Supermarket(2)

In a series of fortunate events, I had come across some money. I was about to be fresh out my mother’s house for the first time in my life. My mom never had money, so this was a welcome windfall, however small. It was a nice little amount, enough to help me get my own apartment, but not enough to last me long.

That’s why I was on my way to apply for a job at the supermarket. I needed a gig. Something. Anything. And Baker City wasn’t exactly the land of opportunity. Twenty-four years old and bagging groceries isn’t the most ideal situation, but it was real life, and that’s what I was looking for at that point . . . real life.

It was a beautiful day in April—the time was 12:36 p.m. exactly. I know because I wrote it down in my Moleskine notebook. That thing was beat to hell, but it had become my best friend. Everywhere I went, the Moleskine came with. It had real character. It had lived a life. Black, pocket-size, roughed-up edges, dog-eared pages, with scraps of paper and photos stuffed inside. I wrote everything down in that notebook, recording my thoughts and the world around me. The fir trees swayed that day as the wind caressed each branch, molding their bodies in movement.

I’ll never forget crossing the road in front of the grocery store. I saw this guy in black Nike Air Maxes, blue Levi’s, and a white T-shirt. He seemed to be forcibly talking at people who walked by. And not in a welcoming way. As I got closer, I realized he was kind of weird looking. A little twisted, contorted. Like he was out of an Egon Schiele drawing. Midtwenties. On the tall side, maybe 6'1", slim. He had a long, bent nose, dark eyes, expressive eyebrows, and wrinkles in his forehead like Hugh Laurie. You know, that guy who plays House. I don’t mean like a grown man sitting in front of a plastic tea set talking to a lifeless teddy bear—pretending to be a husband, droning on to his wife about the report his boss demanded be on his desk by Monday, even though when his boss first mentioned it the deadline was Tuesday, and now he would have to work through the weekend. I mean the actor who plays a doctor named House on a television show.

No? You don’t know what I’m talking about? I can’t tell if you don’t know what I’m talking about or if you’re just taken aback by my breaking the fourth wall on this page you’re reading. Well damn, hold on a second, maybe I shouldn’t bring up the fact that you’re reading a book. If you realize what you’re literally doing this moment, you won’t actually be living in the world I’m painting for you. It’s kind of like when you catch yourself blinking while reading and then start to focus on your blinking rather than the words your brain is trying to process, you know?

Oh shit, I’ve distracted myself . . . wait, what was I talking about? And why the hell am I writing my internal thoughts on this page? Doesn’t matter, this won’t make the final version of the book anyway. But what the hell was I talking about? Shit . . .

Oh yeah, sorry—the weirdo in front of the supermarket.

As I got closer and closer I tried to avoid him, but he spotted me immediately—kind of like when you catch your own reflection in the tinted windows of the automatic sliding doors. He was definitely a reflection. He seemed to mirror my movements a bit creepily. With every step I took, he took one too, until we met.

“Spare a dollar?” he said.

“Sorry man, I don’t have it on me,” I said, patting my chest and pockets.

“Help a brother out!” he said, extending his hand.

What the hell, I thought. They need to get rid of the beggars and loiterers. I walked past him, bringing my hands to my backpack straps as I entered the store.

I absolutely loved my backpack; it came everywhere with me and became my trademark. It was a gray Herschel pack with a brown leather bottom. It was covered in pins—Rick and Morty, Mac DeMarco, Atari, Pac-Man. An old key chain I’d had since I was a kid dangled from the outside zipper. One of those ones with your name on it that you buy at a gas station. I know, I’m a little old for all that, but my grandma got it for me and it’s become my good-luck charm.

Inside this place looked like your typical grocery store. Tiled floors, jammed-up carts, aisles and aisles of neatly stacked food, buzzing fluorescent lights. It was a little run-down, but clean enough for the families in town. I immediately noticed the volume of beautiful girls who worked at this place. Damn! Definitely college girls trying to make an extra buck during the semester, I thought. Walking through the front checkout area, I made my way to the customer service desk, where I asked a middle-aged black woman for an application. Her name tag said Ronda. She was kind of like the slightly overweight black woman in every movie. Sassy attitude, lowered eyelids, and judgmental aura. But basing a first impression on her physical appearance really wasn’t a fair thing to do. I mean, how can you judge someone simply by—

“You applying for a job dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt, child?”

When she said this, I was actually glad my gut was right, and I wasn’t some prejudiced asshole. Not completely, anyway.

“Well, Ronda, I only came in like this to fill out the application. I didn’t plan on sitting down for an interview the same day.”

She stared at me and let out a single chuckle—one of those I’m annoyed but this is my job chuckles—and said, “You know how often I hear that, baby? How many times I’ve had this conversation? Those pretty brown eyes of yours aren’t going to take you that far.”

Wow, I could only imagine how many idiots came in just like me, dressed like they didn’t care, to apply for a job they didn’t give two shits about. But I needed this job. If I didn’t get this job that would be it—my ex would be right, just as she’d always been. I was destined to be a loser who couldn’t finish anything.