Free Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett

“You’re a fool. You assume your corporate masters are the ones you should be pleasing, when really you should be on your knees, praying for—”
    Casey grabs Tommy by the front of his shirt, pulls him to a standing position, and slams him against a pallet of product nearby. “You work in a Grocery store. You tried to quit, but your Mommy wouldn’t let you. Remember?” He lets go. “Get to fucking work.”
    Tommy quickly exits the warehouse.
    Casey walks to Ralph’s desk, picks up a large coffee, and sips from it noisily. He puts it down and faces me. “I need you on the order.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Gilbert’s nowhere to be found, as usual. If it’s just me and Tommy, we won’t come close to getting it put out.”
    “There is one minor detail.”
    “What?”
    “I haven’t worked here three months—I’m not supposed to work orders yet. Oh, and I don’t have a box cutter.”
    “I don’t care when you were hired. There’s an extra box cutter in the desk. Put it back at the end of the night.”
    He begins sorting through the order, pulling out products that go in Aisles Two, Three, and Four. Soon, he’s stacked my cart as precariously as he stacks his own, with at least 20 cases piled on.
    The store intercom beeps, and Gilbert’s voice comes out. “Attention shoppers. You are all mindless drones—victims of instant gratification. You buy your groceries, you slither back to houses you can’t afford, and you stuff your wobbling maws. The thrill of the hunt has been robbed from you. You disgust me. Have a nice day.”
    Casey and I look at each other. “Just go,” he says.
    I push the cart out onto the sales floor. God, it’s heavy.
     
    *
     
    I’m tired of eating crackers and salads and carrot sticks on every break, so Sam takes it upon himself to tutor me in the art of cooking delicious vegetarian meals.
    “Remember my lasagna?”
    “Yeah,” I say. “It was legendary.”
    “You can be legendary, too. You can make big batches of lasagna, or spaghetti, or whatever, and freeze it in portions. Then you can take it to work and heat it up in the microwave. You’ll never eat carrot sticks again.”
    He gives me a stuffed green pepper wrapped in tin foil to eat on tonight’s shift. There’s a mini fridge in the break room, and when I arrive I stick it there for safekeeping.
    Later, as I’m fronting syrups in Aisle Four, some guy walks up and says, “Have you heard the Good News?”
    “Toilet paper’s on for half price?” I say.
    “Not that. I’m talking about God, and his son, Jesus. He died on the cross, so that no man need go to hell.”
    “What about women?”
    “Them neither.”
    Behind him, Gilbert is walking toward us, eating a bag of Cheezies.
    “Is he applying for a job, Sheldon?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “He’s holding a résumé in his hand.”
    I look down. It’s true. The guy is holding some stapled-together papers that very much resemble a résumé.
    He faces Gilbert and holds out the hand that isn’t holding papers. “My name’s Donovan. I’d like a job in Grocery.”
    Gilbert pops a Cheezie into his mouth. “Frank doesn’t accept applications for specific departments. You have to apply and hope for the best.”
    Donovan’s hand drops to his side. “I’m applying for a Grocery position. I’ve prayed about it—that’s where I’m needed.”
    “You take orders from God? Heavy.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Does he have email now, or is he still rocking the whole angelic messenger thing?”
    “The Lord’s servants are no strangers to mockery. I don’t need you to take me seriously. I just need you to give this to your manager.” He hands his résumé to Gilbert. “God bless.”
    He walks toward the front of the store. Then he stops. “I’m about to smoke a joint in the parking lot. Would either of you care to join me?”
    Gilbert, who was in the process of crumpling Donovan’s résumé, straightens it out again and studies it. “You don’t mention your