kid currently being scolded by his mother.
“Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” the woman said.
I waved her off. “No problem, ma’am. Happens all the time.”
As I stiffly knelt on one knee, since my hip didn’t allow much squatting, I scooped the mess into the bag. While I cleaned, I replayed the interaction with Laura, cringing at how awkward it had been.
That fateful day of our falling out was seared into my memory. We must’ve been thirteen or so and best friends at the time. She had called me to come over to her house one day, so excited about something that her volume on the phone nearly blew out my eardrum. I went over to discover her family had adopted a puppy from the shelter. Molly was a Lab mix, an adorable little slobbery furball. And barely a week later, I got her killed.
We were playing in Laura’s front yard, across the street and three houses down from my place. Molly was about five or so months old, nearly fully grown in size but still a puppy at heart. We’d been hanging out and throwing a ball for Molly. Our street was super quiet, and an hour or two could pass without a single car coming by in the lazy days of summer. I threw the ball too far, and it went into the street, Molly bounding after. I remember the shriek of brakes from a UPS truck, then Molly was gone. Laura was devastated and rightfully angry and never forgave me. She might have in time, but I felt so awful that I could never even bring myself to apologize, not knowing how that would go over. Not long after that, her older sister, Jennifer, allegedly ran away from home, although the truth of that was up for debate, with the number of disappearances in town over the years. Regardless of what truly happened to Jennifer, the Turner family was in crisis at that point, and Laura was never the same.
I shoved those uncomfortable thoughts away as I finished the cleanup then checked my watch. Ten minutes to go. If I played my cards right, I could milk this cleanup a few more minutes and go home. Melissa and John would be back up front, and Nell and I would get off shift. I was going to give her a ride home as I’d promised earlier then head to my apartment for another illustrious night of frozen pizza and DVDs.
I finished the cleanup and rose to my feet. As I did, I lost my balance and toppled right into some old lady who came around the corner at that precise moment. The bag smeared with spaghetti sauce besmirched her white blouse as I barged the woman into a display of olive oil. My eyes widened as the stack went over, the woman with it. Fortunately, the bottles were plastic, but a couple still broke open and gushed oil onto the floor.
I tried to apologize and help the woman up, but by then, she was cussing me out, shrieking loudly enough to summon Sheriff Coleman from all the way across town, I imagined.
“You clumsy son of a bitch!” she snapped. “Don’t touch me. Where’s Barry? Barry!”
“Ma’am, I’m so sorr—”
“Go away!” Gripping a shelf, the woman managed to pull herself upright. “Barry!”
“Mrs. Donovan?” Barry Fleet, the store manager, came bustling around the corner, his face going as white as a sheet when he saw what had happened.
“Get this damn galoot out of my sight! Just look at this mess! I think he may have broken my tailbone.”
Barry took the shrieking harpy’s arm and gallantly escorted her away from the spreading oil slick. He gave me a fierce scowl, which I’d rarely seen from my mild-mannered boss. “Where’s your safety cones, Jason? Get this cleaned up. And don’t leave—report to my office when you’re done.”
That didn’t sound good. I realized he was right—I had forgotten the orange rubber cones to block access to the aisle while I was wiping up the spaghetti sauce. Cleaning up the new mess took me almost half an hour, and I had to break out the mop and some dish soap to remove all the olive oil so that it wasn’t a slipping hazard.
Nell stopped by right about seven o’clock, offering to help, but I was pissed over the whole episode and rudely told her I had it under control and needed to stay afterward to talk to Barry. She appeared at a loss for words, for a change, simply putting a sympathetic hand on my arm for a moment.
“I’ll just walk home, Jason. Don’t worry about it. See you later.”
I grunted a reply. After a few more minutes, I finally got the display rebuilt. Barry had evidently appeased the angry woman since neither Coleman nor any of his good ol’ boys arrived to harass me. But I knew the situation was bad the moment I walked into Barry’s cramped office in the back room.
“You know who that was?” he asked bluntly.
“Uh, no. Should I?”
“That was Mrs. Donovan. Mayor Donovan’s wife,” he added after seeing my blank look.
“Oh,” I said. Then I added, “Oh shit.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh shit’ is right.” Barry had never cussed in his life, as far as I knew, so that came as a shock.
The bad feeling in my gut intensified.
“The Donovans’ support goes a long way in this town, especially with the competition,” he said, meaning Walmart, but he never said the W-word. “Did you even apologize to her, Jason?”
“I did, Barry! I even tried to help her up, but she wouldn’t have it.”
Barry gave a long sigh, and I knew what was coming next. “I’m sorry, Jason, but I’m going to have to let you go.” He held up a hand to stave off any forthcoming protest. “Not just for this incident, but because of the tardinesses and excessive sick days. I’ve cut you a lot of slack, Jason, but you just haven’t stepped up like I expected of you. Remember at our last performance review? Yeah, and you’ve had two callouts since then, and now this…”
The anger I expected to feel didn’t surface. I felt only a numb resignation, as if my life couldn’t get any shittier than it already was. The half-assed thought that I should tell Barry to go screw himself didn’t even appeal to me. Barry was right—I’d had plenty of chances to straighten up, but I kept screwing up instead. And he was a genuinely good guy and didn’t deserve the abuse.
“Okay, I understand.” I simply removed my apron and name tag and dropped them on his desk.
Barry relaxed, as if he’d been expecting an angry outburst. “I’ll clock you out. Your last paycheck will be ready to be picked up next Friday.”
I shrugged. “I’ve got direct deposit anyway, so no reason to come back in.”
Then I walked out. I had no other reason to come back. Instead, I would start shopping the competition and hasten Fleet’s demise. Maybe I’d even apply for a job there, too, though I’d heard the working conditions sucked. But then again, a paycheck was a paycheck, and beggars can’t be choosers.
I don’t even remember the drive home. Somehow, I made it to my sad little apartment, having acquired a case of beer I couldn’t afford along the way. Hours later, I drank myself into a stupor.
The next day, I found out in the local newspaper that Nell had never made it home that night.