Taking Stock (7 page)

“Where is it?”

“Up your ass.”

Jack stands up, glaring at Gilbert. “Your eyes are bloodshot. Yours too, Brent. Are you stoned?”

“No, dude,” Brent says.

Jack stares at them a few seconds longer, and for a moment I expect him to spit on the floor. But he just leaves.

Brent’s phone rings, and he fishes it from his pocket.

“Hello,” he says. “What? Who is this? Oh. All right. Um, sorry.”

He puts it back in his pocket.

“Who was it?” Gilbert says.

“Frank.”

“Really? What did he say?”

“He said employees aren’t supposed to have their phones on at work.”

They look at each other, and burst out laughing.

*

Some kid threw a tantrum, tossing a pack of crackers on the floor and stomping on them. I’m the one cleaning up the aftermath. To make matters worse, I’m pretty sure the kid got whatever he was screaming for.

As I sweep, Gilbert happens by, and takes a can of coffee from the shelf. “See this?” he says. “This container can hold a pound of coffee, and one time it did. But they slowly reduced the amount, and now it’s just 11 ounces. They also shrunk the text that tells you that. The only thing that has increased is the price.” He puts the can back on the shelf. “It’s not just coffee. Grocery stores are full of rip-offs. Diluted bleach. Chicken plumped with salt water. Fruit juice with only 10 percent actual fruit juice. Crab cakes with zero crab.”

I shrug. “Pretty dishonest.”

“It’s theft. Plain and simple.” He’s twisting the gold ring he wears.

They have other techniques for manipulating people, Gilbert tells me. They put candy and sugary cereal at kids’ eye level. Also, the sole reason to have a bakery, he says, is to create the aroma of baking bread, to make customers hungrier. “What else is freshly made, in-store? It’s not like they can’t get enough bread from suppliers. They’re crafty.” He taps the side of his head.

I return to Aisle One and continue fronting where I left off. Every now and then Casey rockets past with his cart. The third time I see him, he yells for me to move out of the way. I back up six feet or so, and he tears open a case of laundry detergent, packing the bottles onto the shelf.

Tommy’s supposed to be fronting, too. Tonight’s order turned out to be bigger than expected, though, and Casey recruited him to help out with it. When I walk through the warehouse on my way to the washroom, Tommy is sitting on a box of strawberry jam, bent over his tabloid. He has a bald spot on the top of his head.

On my way back out, I find Casey standing over him.

“What are you doing?” Casey says.

“Reading,” Tommy says.

“There’s work to do.”

“Calm down, Casey. Have another coffee.”

“There are five pallets left, and it’s almost 6:00.”

Tommy looks up, his eyes getting wide, like they always do when he’s about to start prophesying. “You’re a fool. You assume your corporate masters are the ones you should be pleasing, when really you should be on your knees, praying for—”

Casey grabs Tommy by the front of his shirt, pulls him to a standing position, and slams him against a pallet of product nearby. “You work in a Grocery store. You tried to quit, but your Mommy wouldn’t let you. Remember?” He lets go. “Get to fucking work.”

Tommy quickly exits the warehouse.

Casey walks to Ralph’s desk, picks up a large coffee, and sips from it noisily. He puts it down and faces me. “I need you on the order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gilbert’s nowhere to be found, as usual. If it’s just me and Tommy, we won’t come close to getting it put out.”

“There is one minor detail.”

“What?”

“I haven’t worked here three months—I’m not supposed to work orders yet. Oh, and I don’t have a box cutter.”

“I don’t care when you were hired. There’s an extra box cutter in the desk. Put it back at the end of the night.”

He begins sorting through the order, pulling out products that go in Aisles Two, Three, and Four. Soon, he’s stacked my cart as precariously as he stacks his own, with at least 20 cases piled on.

The store intercom beeps, and Gilbert’s voice comes out. “Attention shoppers. You are all mindless drones—victims of instant gratification. You buy your groceries, you slither back to houses you can’t afford, and you stuff your wobbling maws. The thrill of the hunt has been robbed from you. You disgust me. Have a nice day.”

Casey and I look at each other. “Just go,” he says.

I push the cart out onto the sales floor. God, it’s heavy.

*

I’m tired of eating crackers and salads and carrot sticks on every break, so Sam takes it upon himself to tutor me in the art of cooking delicious vegetarian meals.

“Remember my lasagna?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was legendary.”

“You can be legendary, too. You can make big batches of lasagna, or spaghetti, or whatever, and freeze it in portions. Then you can take it to work and heat it up in the microwave. You’ll never eat carrot sticks again.”

He gives me a stuffed green pepper wrapped in tin foil to eat on tonight’s shift. There’s a mini fridge in the break room, and when I arrive I stick it there for safekeeping.

Later, as I’m fronting syrups in Aisle Four, some guy walks up and says, “Have you heard the Good News?”

“Toilet paper’s on for half price?” I say.

“Not that. I’m talking about God, and his son, Jesus. He died on the cross, so that no man need go to hell.”

“What about women?”

“Them neither.”

Behind him, Gilbert is walking toward us, eating a bag of Cheezies.

“Is he applying for a job, Sheldon?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s holding a résumé in his hand.”

I look down. It’s true. The guy is holding some stapled-together papers that very much resemble a résumé.

He faces Gilbert and holds out the hand that isn’t holding papers. “My name’s Donovan. I’d like a job in Grocery.”

Gilbert pops a Cheezie into his mouth. “Frank doesn’t accept applications for specific departments. You have to apply and hope for the best.”

Donovan’s hand drops to his side. “I’m applying for a Grocery position. I’ve prayed about it—that’s where I’m needed.”

“You take orders from God? Heavy.”

“Indeed.”

“Does he have email now, or is he still rocking the whole angelic messenger thing?”

“The Lord’s servants are no strangers to mockery. I don’t need you to take me seriously. I just need you to give this to your manager.” He hands his résumé to Gilbert. “God bless.”

He walks toward the front of the store. Then he stops. “I’m about to smoke a joint in the parking lot. Would either of you care to join me?”

Gilbert, who was in the process of crumpling Donovan’s résumé, straightens it out again and studies it. “You don’t mention your religion here.”

“I didn’t think it relevant.”

“It is to the store manager. Print off a new copy that includes it, and give it to Frank yourself. His office is upstairs. Don’t tell him we spoke. Can you give a good interview?”

“Anyone with more than two brain cells can give a good interview.”

“Very true. Be sure to bring up religion a lot.”

“I will.”

“Welcome to Spend Easy, then. Let’s go smoke that joint.”

My shift ends not long after that.

Ernie’s standing next to the desk when I punch out. “Sheldon,” he says as the punch clock ejects my card. “Can you come here for a second?”

I walk over.

“I bought you something. I couldn’t help but notice you were drinking coffee from a disposable cup, the other day.” He reaches under the desk and takes out a white reusable mug. “It’s made from porcelain, just like mine. I think you should use it.” He holds it out to me, smiling.

I take the mug, walk across the warehouse, and open the trash compactor door. I throw it as hard as I can. It shatters against the back wall, and the pieces land among the rest of the garbage waiting to be compressed and sent down the dumpster chute.

I turn back to Ernie. “Thanks.”

I walk out of the warehouse.

Chapter Six

Rodney, a heavyset guy who scowled constantly, made up for how quiet most of the psych ward patients were. Once, as I was leaving the TV room, I heard a loud noise to my right. I looked and saw Rodney stomping around the corner, eyes bloodshot. “Hey. Sheldon, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Come into the smoking room with me.”

“Okay.”

Once inside, we each took one of the plastic chairs that ringed an ashtray on a pedestal. He lit a cigarette, which looked tiny against the thick black beard that covered his face. He told me that in a couple months, there wouldn’t be a smoking room in the psychiatric ward anymore. They were closing it down. “Big mistake, that is,” he said. “Big mistake.” He showed me his fist.  The first three knuckles were bloody and torn. “See this?”

“Yes.”

“I was on the phone with my girlfriend. She pissed me off. I punch things when I’m pissed off.”

“Really?”

“Go to the kitchen and get me some orange juice.”

For a few seconds, I just looked at him. He didn’t break eye contact.

“No,” I say.

He held up his bloody fist. “See this?”

“Yes.”

“Go get me some orange juice.”

“No.”

“Do you see the blood?”

“Get it yourself.”

He stood up and pointed at me. “I know where you sleep.” He threw the half-smoked cigarette at the ashtray, missed, and left the room. I picked it up and put it in the tray. Then I stood and followed Rodney out. He stomped off toward the rooms. I started walking toward mine.

A nurse intercepted me before I could go in. “Is anything wrong?”

“No.”

“Did Rodney say anything to you?”

“He said things.”

“Do you feel safe, Sheldon?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be at the Nurses Station.”

“Thank you.”

I didn’t know whether Rodney was a threat—and to be honest, I didn’t care.

A couple weeks later, not long before I got out, I was sitting on a cushioned bench near the Nurses Station and watching a few of the patients walk laps around the ward. The Professor was one of them—he walked with his hands folded behind his back, gazing at the floor tiles, muttering. He rarely ever stopped pacing, actually.

I glanced down the hall and saw Rodney, wearing a white and blue checkered dress shirt with black jeans. His hair was gelled, his beard trimmed, and he was smiling. When he reached me, his eyes were clear. He put out his hand.

I shook it.

“I’m out of here today,” he said. “My girlfriend’s picking me up, we’re going out to dinner, and then I’m going home to sleep in my own bed. Sleep for a week, if I can get away with it.”

“That’s—that’s great. Good for you, Rodney.”

“Hey, sorry if I said anything strange over the past few days. The meds really had me screwed up. I was jumping at shadows.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Few months ago, I fell off the roof of a house I was helping build. Landed right on a pile of bricks. My insides were pretty mashed—I’m lucky to be here. I had four operations, and I’ve been having trouble getting off the pain meds. They put me in here till my mood swings levelled out.”

“What will you do now? Are you still going to work construction?”

He nodded. “Getting right back on that horse.”

*

With just 91 days left before the human race is seared from the universe like a gnat caught in a wildfire, I go into Spend Easy to work my first eight-hour shift. Ralph is waiting in the warehouse when I enter, and the moment I punch in, he hands me a green box cutter in a leather holster. I clip it onto my belt, within easy reach of my right hand.

“You’ve been here three months, now. Time to start working the order. Welcome to Grocery.”

Our uniforms changed recently—no longer the yellow of sun shining down on sizzling steaks bought on special from your local Spend Easy. Now we’re wearing long-sleeved, collared shirts, the white of snow, with Spend Easy’s red and green logo scrawled in tiny script over our hearts. Now is the time for customers to stock up, solemn-faced, for winter, in case it doesn’t end.

I’m not convinced giving us white uniforms was such a good idea. Mine is already the kind of dirty washing won’t get out.

The order gets here before five. Ralph and I grab a pallet jack each and start hauling it off the truck—eight pallets in total. Afterward, he shows me a black binder with 40 or 50 spreadsheets inside. He marks my name on one of them, explaining that for each trip to the aisles, we’re supposed to record how many cases we bring out, and how long it takes to put up the whole cartload.

Ralph helps me load my first cart with 14 cases, and then he punches out. I sneak a glance at Casey’s case count. His cartloads all number between 15 and 20. Glancing through his sheets, I estimate he averages around 48 cases an hour.

“I reserve the right to continue calling you rookie,” Gilbert says when he sees me with a cart and a cutter.

Casey’s working the order tonight, along with Gilbert, Brent, and me. It takes me a half hour to put out my 14 cases. Next trip, I try taking just nine. This way it’s easy to find only products that go in Aisles Two and Three—meaning less distance I have to travel. Plus, with less weight, I’m able to move faster.

I can appreciate now why I was made to front for three months. I’ve learned where practically everything goes, so I’m able to stack the boxes on my cart according to where they’re shelved, for easy access. This cartload takes just 15 minutes.

On my third trip, I try taking five cases. And it’s perfect. It takes me seven minutes to put them on the shelves.

When I return to the warehouse, Gilbert’s lounging on the pallet we’re currently working. He watches me throw my empty boxes into the cardboard compactor, scribble down my case count, and grab five more cases from behind him.

“Damn, rookie,” he says. “Are you breaking a sweat?”

“Not yet. When I do, I’ll let you know what it feels like, okay?” I roll out onto the sales floor.

Next time I go to the warehouse I’m alone, and I take a moment to scan Casey’s count. I’m catching up.

Casey and I are bringing out most of the order. Brent’s count is abysmal. And on the single sheet marked “GILBERT RYAN,” nothing is written.

When the order’s finished, Casey’s average is 50 cases an hour; mine is 46. I didn’t begin the night taking out five cases, though. If I’d been using my method from the start, I might have tied Casey. Maybe beaten him.

*

Other than choosing to cooperate, I didn’t have much input into the decision to try fixing my brain with Zoloft. My doctor in the psych ward concluded I had insufficient serotonin, so he prescribed me a “selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor”.

So, when Bernice asks me what I think should be my Cognitive Behavioural Therapy’s main focus—what I think my biggest challenge is—it catches me off guard completely.

Finally, I tell her I’d like to work on my confidence. I want to be able to navigate social situations without second-guessing everything I say, and without wondering whether some hidden meaning lurks beneath what others say.

I tell her about a few examples—like worrying that my co-workers know I was a psych ward patient—and we start working through them. In the middle of that, though, I blurt out with: “I feel like I am making progress at work.”

She raises her eyebrows. “How so?”

“I’m not sure what it is exactly I’m making progress with, but—well, I’m actually enjoying stocking the shelves, and stuff. I never would have expected that. It just feels great, you know? Having something to focus on.”

Absurdly, a lump forms in my throat, and I’m in danger of crying.

“I think…I think Mom would have been proud.”

I have to take a few moments, then. A few deep breaths. Bernice waits.

I tell her I’d like to return to writing. I think that’s also a confidence issue. Since Mom died, I’ve been too afraid of screwing up to even start writing anything. Without someone to tell me I do good work, my fear is more effective than any writer’s block ever could be.

*

The second time I work the order Ralph is on too, taking cartloads of frozen overstock out of the walk-in freezer and checking to see if there’s room for it on the shelves. He finds some frozen pizzas that are past their sell-by date, and he’s about to throw them out when I say, “Wait. How far past the date are they?”

“A little over a week.”

“Well, don’t throw them out. I’ll take them.”

He shakes his head. “Store policy. Gotta chuck ‘em. Sorry.” He tosses all four in the trash compactor.

I push a cartload out to Aisle Five. Gilbert is there, perusing the chip selection. “Have you seen Ralph?” he says.

“In the warehouse.”

I restock taco kits, three different brands of popcorn, and ice cream cones. I turn the cart around and head back for another load. Gilbert’s still near the chips, and as I pass he grabs a bag and tosses it onto the bottom level of my cart.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up. I need to sneak it past the cameras.”

“I’m your accomplice, now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more an accessory.”

The first hour of using my new method goes well, but after that I get a few cases that take a while to stock. The little cans of tomato sauce, for instance—they don’t fit into each other like other cans do, and I keep dropping them.

Ralph notices I’m taking only five cases at a time, and asks me why.

“Well, it’s working for me.”

“I know. I saw your case count. But why five?”

“Five cases don’t weigh you down like 10 do, so you can move faster. It’s also easier to find five from the same aisle, which reduces the distance you travel. Plus, fewer boxes to flatten.”

“But you’re making twice as many trips back and forth to the warehouse.”

I shrug. “I think the benefits outweigh the one drawback.”

“Come with me.”

We walk to his desk in the warehouse, and Ralph finds a calculator. He adds up my cartloads. “You’ve put out 110 cases so far, and it’s been two hours. 55 cases an hour—nearly a case a minute. That’s good work.”

“Thanks.”

He picks up the phone and presses the intercom button. “All Grocery personnel to the warehouse, please.” He hangs up.

Within a couple minutes, Gilbert, Ernie, and Brent are standing with us around Ralph’s desk.

“We’re trying something new,” Ralph says. “Sheldon’s been experimenting, and he’s found that bringing out five cases at a time is faster than taking 10. He’s totalled 110 cases since we started tonight.”

Brent stares blankly back at Ralph. Ernie’s hands are balled into fists, and he’s not looking at anyone. Gilbert starts slow clapping.

“I want everyone taking out five cases for the rest of the night,” Ralph says. “Understood?”

*

It becomes known, with some derision, as the Sheldon Mason Five Case Approach. It doesn’t become standard procedure or anything—Ralph just gets everyone to try it for a shift. After that, Casey returns to his mountainous cartloads, and Gilbert sticks to 10 cases or so, when he brings out any. Almost everyone else uses my method, though. Once perfected, the Five Case Approach doesn’t require much work to produce a moderate result. But with sincere effort, the results are impressive. There are hours I put out 70 cases. One night I total 315 over five hours, which, I’m told, is a store record.

I’m getting a lot more hours than I did during my first three months. Whenever someone calls in sick, I’m one of the first Ralph offers the shift. I have a nametag now, too.

“Congratulations,” Gilbert says one night. “Grocery’s increased its productivity, Ralph is beating Produce in the suck-up war, and Frank still ignores you completely. Think you’re going to get a raise?”

“I’m not looking for one.”

Later, Jack shows up as I’m restocking lima beans and asks me to take a break with him. For once, he isn’t wearing his cap. His red hair sticks up in all directions.

Not wanting to appear as uninterested as I feel, I say, “Sure.”

While my homemade lasagna is heating up in the microwave, Jack tells me there’s been a lot of talk in Produce this week about the work I’ve been doing. He says everyone’s impressed—especially Vince, the Produce manager. A position recently opened, and Vince is wondering if I would consider filling it.

“You mean, like, switch departments?”

“Exactly. We checked with Frank, and he gave us the go ahead.”

“No thanks.”

“Sorry?”

“I like working in Grocery.”

Jack shakes his head. “Grocery is full of slackers. In Produce, you’ll be working with employees of your calibre.”