Abducted Chapter Eight: Manager
From the novel I'm working on while I'm in school to keep working on my writing skills. This comes to you as an unedited first rough draft. Have fun finding the plot holes and dropped plot lines!
Chapter Eight: Tabitha the Walmart Manager
Alishia calls my name and I say there’s no way I’ll be store manager. Not ever. Even with all the resources in the world I stick to my guns.
Over the crowd I shout, “just shove the job up your ass, bitch.”
All this elicits from Alishia is a smile and a nod and the voting commences as if I hadn’t said anything. Then out comes the jar on the electronics counter. Little strips of paper to write the name of the employee they’d like to be manager.
I take a strip and write Nathan and leave to get my sandwich. On the way I call Harvey.
He answers, “yes?”
I say, “what the fuck happened?”
Ruzan hands over my sandwich and waves away my money. I stuff $100 into her tip jar without a care that she saw and walk away to sit in one of the booths. She looks at me cross-eyed but not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, she stuffs the bill into her apron.
Harvey says, “your diligent efforts to ruin me have paid off, darling. The company believes I’ve overstepped my boundaries one time too many.” Picture him adjusting an invisible tie as he says this. He says, “I’m out,” then, “now you can eat wherever you like, woman.”
I say, “I didn’t call anyone.”
He says, “no need for apologies, dear. Just face the consequences of your actions.”
I say, “I’m not apologizing, dickhead. Just telling you I had nothing to do with this,” then hang up.
Jeffrey texts: What’s in a name? lol.
Everything apparently. Gritting my teeth, I dial Golden Sunset Nursing and Rehab and the desk lady connects me with mom’s room. Little old rich-bitch doesn’t answer[ so I hang up.
There’s cheering from electronics. While there’re supposed to be 300 people employed at each Super Walmart, ours only has 150. My chances of becoming manager are still pretty low considering I’ve only made friends with 20 people. I eat my sandwich like a troll without looking up from my phone. On it is still Jeffrey’s LinkedIn Photo. Jeffrey with his charity work for the think tank that developed The Retreat.
Jeffrey Texts: I’m getting alerts on my LinkedIn. You spying on me? lol. Anything you want to know just ask me.
Just as I’m about to text back that the date is off, Yuri followed closely by Jo-jo rush in and sit opposite me in the booth gleaming like 6th graders about to announce a surprise pizza party. Shading my face I stare down my soggy sandwich like as if it’s the only pleasure I have left in life. I should just quit. Should just walk out and live like a hermit. Should text Jeffrey to tell him it’s all off. Should just leave mother to rot alone in that smelly nursing home. Should escape but she’d find me. She always finds me. So as a consequence it’s always been my dream to live like a normal person. Where I am is the closest I’ve gotten to it. Even with all my money. I can’t shovel it away fast enough to suffer for Bradford. Problem is even if you’re small, sometimes even when all odds are against you, you can still succeed. You can still win the lottery. You can still be the millionth customer.
Jo-jo says, “they want you to be manager.”
Yuri says, “it was a landslide,” he touches my arm, says, “149 to 1.”
One vote. My vote against myself. It seems each of these coupon clippers are still abuzz with the recent halfhearted attempt by HBO to end the Game of Thrones series without source material and with this they’ve decided the person who doesn’t want to be manager is the one who necessarily should be manager. Gods!
Behind the plexiglass sneeze guard Ruzan claps. She says, “now you can do some good.”
I’m already doing as much good as I can by piling my money on unsuspecting charities and coworkers. Still I haven’t looked up, taken a bite, or acknowledged my friends. For a long time their listless energy flows across the wood laminate table and puckers my skin. Sours me.
Yuri asks, “hey since you’re manager and all, can you put in a raise for me?”
Without looking up I can feel Jo-jo nodding furiously.
The sandwich tastes like cat food on cardboard. Still my friends patiently wait for their raises. Of course I’ll do it. No question. $100,000 a year for every employee. Why not? I’ll have topless greeters and Chippendales manning sporting goods, electronics, hunting, and car care. I’ll be the best goddamn boss that’s ever been.
Finally looking up, I nod and my friends high five. Then with newfound freedom Yuri takes the motorized cart, helps Jo-jo into the basket, starts it and peels out along the thoroughfare between food and children’s clothing. Wiping my fingers clean, I’m expecting a sting when the tuna juice touches the recently excavated wart on my finger. There’s none. The partially healed pock mark is gone and all that remains is the knotted flesh over my knuckle. Turning both my hands over I’m filled with the sort of fear like when you see a car accident for the first time.
You seein’ that shit?
The formerly scarred skin of my hands is clear as day like those people who model watches. Peeling down my sleeve I breathe away fear as the few dots that are supposed to be there are still there. Arms and elbows chipped like icing on a cake after the candles have been plucked. I look down my shirt and at my ankles. Same. That at least was good. Still the disturbing image of clear skin was enough to set me on edge. Maybe just a fluke of some hand crème or bath salt.
My ring doorbell informs me Amazon delivered Magnanimous’s book already by drone. The reverse doorbell shows me reparations I made to my garden. Roots tied to long stakes. Chicken wire buried a foot deep around the entire garden and over the top. Whatever animal was in there’ll have a hard time getting in again.
On a long route back to gardening, everyone gives me the same hopeful, apprehensive look, anticipating my internal goodness will bring about change in every department. The girls at the front end ask for more cashiers during busy times especially on Black Friday and of course a raise. Sure. Barton in customer service asks for a length of plexiglass to keep back the shouters, sneezes, and again, a raise. Yes. Clara in pharmacy wants a part-time tech, maybe a nurse to give shots, and a raise. Of course. Bob the receipt checker needs a new nametag and a raise. Apparently, his name isn’t Bob, it’s Michael and I’ve been calling him Bob for five years. Whatever you want Mike. Jaimie in theft prevention needs a fake mustache and a toupee to look inconspicuous and a raise. Yep. Lola and Carson in electronics want a photo tech ‘cause they’ve never been fully trained on the machine and you guessed it, a raise. I shrug and nod. Seems everyone from automotive to perfume and produce to paint haven’t gotten a raise since well before the pandemic. Right then I was The Santa Claus of the Super-Walmart tossing money and good cheer in every corner.
I’m the anti-Harvey and they love me.
It’s hard work doing good for everyone, so to treat myself. Rather than staying out my shift I clock out but not before going to gardening, and reversing Charity’s transaction, I pay her bill. No one to scold me or take revenge. I’m the boss now and I figure the best thing to do is let the people alone to make their own decisions. If anything, with the seven hours I have before my date I can tunnel into Magnanimous’s book, dig into the annals of this strange conspiracy against me, and confront a certain shriveled old lady about these events. Against us. Bradford and I.