What does Marge, the regional manager, always say about coal under pressure? That it turns into diamonds? That the stresses of managing a store are supposed to turn regular employees into their very best? That doesn’t seem to apply to Anna. The pressure is turning her into something else, something pushy, something she once hated when she was a cashier herself.
Gotta meet the quota. Gotta smile more. Gotta get more subscriptions to the Cardwell Plus service. Gotta refer more people to the Cardwell.com app, thus effectively getting less foot traffic into the store - which she’ll ultimately get dinged for as well. Gotta keep the employees happy and focused on their work. Those are conflicting tasks even on a good day.
Something inside is going to snap. Anna feels like a stability ball filled with far too much air. A quick glance in a dressing room mirror confirms that she kind of looks like a stability ball herself. She hasn’t had the stamina to exercise in months. She barely has the stamina to assign shifts to her subordinates. All she has the strength to do is push, push, push. Her paycheck depends on it.
Anna practices breathing exercises as she fixes a rack of cardigans, for the third time this morning. No matter how much training he receives, Jason always fails to face the hanger hooks left.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Huff.
“Cardwell shoppers,” the jazz-like automated voice says after a stint of 80’s music. “Are you satisfied with your shopping experience? Be sure to leave a detailed review with the code on your receipt and you’ll be entered to win a foot massager!”
It’s been five years since Anna’s had a decent foot massage.
The sliding doors open and she hears the shuffling of shoes, the tapping of canes. Anna’s eyes narrow. Her jaw clenches. She turns to face five elderly adults ambling in; their lips curled, their eyes squinted.
Becca knows them also. Becca knows them well. She knows them better than her boss ever will, for she is paid to tolerate customers up close. She is paid to scan and smile. And according to Anna, she is also paid to hide her frequent migraines.
Eyes still on the front door, Becca checks her back pocket for painkillers. It’s not an ideal storage place but at least while in fabric, the pills don’t rattle.
Becca’s pocket is empty. Becca’s ever-ballooning anxieties are now full.
The time is 10am. Becca notes with mild admiration that the seniors have arrived right on the minute. She watches the group amble towards the menswear section of the store. Becca knows this means the group plans to shop for about forty minutes. Just enough time to beg a family member for pain relief.
Becca does her best to text discreetly but her efforts are for naught. According to her sister’s reply, she missed the window for salvation about six minutes ago.
She bites her lip. She presses a hand to her forehead. She decides to release her rage on Twitter. She writes, “Here come the Gnarly 5 to stoke my migraine. Headaches make me nauseous for some reason. It’s not fair I’m stuck behind this counter. Beachball Boss nowhere to be found.”
Becca is in the middle of proofreading her tweet when a dry and raspy voice knifes her attention. “No texting, young lady!”
WAP!
A cane smacks the counter. The cashier forces a smile through her pain. She locks her phone and clears her throat.
With eyes wide, she says, “Did you find every-”
“This price tag,” says one of the so-called Gnarly 5 while waving a pink cardigan in Becca’s face, “it can’t be correct.”
Becca yanks the garment from the customer’s liver-spotted hand and scans it.
“It’s correct,” she says, nostrils flaring.
“That’s ridiculous!” yells the man. “Is there a coupon for this or what?”
Becca huffs. “We don’t offer discounts on anything from the Charlotte Day line.”
“The who?”
“Just forget it. I can return it to the rack for you.”
The man snatches it back from Becca and glares.
“I’m thinking,” he snarls.
Becca notes the man’s gaunt features as he wrinkles his nose. He resembles a gargoyle in a fedora. He’ll serve as inspiration for the cashier’s next tweet.
A second man, smelling heavy of Aqua Velva and Bengay, leans on the counter.
“My buddy here’s always been a cheapskate,” says the man. “Not me, though. Ya like the cardigan? I’ll buy it for ya.”
Becca shakes her head. “I don’t think-”
“Hey!” shouts Fedora. “I’m gonna buy this for my wife!”
“Ya wife doesn’t talk to you anymore,” says Aqua Velva, winking at Becca. “Give me the sweater thing and let me make a friend here, aight?”
Due in part to previous interactions, Becca knows Fedora has little tolerance for calumniators.
Stanley also knows this. Stanley knows this well. He knows it better than Becca ever will, given all the time he’s spent riling his rail-thin shopping mate, Bones, for fun. And for attention, of course.
The cashier is a tough cookie. Every week Stanley shows up in his finest attire and aftershave and every week she pretends not to notice.
Stanley has tried a long list of tactics to get some attention from her. He’s even dangled a mint-choco-soy-milk iced latte in her face, but the woman remains borderline expressionless. The truth is, though, even if whats-her-name suddenly feels the tip of Cupid’s arrow, tears a piece of receipt paper and jots down her number, Stanley won’t know what to do. Not any more. Stanley has been striking out in the love department for the past thirty years.
“Listen, Becky,” says Stanley.
“It’s Becca, sir,” she says through gritted teeth.
The girl appears to be in pain. She sways in place as though she’s got somewhere better to go.
Stanley hesitates, then continues, “Yeah, so Barbie, you want this skinny jacket? I’ll put it on my charge card, just for you. It’ll only cost ya a kiss.”
The girl covers her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut. A fat tear rolls onto her index finger.
“Now you’ve done it,” says Bones. “Stop your flirting, you could be the girl’s father.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the flirtin’ yet,” Stanley smirks. “And I ain’t nobody’s father.”
“Barbie” throws up all over the counter.
“Whoa!” shouts Stanley.
“Whoa, whoa!” shouts Bones. He holds the cardigan to his chest and fights back his own urge to vomit.
Stanley checks his coat for stains. Finding none, he breathes a sigh of relief.
“Becca,” says a nearby employee from another counter. “Is it the headaches again?”
“Barbie” goes to respond and then covers her mouth once more.
“Aw, gosh,” says the employee.
“Aw, gross, is what it is,” says Stanley.
Stanley’s ex-crush rips her name tag off her sweater, leaving a frayed hole in the fabric, and runs out the sliding door.
“Way to go, Romeo,” says Bones as he walks with the rest of the group out the store.
“Yeah, yeah,” says Stanley, following. “I take back what I said about that kiss. And I take back wanting that dumb pink jacket.”
“Jason, we need a clean up immediately,” blasts the loudspeaker. Stanley shakes his head.
“Hey, you!” shouts a voice approaching from behind. Stanley turns and squints. The sun is much brighter now than it was an hour ago.
“Yeah?”
“Were you harassing my employee?”
Stanley tilts his head. “Who you talkin’ bout?” he asks. “Her?” He points further down the sidewalk to a woman bent over, hands on knees. “You think I’d hit on the likes of her?”
The woman speaking to Stanley lifts her hands and does the unthinkable.
Stanley gets to know the street.
Nick also knows the street. He knows the street well. He knows it better than Stanley ever will for his tent has been pitched just a block away for the past three years.
Nobody notices him as he sits in front of Cardwells before the third pane of glass. While being invisible has usually been his curse, today it is his blessing.
“Bones!” one man shouts, propping himself up on his elbows. “Bones wake up!”
The woman who shoved the men, huffs. She crosses her arms tight across her managerial vest.
As arguments fly across the sidewalk, Nick notices pink fabric. He knows he shouldn’t go up to it, but last winter was particularly cold. Nick checks his pocket for cash and only finds two dollars.
His attention returns to the argument. Everyone seems absorbed in their own little conflicts. Nick sidles over and grabs the softest, cleanest piece of fabric he’s felt in a long time. It feels wrong to just take it. Nick reaches in his pocket for payment.
A hand rests on his shoulder. Nick tenses.
“Just take it, man,” says a voice from behind.
Nick offers the man his money. The Cardwell employee waves it away.
“Just take it,” he says again. “You better go before someone else notices you. Oh, and watch your step.”
As Nick nods, the young man whistles and mops up a semi-viscous glob of vomit.
Nick stumbles away, sirens baying in the background. He clutches his gift and melts into the streets.
