Chapter Two
On the morning of my first day as a stock boy at The Little Red Hen, I ate a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and read a newspaper because that seemed like the right thing to do before going to work - per the Dick Van Dyke Show. After learning all about what country was at war with whatever other country and what city had been devestated by whatever natural occurrance, I headed across the street to the cafe, carrying my stock boy apron, and stepped up to the counter.
The waitress glanced at my apron. "Well good morning stock boy," she greeted me, "The usual to go?" she was already pulling the paper cup out of the sleeve.
"Yes please, Waitress," I said. I said it both to continue the joke and also because I still hadn't asked her name. I contemplated asking it now, but it seemed bad form, so I kept my mouth shut and watched her put the sugar, cream, and nutmeeg into the cup, followed by the jetstream of coffee.
"Good luck," she said with a smile, handing me the coffee.
My apron hung funny, but that was okay. I didn't actually need the apron. The first day as a stock boy was apparently customarily spent watching a series of twenty-minute videos about being a stock boy in the Little Red Hen's employee break room. Occassionally other workers would come in and make some remarks about the video while eating or taking sips off pop from the vending machine. I watched the video and imagined that my Before Self was one of the fruitloops going on and on about the great employers that Little Red Hen were and how great their 401k package was for employees that stayed longer than five years.
Even Mr. Wilder's eyes had begun to get glazed over from the positivity exuding from the fake employees (who were all labeled under their names in Helvetica font as Actual LRH Employee, even though there were credits after each video saying they were actor portrayed).
"Just think," commented a deli lady who was in her mid-range fifties, "Stay at the Hen for the rest of your life, and maybe you'll even get an insurance plan."
The manager, Mr. Wilder, looked over his shoulder at her. "The Little Red Hen would go bankrupt in a year trying to cover you, Marty," he said to her.
She grinned and held up her fingers, which were covered in bandages.
"What happened?" I asked. On the TV, some pimple-faced kid was talking about the wonders that was the lessons he learned at the cash register.
"Today? Broccoli salad. But I think this one over here was from egg salad yesterday." She pointed at a bandaid that looked slightly more worn than the others.
"I don't recall an injury report for egg salad crossing my desk yesterday," Mr. Wilder mused.
"If I reported every cut I sustained making the salads, you'd never stop reading them, Oz," Marty replied.
Oz, I'd learned, was Mr. Wilder's first name. It was short for Oscar. Yes, he was named Oscar Wilder. Yes, he was named after Oscar Wilder. He went by Oz, though. Like Dorothy's hang out. Anyways, Oz looked satisfied with the explanation about the missing injury report, and he turned back to Peter, the pimpley kid who loved his job.
Marty stood up, her break evidently over, and smiled down at me. "Well, I better get back to earning my awesome 401K." WIth that, she left the break room.
"Marty's the biggest klutz I've ever known," Mr. Wilder commented as the door slammed shut behind her. He glanced over at me, "But her Broccoli Salad is to die for."
Mr. Wilder was understanding, considering I basically told him that I didn't know anything about myself. He patted my shoulder and said, "That's tough, kid, that's tough," when I told him about how I'd spent two years in the Center and now was out on my own for the first time. Now, leading me around through the store, showing me where all the departments was, he said, "So you probably don't want people knowing about the Center, huh?"
"Not really," I answered. "People tend to ask a ton of questions and honestly I don't have any answers and I always feel like a stooge not telling them. Like I'm hiding something. But I'm not, I just don't have anything to tell."
Mr. Wilder nodded. "Sorry if I asked too many questions."
"You didn't," I assured him.
He handed me a piece of paper, "He's a map of the store," he said, effectively changing the subject. The fact that he'd brought it up at all told me that he'd never tell. Wild horses would have to drag it out of him, basically was what the subject change was saying. "And if anyone asks you where something is, there's an alphabetical directory on the back with aisle numbers."
I looked on the back.
"Excuse me," Mr. Wilder said in a mock-old-lady voice, "Where would I find the dill pickles?"
I looked up at him. "Aisle three, ma'm."
"Oh ma'm... very good." Mr. Wilder smiled. "You'll do well here."
"Sir?" I asked as Mr. Wilder led us back toward the break room.
He stopped and turned and looked at me. "Yes?"
"Thank you for giving me the job," I replied.
He smiled.
I stocked exactly three cans of peas that day. Mr. Wilder had shown me what facing was and given me the cans. It seemed easy enough. I was undoing my apron in the breakroom and getting ready to go home when Marty came in the door. She sat down in her chair and looked at me as I stowed the apron away in the locker.
"You're a funny kid," she said. "How old are you?"
I closed the locker door. "Thirty." I didn't know. Thirty sounded good.
"You could be my son," she muttered, and turned away.
My heart pounded. Anytime someone made remarks like they might know me my heart pounded. Even when they were careless, half-remarks like this one. "How old is your son?" I asked.
"I don't have one," she replied, standing up. She pulled a first aid kit from the shelf and sat back down again and started changing out the bandaids on her fingers. She appied neosporin carefully.
"Oh," I said. I hesitated, feeling awkward. I reached for the time clock and punched out, like Mr. Wilder had told me to do. Marty looked up from her bandaids. "Bye," I offered.
"Bye Kid," she answered, turning away.
Before leaving The Little Red Hen, I figured I'd buy some food for myself that night since I didn't have anything at home. I got some asparagus, because I was mildly sure that I like asparagus. I was walking through the store to the check out line with my steak and asparagus when I saw her.
She was arguing with a nine-ish year old boy with a shock of blonde hair, standing in front of the Cheez Its. She reached up and pushed a few strands of her own blonde hair out of her face, turned, and our eyes met. I looked away. But not before her eyes had met mine and some kind of flash, like lightening or a headache, had seemed to stab me in the brain. It was weird.
I almost walked into a guy as I turned, trying to escape. "Hey watch it," he said, ducking just in time.
"Sorry," I muttered. I glanced back over and she was still staring at me, a curiously amused expression on her face. She handed the kid the Cheez Its and he pumped his fist in triumph. I bolted away to the check out, my mind reeling, wondering if I'd just had a stroke or something and not wanting to end up on the floor like a drooling, quivering pool of nerves in front of the woman... whoever the hell she was.
After Self by Pengi
