Supermarket(6)

So to that smart-ass with the question, I would say yes.

“Yes, you can completely become an astronaut!” I’d say. By then I know they really mean a space traveler. “I said persistence, determination, and realism earlier in my speech,” I’d explain. “If you look at your dream realistically, then becoming an astronaut is merely a million-dollar Space X ticket—if you live long enough to see it. So all you really need to do is come up with the money to purchase such a golden ticket.”

This is where they would roll their eyes and lose interest.

“My point is that you asked how and I am giving you the examples, the possibilities, because when I want something, truly want something that my life depends on—which is purpose and happiness—I will stop at nothing to attain it. It’s like breathing. So you must ask yourself: What is your air? What is the thing you literally will fight for to survive?”

I would hear “Wait a second . . . I was asking you what aisle the cereal was on, so, uh, how did we get here?”

Then they would walk away and I’d be reminded that all the shit I just philosophized goes down the drain when I’m surrounded by the reality of working in this goddamn supermarket. Wait, why was I talking about all that in the first place?

Oh, yes! That’s right. I was outside the supermarket, looking at Ted, thinking about my hatred for his smile. Then, the next thing I knew . . .

I was back. Standing here, stocking a shelf with boxes of pasta. Penne, ziti, spaghetti. Pasta for days.

A staticky voice sounded overhead, “Floater to break room, flooaatteerrrrr to the break room, please.” The voice reminded me of the show M*A*S*H, about surgeons during the Korean War. There was always someone speaking over the intercom.

I was a floater. As a floater, I didn’t exactly have a job, but I didn’t exactly not have one. I was the guy they told what to do and when to do it. Honestly, I didn’t mind. It gave me more ground to cover and kept things varied and interesting. One minute I’d be mopping up spilled cranberry juice, the other I’d be facing cans, the other I’d be walking old ladies’ groceries to their cars.

On my way to the break room a woman from the store’s pharmacy stopped me.

“Well hello there, Flynn.”

“Um, hey?”

“I’m Ann, silly. Don’t forget to take your vitamins,” she said, handing me three different types of supplements. “It’s important for your internal balance,” she continued. I pretended to take them, so as to not offend her. Into my right jacket pocket they went. I always rocked my brown suede bomber jacket; it was one of my prized possessions.

“Alrighty then, sweetheart!” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

And she was off.

“Bye,” I said, waving. This was an odd encounter, but I realized she was just a lady who was looking out for me, I guess. Maybe I reminded her of her son, or the son she never had. I never asked.

Ann was in her late sixties. Not fat but not skinny. Short, white curly hair, with a nurturing maternal vibe about her. That’s why I didn’t mind her giving me the vitamins, even if I wasn’t gonna take ’em.

Truth is, I hated pills. Always had. Just trying to swallow them would make me throw up.

I finally made it to the break room. Inside two girls sat across from each other drinking coffee—one wore a name tag that said Rebecca, but the other girl called her Becca. Her counterpart’s name tag said Rachel.

I got out my Moleskine and took notes. When I looked back up, they were staring at me blankly as I stood motionless in the doorway.

“New guy’s a weirdo, huh?” Rachel said out loud, not holding back her rudeness. Staring directly at me, saying it like one of those college girls: I’m hot and cool and don’t give a fuck but was probably molested at some point in my teenage years so I’m always in defense mode and attack others before they can attack me first. That kinda chick, you know the type. She looked oddly like Kat Dennings with her pale skin, big lips, bright red lipstick, bulging eyes, and dark brown hair that flowed over her shoulders onto her chest—she had a bit of a 1970s feel.

Becca, on the other hand, seemed sweeter, a bit reserved and shy. She had an Emma Watson vibe going on, minus the hot accent.

“Are you lost, new guy?” Rachel said. It reminded me of my first day in junior high. All the big kids already perfectly knowing the school layout, making fun of me while I’m reading off a sheet of paper, looking for classroom A23 and hoping I won’t be late for English.

“They said they needed a floater to the break room?” I said, looking away from Rachel. She didn’t break eye contact, like a witch casting a spell. Quite honestly, it made me a little uncomfortable. But maybe I liked it. I couldn’t tell.

“Must be in your head,” she said, the girls snickering like they were at a grade school lunch table.

A shadowy figure entered the room behind me. It was Frank. “?’Sup, Flynn,” he said in a whisper.

“Hey . . . how do you know my name?” I said.

“I don’t know your name, new guy,” Rachel said in a smart-aleck tone. She and Becca stood up and started to leave. On her way out, Rachel stopped and flicked my name tag with her acrylic nail. “See ya later, Flynn,” she said, her tongue pressed against her cheek in a flirtatious manner.

The two left the room.