Free The Cure by Athol Dickson

“Do I know you?”
    “Don’t think so.” The man reached out and laid a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “My name’s Henry Reardon. What’s yours?”
    The light touch of the man’s hand and the fact that someone wanted to know his name affected Riley all out of proportion to the situation. To his complete amazement, he began to cry.
    “Hey,” said the man, giving his shoulder a little pat. “Hey now.”
    Riley kept his eyes down, wiping them with a filthy palm. “I’m sorry.”
    “No need. No need. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it lately, I’m guessin’.”
    Riley nodded, regaining some control. “Ayuh.”
    “So . . . what is your name?”
    “I, uh . . .” Riley’s natural suspicion kicked in. He knew this man from somewhere, and didn’t want to give him an advantage until he knew where from, exactly. Looking away he said, “Stanley Livingston.”
    “Nice to meet ya, Stanley. So, how’s about it? You wanna job?”
    “Ayuh.”
    “Good. Real good. So, hey . . . let’s get to work.”
    Inside the little drug store Henry said, “No offense, but we gotta get you lookin’ a little more presentable, okay?” He gave Riley a small blue plastic basket and led him up and down the aisles, dropping items in. A toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, deodorant, and a pack of elastic ponytail holders. In the restroom, Riley stripped to the waist and washed his hands and face and armpits at the antique porcelain sink. Using tap water and his new comb he tidied up his long hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. He ignored his beard, which hung nearly to his chest and was beyond any form of grooming. Riley was careful not to look into the mirror. Dressed again, he emerged into the stockroom with his coat draped over his arm. Henry grinned when he saw him. “All right,” he said. “Now you look like an old hippie, which is good ‘cause so do half my customers.”
    Riley allowed himself to smile, exposing the black empty spaces in his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”
    Henry looked around the stockroom. “Well, let’s start by makin’ some sense a things back here. Needs a good sweepin’, then all that stock in the boxes back by the door needs to be carried up front, unpacked an’ merchandised.”
    “Merchandised?”
    “Fancy retail talk for ‘put it on the shelf.’ Just look for wherever we stocked it before an’ put it there, with the front label facin’ out.”
    “Okay,” said Riley doubtfully.
    “Hey, Stanley, don’t worry ‘bout it. You’ll be fine.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    Henry cocked his head. “You really don’t remember me from yesterday?”
    “I . . . I’m sorry.”
    Henry laughed. “No problem. It’ll come to ya.”
    Within the hour Riley had the stockroom floor swept and the restroom scrubbed clean. Without being asked he decided to tidy up the small break area, scrubbing the microwave inside and out and organizing the disposable knives and forks and paper plates. He noticed one of the break area chairs had a wobbly leg, so he found a screwdriver and fixed it. He got out a stepladder and changed a light bulb. When there was nothing left to do in the stockroom area he went out through the rear receiving door, hoping for some kind of work back in the alley. To his surprise, he was standing exactly where he had met the day. At his feet was the shattered Scotch bottle, and to his right the dark green garbage bin. He went back inside for the broom, returned and swept the shattered glass into a pile, then picked it up and threw it in the garbage bin. He looked around the alley for more work to do, and decided the whole thing needed sweeping. It was maybe an hour later when Henry came outside. “Hey, Stanley,” he said, dressed now in a pharmacist’s white lab coat. “What’s up?”
    “Just cleaning here.” Riley swept the bricks furiously.
    “The alley?”
    “Ayuh.”
    “Uh, think you’ve about got it whipped?”
    Riley looked around. He had indeed swept the