Goodnight Cat

$4.02, no I don’t have change. I am ready to accept my abundance of change.

Part One

The Barista is overly bouncy with a hiked up A-shirt. Her arms have a thick layer of blond hairs the same way a naked mole rat is considered “hairless.” Whipped cream, yes, chocolate syrup, yes. She tabs open the paper nose of the milk carton. “Soy milk. No real milk, please.”

Since I’ve been at college, I put on weight. I already had that little pooch of baby fat on my face, forcing me to keep a constant state of scruff so I don’t look like I’m still in high school. I remember the summer before, my brother, the personal training weightlifter poking my chest and grabbing at fat, pulling away with handfuls of air. “You are going to get so fucking fat dude. Freshman 15.”

The fifteen pounds the school board says most freshman will gain because of new eating habits, change of atmosphere, new freedoms. But what the fifteen really compensates for is depression, fear, adaptation, stress. Why do you think school cafeterias can never keep anything in their freezers? Bon-bons, Hershey’s ice cream bars with peanuts, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches. It’s comfort food. I didn’t get depressed, but I did gain twenty pounds.

Erin’s car is a 1997 Protege. From my bed I hear her drive up, not clear the speed bump, bottom out. The fucks that follow. I take a Bawls energy drink from my mini fridge.

Nutritional Facts:

Serving size: 1 Bottle

Calories: 120

Total Fat: 0g

Sodium: 35mg

Total Carbohydrate: 32g

Sugars 32g

Not a significant source of other nutrients.

As I drink, I can feel the insignificant nutrient source liquidating the small muscles in my under arm. I know Erin is going to say something about this, again. Just like every carpool Wednesday.

Her car smells like new plastic. Plastic from combat boots she is lacing over jeans on the non-SRS airbag certified dashboard. “$24.95, these are from Vietnam, cool huh?”

“Yeah, what are they for?”

“I’m dressing up as Alex from Clockwork Orange.”

“Good choice of shoe to wear to work. Can I dress up as the rape victim?”

She smiles, stirring her coffee with a V5 pen. “I was gonna ask, ya know, but I thought it might be awkward.”

“It’s really awkward. I can’t believe you were going to ask.”

Gnnnnnkkkkhhh goes the Protege.

“That’s the wrong gear, retard. Do you hear it flooding?”

I shove the stick shift to the right then towards the dashboard. It whiplashes us back into the beige cracked-leather seats. “I hate driving your fucking car.”

“Shift into first, you’re in neutral, asshole.”

“Thanks, twat.”

The car comes to a sudden and violent stop just outside of the grocery store parking lot. “Screw it, I give up. You park.”

With one combat boot on and the other foot bare, she hops around to the driver’s side. “You’re useless, Fisk. You’re fat and you’re useless.”

I leave my energy drink on the street and get back in on the other side.

It’s 11:53 and the night crew are all piling in from the back room. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and let them adjust to the white lights of aisle 15.

All night grocery stores stock at around 12-2am. The few employees that stay around for the midnight shift, stand in blue parkas, zipped to the neck with their hoods up. They stand waiting in the middle of the night for massive trucks that bring heavy things to throw their backs out with. Faceless brown boxes that give vague instructions like the image of a penguin and an arrow pointing up. They slump around with little push carts, they stock hair dye, they sweep the aisles. Their little worlds, cooled by recycled air and dairy freezers, controlled by demanding old ladies pointing shaking fingers at high shelfed items and college students trying to crack the plastic security tips off bottles of Jack Daniels with Honda Fit keys. Their life soundtrack, “Hits of the 80’s” playing quietly all night long over the ceiling speakers. A midnight grocery store symphony.

From the push cart in the back room, I’m watching Erin put stickers on peaches. The heels of her boots raising and touching the tiled floor. She hums to Queen’s “Don’t Stop me Now” static tune from the swiss cheese ceiling speakers.

Rick nudges my push cart. “Come on Fisk, we’ve still got three flats of cum to go through before 2.”

I check expiration dates, stock the high shelves and clean up any break, spill, or otherwise dropped product in the store. On my paycheck it says my job title is “Dairy Clerk” but amongst the employees, Jessica tells me, it’s “Cum Monkey”. “Cum” because half the milk I check the expiration dates on has already congealed, “Monkey” because I climb the shelves to stock them.

“Also Sara called the store phone asking for you, your cell dead or something?”

I must have left it at my apartment. Damn. “I’ll tell her not to call here, sorry man.”

“That phone is for work emergencies only.” Says Rick who lost three of his fingertips to a meat slicer. Not being able to find them, he bagged the half pound of hickory smoked ham.

“Yeah, she’s just lonely.”

“How’s she like her school in, where was it?”

“England. She doesn’t really like it. It’s hard to make British friends.”

“So I’ve heard. Arrogant fuckers.” Rick scratches his bald spot. “Go take care of those crates, yeah?”

I cut open the crate with my safety box cutter, the rubber handle rubbing a blister into the web of my thumb and forefinger. I picture Sara throwing herself around her dorm room 5456 miles away. I should have brought my phone to work. The triangle blade follows a dotted line. I pull out gallons by the arm full, placing them on my cart. This is the first time I’ve left my phone since she’s been away.

You wouldn’t believe how little the expiration date on your milk carton means. “Fresh” organic milk with the smiling cow and rising sun, believe it or not, is not straight from the cow’s tit when you buy it. No, it’s not warm because we just shipped it here from the farm. It’s warm because Jessica left the dairy freezer door open so she could hear Rick’s radio from inside while she had a smoke break.

Tonight a portly man sporting a full chest-beard greets me with a smile. “Mind if I take one of those off your hands?”

“Not at all.”

He takes a 2% from under my arm. “Ooh, look at that, warm and fresh like the days of the milk man. I bet that was before your time though.”

I smile. “Excuse me, I need to get in here.”

He moves and I start stocking.

“I’m lactose intolerant so I’ve got to take these little Lactaid pills.” I hear him fiddling with something plastic in his plaid pocket. “These little bastards.”

I look back and give him a nod, “yeah, I hate taking pills.”

“It’s not as bad as the drops. My wife used to have me on these Lactase enzyme drops.”

Lactase enzyme drops, 15.5ml. Over-the-counter drops you can pick up for around $20.00. When your girlfriend has you pick them up from work every Friday, you get used to the price. It doesn’t seem so bad. $20.00 a week to avoid the hours of bloating, self-pity, gas, anger, cramps, and diarrhea. It doesn’t seem so bad after you drink gallon after gallon of whole milk with enzyme drops shaken into them. You get used to it. You even start to like that it tastes nothing like milk.

“They always made me gassy.” The portly beard-man tells me. “I couldn’t keep any milk products down. What’s good about life if you can’t have a strawberry quick milkshake now and again?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“I was a dentist for thirty-one years so I know that sugar stuff is bad for you. I guess my body doesn’t like any of it, haha, but I’m a stubborn old bastard.”

Two crates more to go. Who let this old man out of his house? Customers like this are the talkers that have nothing better to do but audibly rape any willing or unwilling listener. The safety box cutter sounds like a good way out to this conversation.

“I’ve got a bunch more milk to stock tonight, sir, it was nice talking to you.”

He shakes me hand with a limp greasy bear paw. “I don’t mind keeping you company, go get those milks and we’ll do it together.”

“That’s so nice of you. But really…”

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

I know you won’t.

Erin grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the back yelling over her shoulder, “the store is on fire, everyone for themselves!”

Sitting cross-legged on the bench, Erin massages her feet. “These boots are so uncomfortable. Bad choice on my part.”

“I told you that, retard.”

“Shut up, you owe me. Rub my feet.”

The expiration date is an expression, like an anecdote that makes you feel better about yourself. It’s been sitting in that carton, somewhere for longer than you’d like to know. And between that somewhere and to your fridge it’s about as fresh as the powdered milk in your pantry, you know, that box that’s still waiting for the Apocalypse? About as fresh as Lactaid enzyme milk.

Erin smells like collard greens and sweat. The collard stickers line up her arm to her white sleeves. The cycled wash sprays on the vegetables left a layer of mist on her pale arms. Her feet are soft and she closes her dark eyes as I massage them. She looks at me with green eyes, crosseyed like all girls with heavy eye liner. “Have you eaten yet?”

We all have expiration dates. From ages 0-10 years old we’re milked, 11-20 we’re shipped, 21-40 we’re on the shelf, we rot, we die. We keep telling ourselves that we’re fresh. 40 is the new 20 is the new teen.

“No, I’m still trying to do that diet.”

“What, the don’t eat anything diet? You don’t need to lose weight you’re just self-conscious.”

“Yeah?”

She touches my rib, and feels down to my stomach. “No, you’re a fat ass. You just want to be anorexic for Sara.”

“I don’t think she’d give a shit.”

Erin pulls her foot away and walks to her locker. “I’m probably gonna get breakfast with Allan and Derrel at Denny’s. We’re going dressed up if you wanna come along.”

“I don’t have a costume. Derrel’s going?”

“Yeah, I convinced him to go as Rocky from Rocky Horror. How awesome is that?”

As awesome as seeing Derrel’s junk through gold hot pants. “Ha.”

“Well, let me know if you want to come. I’ve got to get back out there. I’m sure your friend is gone from the dairy aisle so you can work without getting audibly raped.”

She smiles at me, slipping on her back-up shoes.
It’s 1:30 and the dairy aisle compliments the off-white floors. The wine section is roped off because of a Burgundy disaster area. Knocked off the Burgundy display stand. Just inches from the boxed wine, Rick keeps telling the empty store, just inches.

I drag the heavy metal sign outside and lock the sliding glass door. “Please use the other door, thank you!” I roll quarters and put them in the safe, trying hard to remember Rick’s code. 0-0-0-0. In the back room, I sit against the wall, rolling dimes into a green sleeve. Sonny and Cher echo through the store. I’m sure by now my phone has vibrated off of my desk onto the office style Beaulieu junior executive apartment suite floor. Apartment 302b, paid for by custom made checks, little green hearts surrounding a sepia couple. A thin girl with black hair, her smile awkward because of no natural smile lines. A guy holding her from behind, chubby to say the least. Husky maybe. It was her idea, the checks. The study abroad. My diet.

The break room phone rings. I stare at the yellowed received, watching the red light blink. She is so inconsiderate. She’s been calling all night and she won’t stop. The ringing stops and the red light pauses, then flashes again.

It’s 3:42; Erin and I sit on the loading dock drinking from a cracked Burgundy bottle we can’t sell anymore. It’s a 2003 Jaques Lassaigne, on sale for $59.99. Erin is wearing her Derby hat with white jeans and long-sleeve collared shirt. She swings the cane back and forth between her hanging legs. I sip the Burgundy out of my Dixie cup and feel my face go red. “So how was your night?”

“I nearly stomped a baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Around 2 a mother came in with her baby, when she left there was a used diaper in the cabbages. Under the diaper was a five. She tipped me.”

“How thoughtful of her.”

“Only three weeks left, so I’m not gonna kill everyone here, yet.”

“I might beat you to it.”

“If you do go postal, just don’t kill me. Make me your partner in crime.”

I finish the cup and set it down. “Sara called all night. I must have left my phone at home.”

“Aren’t you a good boyfriend?”

“I shouldn’t have left my phone, it’s just so hard to talk to her. She’s going through some stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it, she’s a tough girl. She’ll manage on her own over there.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

She drops her cane. “Shit.”

Jumping down to get it, headlights light up the parking lot. Erin runs over to the 1988 LeBaron. Her and Darrel talk through the passenger window. I pour myself another Dixie cup.

“Fisk, Rocky is kidnapping me, wanna come to Denny’s?”

“Nah, I don’t have a costume.”

“Aww, come on emo kid, it will cheer you up!”

“I’m good.”

She gives me a little smile and gets in the car. The off-brown jalopy mumbles into the distance.

It’s 5:05 and I’m standing in the order pick-up line of our store’s Starbucks.

“Dairy clerk, clean up on aisle 14.”
I take my fattening frappuccino and make my way back to the impending mess that some asshole has left for me.
Sure enough it’s a large woman in an electric wheelchair. Her grabber still in the air, frozen in time at the exact moment the Ragu dropped. Her eyes are locked in that of disbelief and awe by what just happened. She sees me and her look switches to anger. “You stock boys shouldn’t put the sauce so close to the edge. It could have killed me!”
I awkwardly smile and do my job, sweeping the broken glass into the dustpan. I don’t think she should be afraid of sauce killing her, I think she should be afraid of diabetes.
“It’s carelessness! A complete lack of care for the customers!” She rambles on. “It’s the apathy in your generation. I swear, my kids are just like you…”
I bite my tongue and nod along. If she only knew how much I cared. As I scrape up the rest of the sauce revealing the off-white checkered tiles I wonder what her shelf life is.

© 2007-2009, Nick Rester All rights reserved.