Free Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett Page A

religion here.”
    “I didn’t think it relevant.”
    “It is to the store manager. Print off a new copy that includes it, and give it to Frank yourself. His office is upstairs. Don’t tell him we spoke. Can you give a good interview?”
    “Anyone with more than two brain cells can give a good interview.”
    “Very true. Be sure to bring up religion a lot.”
    “I will.”
    “Welcome to Spend Easy, then. Let’s go smoke that joint.”
    My shift ends not long after that.
    Ernie’s standing next to the desk when I punch out. “Sheldon,” he says as the punch clock ejects my card. “Can you come here for a second?”
    I walk over.
    “I bought you something. I couldn’t help but notice you were drinking coffee from a disposable cup, the other day.” He reaches under the desk and takes out a white reusable mug. “It’s made from porcelain, just like mine. I think you should use it.” He holds it out to me, smiling.
    I take the mug, walk across the warehouse, and open the trash compactor door. I throw it as hard as I can. It shatters against the back wall, and the pieces land among the rest of the garbage waiting to be compressed and sent down the dumpster chute.
    I turn back to Ernie. “Thanks.”
    I walk out of the warehouse.

 
    Chapter Six
    Rodney, a heavyset guy who scowled constantly, made up for how quiet most of the psych ward patients were. Once, as I was leaving the TV room, I heard a loud noise to my right. I looked and saw Rodney stomping around the corner, eyes bloodshot. “Hey. Sheldon, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you smoke?”
    “No.”
    “Come into the smoking room with me.”
    “Okay.”
    Once inside, we each took one of the plastic chairs that ringed an ashtray on a pedestal. He lit a cigarette, which looked tiny against the thick black beard that covered his face. He told me that in a couple months, there wouldn’t be a smoking room in the psychiatric ward anymore. They were closing it down. “Big mistake, that is,” he said. “Big mistake.” He showed me his fist.  The first three knuckles were bloody and torn. “See this?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was on the phone with my girlfriend. She pissed me off. I punch things when I’m pissed off.”
    “Really?”
    “Go to the kitchen and get me some orange juice.”
    For a few seconds, I just looked at him. He didn’t break eye contact.
    “No,” I say.
    He held up his bloody fist. “See this?”
    “Yes.”
    “Go get me some orange juice.”
    “No.”
    “Do you see the blood?”
    “Get it yourself.”
    He stood up and pointed at me. “I know where you sleep.” He threw the half-smoked cigarette at the ashtray, missed, and left the room. I picked it up and put it in the tray. Then I stood and followed Rodney out. He stomped off toward the rooms. I started walking toward mine.
    A nurse intercepted me before I could go in. “Is anything wrong?”
    “No.”
    “Did Rodney say anything to you?”
    “He said things.”
    “Do you feel safe, Sheldon?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be at the Nurses Station.”
    “Thank you.”
    I didn’t know whether Rodney was a threat—and to be honest, I didn’t care.
    A couple weeks later, not long before I got out, I was sitting on a cushioned bench near the Nurses Station and watching a few of the patients walk laps around the ward. The Professor was one of them—he walked with his hands folded behind his back, gazing at the floor tiles, muttering. He rarely ever stopped pacing, actually.
    I glanced down the hall and saw Rodney, wearing a white and blue checkered dress shirt with black jeans. His hair was gelled, his beard trimmed, and he was smiling. When he reached me, his eyes were clear. He put out his hand.
    I shook it.
    “I’m out of here today,” he said. “My girlfriend’s picking me up, we’re going out to dinner, and then I’m going home to sleep in my own bed. Sleep for a week, if I can get away with it.”
    “That’s—that’s great.