Free Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett Page B

Good for you, Rodney.”
    “Hey, sorry if I said anything strange over the past few days. The meds really had me screwed up. I was jumping at shadows.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    “Few months ago, I fell off the roof of a house I was helping build. Landed right on a pile of bricks. My insides were pretty mashed—I’m lucky to be here. I had four operations, and I’ve been having trouble getting off the pain meds. They put me in here till my mood swings levelled out.”
    “What will you do now? Are you still going to work construction?”
    He nodded. “Getting right back on that horse.”
     
    *
     
    With just 91 days left before the human race is seared from the universe like a gnat caught in a wildfire, I go into Spend Easy to work my first eight-hour shift. Ralph is waiting in the warehouse when I enter, and the moment I punch in, he hands me a green box cutter in a leather holster. I clip it onto my belt, within easy reach of my right hand.
    “You’ve been here three months, now. Time to start working the order. Welcome to Grocery.”
    Our uniforms changed recently—no longer the yellow of sun shining down on sizzling steaks bought on special from your local Spend Easy. Now we’re wearing long-sleeved, collared shirts, the white of snow, with Spend Easy’s red and green logo scrawled in tiny script over our hearts. Now is the time for customers to stock up, solemn-faced, for winter, in case it doesn’t end.
    I’m not convinced giving us white uniforms was such a good idea. Mine is already the kind of dirty washing won’t get out.
    The order gets here before five. Ralph and I grab a pallet jack each and start hauling it off the truck—eight pallets in total. Afterward, he shows me a black binder with 40 or 50 spreadsheets inside. He marks my name on one of them, explaining that for each trip to the aisles, we’re supposed to record how many cases we bring out, and how long it takes to put up the whole cartload.
    Ralph helps me load my first cart with 14 cases, and then he punches out. I sneak a glance at Casey’s case count. His cartloads all number between 15 and 20. Glancing through his sheets, I estimate he averages around 48 cases an hour.
    “I reserve the right to continue calling you rookie,” Gilbert says when he sees me with a cart and a cutter.
    Casey’s working the order tonight, along with Gilbert, Brent, and me. It takes me a half hour to put out my 14 cases. Next trip, I try taking just nine. This way it’s easy to find only products that go in Aisles Two and Three—meaning less distance I have to travel. Plus, with less weight, I’m able to move faster.
    I can appreciate now why I was made to front for three months. I’ve learned where practically everything goes, so I’m able to stack the boxes on my cart according to where they’re shelved, for easy access. This cartload takes just 15 minutes.
    On my third trip, I try taking five cases. And it’s perfect. It takes me seven minutes to put them on the shelves.
    When I return to the warehouse, Gilbert’s lounging on the pallet we’re currently working. He watches me throw my empty boxes into the cardboard compactor, scribble down my case count, and grab five more cases from behind him.
    “Damn, rookie,” he says. “Are you breaking a sweat?”
    “Not yet. When I do, I’ll let you know what it feels like, okay?” I roll out onto the sales floor.
    Next time I go to the warehouse I’m alone, and I take a moment to scan Casey’s count. I’m catching up.
    Casey and I are bringing out most of the order. Brent’s count is abysmal. And on the single sheet marked “GILBERT RYAN,” nothing is written.
    When the order’s finished, Casey’s average is 50 cases an hour; mine is 46. I didn’t begin the night taking out five cases, though. If I’d been using my method from the start, I might have tied Casey. Maybe beaten him.
     
    *
     
    Other than choosing to cooperate, I didn’t have much input into the decision to try fixing