I apologize for the delay; I had to move across Israel this week and just didn't have the opportunity to finish this chapter as I wanted. I'm hoping this won't delay my update for the next chapter of Cloning Jesus, so I'll be spending the next few hours cranking the edits out for it. I hope you guys enjoy!
Chapter 2
The First Circle
Paul
turned from the punch-in clock and walked toward the area that was known as the
front-end of the store, a short distance from the punch-in machine. The space
was wide, with a neat square patch of fake imitation wood as its flooring. In
the center sat a neat though mismatched counter and cabinets; the latter a
beige color while the former was that of the gray of time and old people's
hair. A series of counters connected to form a square, and four computers
alternated with a pair of registers atop the counters. Papers were also strewn
haphazardly about, and a large trashcan sat in the corner, over stuffed as it
usually way. Without even having to look Paul knew it was full.
Each
machine was equipped with a neon or brown colored clipboard, and large, worn binders
leaned against anything they could, like the tired homeless Paul had far too
often seen around his town. Several machines that allowed customer to scan
their own groceries and pay, called self-scan machines, sat adjacent to the
entrance of the front-end for those customers who (Paul believed)
considered themselves better than the store's own staff. It, perhaps wasn't
completely untrue.
It
was in this area the managers and other higher ranking store members
congregated, for a cashier never worked there. No, they had their own section
of the store, nearby so they could be watched. This was where they sent, in Paul’s
personal view sentenced, those employees not bad enough to be fired or let go,
but also without the work ethic worthy of promotion or even to work in the back
of the store. They were too lazy to really commit, and it infallibly showed in
everone's work, even when just scanning groceries. Codes weren’t memorized which
could speed their job drastically, unless they had been entered so many times
it was more muscle memory than actual. Paul still remembered the code for
bananas, 4011, though it had been nearly a year since he had worked in that
section. Thus, they were allowed to stand for hours on end, caught in a
permanent limbo of career and action, of constantly scanning goods and bagging,
never able to escape.
The
front end section was also where the store's Western Union was located, and
hundreds upon hundreds of boxes and cartons of cigarettes, cigars, and chewing
tobacco for those with one of America's greatest fix. Despite this great number
and variety, collectively, there still were not as many cigarettes just one
customer would on average smoke in a lifetime. Paul had only bought
cigarettes a few times in his life, either on the far and few occasions for an
underage friend; for it was illegal to
purchase them until the age of eighteen, and he had a fair number of his
friends who were not yet that age, even though they were not much younger than
he. The only other occasion had been for himself and in memory of his friend
who had been a heavy smoker, and even then only once every year on that day.
Behind
the counter, a very short and somewhat heavyset woman was busy with a customer.
She was one of the several managers that were there that morning. Lengths of
multi-colored paper were held in her hand as she individually fed each into a
machine. These were lottery tickets that the customer had bought at the other
end of the store, or from the counter itself the week before. Paul couldn't
help but wonder how many of the people who bought those lottery tickets so
fervently did so because it was their last hope in life. Salvation came in many
forms, and not all of them spiritual. Hell, some bought the stubs more
religiously than they attended Church, even if fervently faithful.
Hell, Paul thought with mild amusement, if Christians really want to
save me, they can start by paying my bills.
At the very least Paul found those who gambled infinitely less lazy than those
who went to church, and waited for God to do something about their problem. At
least those who gambled were trying to do something about it; even if it
was just as futile, and as likely to occur as any true miracle was to.
To
Paul, it was interesting to note that a portion of the funds accrued from those
who bought the tickets went to the state's education system; the gambling, while
illegal in other forms, supposedly supported the children's pursuit of
knowledge, and thus enabling, in part, whatever future they would have. It was
a blind eye turned, a special pleading; proving again that money trumped
morality. Especially when the money never actually increased the state’s
education budget. For every penny earned for that, its budget was reallocated
for other expenses in the state. Paul was certain nonetheless, that if no money
were given to the government, the gambling would not have been allowed to
remain legal. Exchanging money over table-top cards was by no means legal,
perhaps because of the government had no way to make anything off of it. The
absurd degree of corruption in just that alone, at times could make Paul's head
spin, and more than once it had made him shake his head in befuddled disappointment
and distaste.
The
manager behind the counter was almost as wide as she was tall; she sported hair
that was a grey on white color and kept short. Her shirt was that of the
standard colors of Big People; yellow and purple, and a silver pocket watch
dangled around her neck. It looked ostensible, regal even, compared to their
less than modest surroundings and meager attire.
"Hey Peggy," Paul said as he neared her. "I can't clock in. Do
you mind if I could see the schedule book?"
Peggy nodded and waddled toward a particular assembly of the folders kept nearby.
From the assortment she pulled a drear colored one of black and gray. Beside it
were binders of different colors, and in much better condition than the worn
one she held. It was far older than any of the others. And also the most
used.
"Here you go, Hun," she drawled in a manner that was both sharp and
warm, a tint of a Southern lilt twanging her speech. Paul knew she hailed from
Texas, but had lived for awhile near Richmond, a city several hours to the
south of Springfield, and the capitol of their state out in the country. One of
the rings on her fingers was of the Cowboys football team; practitioners of a
physical and rule bound sport where bands of men pursued an oblong ball
consisting of dried pig flesh that was thrown while running into each other and
from one end of the field to the other.
The small trinket she wore was a symbolic testament to her
relatively humble origins, as well. Though the sport appealed to both commoner
and the rich, Paul knew, as all history did, that the sports were for those who
most desperately felt the need for distraction from the drear and drudgery of
their existence. In fact, the man whom Paul had replaced had been fired over a
fist-fight concerning whose football team had at the time been better. Every
year a team would lose or gain players, making such attachment nearly
irrelevant to Paul, as what they would be attached to would disappear annually,
something transient and thus pointless to him to really pay any attention
toward, let alone invest his time and energy toward. Somewhat like
religion, too, Paul remarked internally. He realized he was distracted;
sometimes the substrate left him a tad fuzzy for a time after its consumption.
Opening
the starkly colored, loosely bound binder, Paul began to leaf through the
various laminated pages held within, but was unable to find his name on any of
the pages that composed and outlined the store's work schedule. He checked the
list within the book twice more, but both his name and the accompanying work
schedule which went with it were nowhere to be found. The anxiety Paul felt
grew, and he abruptly looked up,
"Was
I fired?" Paul asked. Peggy stopped what she was doing to look at him. She
then shrugged,
"I
doubt it. Nobody's told me anything," she said in a tone which, alongside
her drawl, was tinged with nonchalantness. "When did they say you were
working?"
Paul blinked at Peggy's question.
"Now," he replied truthfully. "When I called last night Waheed
told me that I was still to come in today, from Nine-“ He paused for half a
second, shit don’t tell her I’m late,
“Thirty till seven-thirty.” He lied, knowing she would have to take his word
since his schedule had disappeared. “Well here I am. I came in, tried to clock
in, but couldn't. It wouldn't let me."
Peggy pursed her lips as her brain turned the matter over, and then she
shrugged again.
"Nothing I can tell you, hun. You should go talk to Frank or the store
manager; have you seen Jeff yet?" At her question, Paul shook his head.
Jeff was their store manager, and usually was nowhere to be found outside his
office he kept holed up in.
"No, not yet. I came to you first-" Paul began to answer, and nor did
he particularly want to meet the man Peggy had just mentioned, either. Every
encounter with the store's head manager always ended with Paul having more work
than he would have had otherwise before their meeting. So as far as Paul was
concerned, meeting with Jeff was just another opportunity to come to the man's
attention and thereby increase Paul's likelihood of being fired, or worse in
Paul’s opinion, being given even more work than he would already have to do,
which was considerable in a grocery store the essential length of a football
field -and he the only janitor on the staff. Though they titled him porter,
somehow even more demeaning to Paul than being labeled a janitor, even though
his job was the exact same, and sometimes worse. He sometimes had to do
maintenance as well, especially when the generators were acting up. All for
minimum wage to boot.
He
sighed, still thinking of Jeff, "-though, I suppose I have. I had hoped
you might perhaps be able to help me before I had to resort to... that."
Paul said resignedly, finishing what he had earlier begun to say.
"Good luck," Peggy said both non-commitally and seemingly without
empathy- pretty much everyone on the staff rued the times they had to go to
Jeff It was clear to Paul her focus was not on his opinion, especially she had
already begun to sort through the next customer's batch of winning tickets, who
had been patiently waiting throughout the exchange. It wasn't like Peggy left
them the choice, either. Paul lingered at the counter for a second longer, then
left once it had become almost awkwardly apparent that she would say nothing
else and focused on what she was doing as she leafed through and organized the
mess of slips.
He
began to walk down the aisle nearest him, starting his search for the Praetor
of the store. Paul had only to do so for a short while, as it was only ten
minutes later when he both found and stood before Jeff, feeling slightly awkward
as the man looked down at Paul not only figuratively, but literally as well.
Jeff towered over a foot above Paul and peered at the young man from down his
thin nose, his hawkish eyes studying the small man. The store manager was rail
thin, and dressed in a nice business shirt the stark color of white, and pants
of deep black in contrast. He would not have looked out of place at a funerary
home as a mortician; his expression that of an almost constant expression of
somberness and severity. It did not make him in any way easier to approach for
anyone, of course.
"Yes?"
Jeff intoned, his voice with a moderate depth of timber, and Paul immediately
began to explain the problem, though couldn't quite quell the nervous knots
that turned in him as he did. Jeff was silent as he listened, and then nodded
when Paul had finished his explanation.
"Follow
me," the man instructed without explanation, and Paul dared not disobey.
Together the two walked, one behind the other, Paul almost at his employer's
heels; for they were not equals, as far apart from one another as God was from
subservient man. How could the latter ever be permitted to walk before, or even
lead the former, his superior, to the way? It would just be rude to act
otherwise, for it was the nature of things, this way; and for one of the few
times, by happenstance, nature made sense.
It
was a short stride to the clock-in machine from where they had been. Once
there, from his pocket Jeff pulled a plastic card which by many would have been
considered plain; save for a single, thick black strip that ran down the right
side, near the edge of it. The store manager slid the card through the clock-in
machine, and immediately a set of commands appeared that Paul, in all the years
he had worked there, had never seen before. Jeff pressed two of the buttons in
succession, navigating through several menus before he finished and turned
back to Paul. He looked at him for several seconds, as if thinking- though what
it was Paul could not discern' his manager's expression too dour and masking.
"I have a few things for you to do," Jeff said slowly, though to Paul
rather predictably. He had been expecting that he would be given more work
through the encounter; it had been too much to hope that that would not be the
case.
"I know, sir," Paul replied cautiously, carefully watching his every
word lest he anger the man. "I have the supplies still to do and
clean-"
"Yes, clean the bathroom, check the trash bins..." the older man
drawled, and even then continued to list a long set of tasks.
Paul nodded, and despite not entirely listening, he appeared to be attentively
doing so. He already knew what the man was going to say, the manager's words
like a droning background noise to Paul. He had heard the words a thousand times
before, not in that particular order, but in a similar general assortment. Paul
knew what he was to do; he knew it like a clock did clockwork. When one did the
same tasks year after year, well, eventually a person could grow into the job
as surely as a plant will the space allowed.
"Thank you." Paul said as politely as he could without expressing the
sarcasm he direly felt, even if the nicety he gave was one driven cynicism,
once his Manager had finished giving his instructions. Jeff blinked, as if he
knew, but could not prove it, and then left, moving toward the front desk,
leaving Paul to finish punching in as prompted, in the space provided. Paul
punched in his social security number again, and then pressed the faded key
that read 'enter'. The screen flashed blank, and then another command prompt
followed; asking what time he had arrived initially at. Paul pursed his
lips and looked at the digital clock that was on display on an LED screen that
dated at least from the 80's, and was set in the top of the punch-in machine.
He glanced at it; already it was twenty minutes past the start of the hour.
Paul resisted the sudden, rising urge to deceive, and almost grudgingly entered
in his late, honest, time of arrival. There were times when Paul wished he had
less integrity, but such proportioning of attributes was not in the cards he
had been dealt. Sometimes, and he could never quite shake the feeling, that he
had been dealt six cards, rather than the seven everyone else tended to
receive.
Paul
pressed enter, and as he punched in, a strange thought concerning theology
arose. It did not escape him, the perceived God-hood of Jeff, at least
concerning his control of the store in stark contrast to the lowly porter he
had just allowed entrance through the pearly gates; for the sharp contrast had
been, for Paul, an agonizing, final circle of hell of unemployment had he not
been admitted finally.
Perhaps that is all God-hood is, Paul mused, wisely knowing to keep such
thoughts to himself, and all the while he eyed the clock-in machine. His
thoughts were racing even as he desired to keep them in stall and focus on his
work at hand, but the starting gun had been shot, and in his mind, it was on. The
distance between one person and another; the gap between the control of things
compared to others... The difference between God and Man... Store Manager to
lowly porter; That is all godhood is... is degree of control. he
realized. But still... when one holds the life of another in their hand...
will they not listen to that person as if they were God?
He stopped, and straightened at the thought,
Maybe
that's why so many Christians follow God... they believe him controlling their
fates, and ultimately, their ends. I may not know much, but that isn't love-
he thought -that's fear. Perhaps that is all belief is based upon; fear.
What a miserable foundation to build a castle of virtue off of. I'd rather have
a pillar of salt, and bedrock of sand any day.
The
revelation, and to him rather chilling thought, sunk itself deeper into Paul's
mind, as if creating an immovable, unforgettable foundation within his mind.
With effort Paul pushed those thoughts away to another part of his mind; to be
reviewed later when the opportunity arose, when he remembered to. He turned and
sighed ruefully, grudgingly ready then to face the day. The problem of being
unable to punch-in had been resolved, though he was still confused as to why
his name had been absent from the schedule book and roster.
He
shook the disquieting thoughts from his mind; it was either another mistake, or
if not, then he was sure there was at least some reasonable reason. Or
at least, that was what Paul told himself to quiet that unmistakable feeling of
unease.
Paul padded down the nearest aisle as he made his way toward the back of the
ever brightly lit store, his feeling of dread at having to begin another day of
work growing. This feeling, if it grew, gave little surprise to him most death
occurred at the start of the week. He was not alone in his sentiment, clearly
so, or so many would choose to die on a different day, rather than let
themselves expire on Monday as so many do. Some people, literally, are so lazy
they'd rather die than go to work.
The
shelves in each aisle bulged with food and stock. He passed other fellow
workers, almost all of whom were black, who even then filled the empty spaces
in each shelf where they could. Large trolleys on four wheels stood next to
each, having been dragged by each of them. On each trolley sat box after
cardboard box; each a different brand and product, weight and work-load.
These
to Paul were the truly damned. Those who worked the back, but never able to
escape the despairing menial job's clutches. For them, Paul could see no hope;
only that they may live to work. Earth allowed little mention for them to
exist; mercy and justice rejected them. Paul spoke little, nor gestured much to
them as he passed, save for a small, almost sad weak wave. He looked balefully,
and eventually, passed them all as he made his way toward the back, despite
there being one or two in every other aisle or so.
"Good morning," Paul murmured to several of his fellow, damned,
co-workers as he went past, making it something of a point to do so, even as he
did so selectively.
When he had neared the back end of the store, passing the long, cold,
well-stocked cases of the meat department, a short, very familiar man dressed
in slacks and a white dress white shirt akin to Jeff's approached Paul, once he
saw him. He was only slightly taller than Paul, and though was only in his
forties, the man's hair was very grey. He was like how Tom Hanks would look in
his next role... if he were only a little more homely looking.
"Good morning Frank," Paul said to his manager, who gave a nod in
response.
"How are you?" Frank asked politely in a voice that was neither high
nor low, and soft with a subtle ‘tonation of hardness. His greeting was
obviously a formality and not one of actual sincerity, as the two were
certainly not friends. They were not enemies of any sort, either- Paul had no
enemies that he knew of, though at times that did surprise him considering how
big a deal he had heard the other workers, and his own stories make of them.
Paul obliged his superior's question with stark honesty simply for the sake of
doing so. Paul did love to exercise his first amendment right, even when it was
not the most prudent to do so.
"I'm actually feeling kind of tired, I had some trouble clocking-in that
needed Jeff to fix; it took me forever to find him," Paul replied, perhaps
too honestly. Then, as if to give testament to his claim, he stifled a small
yawn, swallowing it. Frank's eye twitched at the display, indicative of his
annoyance toward Paul at that moment.
"Oh," the manager replied, unsure or unable to think of anything else
to say concerning that. "Well, the supplies came in," Frank finally
settled on, his voice gruffer, leaving the sentence and his words to feel as if
they had ended before they should. Though innocuous enough to the higher
individual, the way he had said it, to Paul at least, so wrapped up in himself
thought that perhaps his manager meant the task as a punishment of some kind.
If so, rather it merely showed the man's disdain toward the mundane task and
presumably whom he assigned to it. One did not give their favorites the hardest
or most stressful tasks. Not this was that, either, this was merely annoying
and time-consuming, and a task Paul was weekly assigned to do.
"I'll get right on it," Paul replied with such forced sincerely he
wondered how his superior hadn't noticed his blatant sarcasm.
"Thank you," Frank replied curtly, and immediately was off on his way
again, tending to some other matter of import in some other department. Paul
wondered if Frank had been there coincidentally or had been waiting for him.
Paul hoped this was not the case, as he had been late. He liked Frank,
the man never spoke poorly to him, did his job, and was generally usually
smiling.
Dammit, Paul swore at himself, I should have
remembered to remind Frank I still need more hours, though I don't see what
good it'll do. Paul sighed again, and then resumed his route; entering the
back through a set of large grey and thick double doors next to the deli
department. He entered a wide spaced, and high ceilinged area crammed with
vegetable stock. It was hustle bustle back there, and any perfunctory greeting,
if even noticed in the humdrum, would be a distraction from the other workers tasks
and business. So, Paul ignored them, and they of course ignored him -at least
until something needed to be cleaned, of course.
The air in the backroom was cooler, something Paul always noticed. This was due
to the receiving end of the store, of which was constantly kept open to the
elements during the winter. In some ways it was cheaper to do this because of
the air conditioning for the produce. In the porter's closet, his closet
as Paul thought of it, a short Hispanic woman had parked the stores only floor
buffer. She was tending to it, but what specifically she was doing Paul
couldn't tell. The damn thing was a pain in the ass, and no matter where stowed
inevitable somehow got in the way every day for Paul For a second Paul felt his
personal space encroached upon, and then wondered why that was when he was
loathe to the room to begin with.
He hated hypocrisy, especially in himself. So Paul ignored the problem entirely
whenever possible, and after a time found it both that it was no longer there, nor
that he continued to care.
"Good morning," Paul said to her. The Hispanic woman was small and
not dressed in a uniform. In fact, she wore jeans and an obviously bleach
stained, casual top. She smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Probably doesn't
even know what I said, Paul thought, and it was not far from the truth. He
understood well, though, that no matter how bad depressions got; people would
always need to eat, and hence the employment and steadiness of the grocery
store industry through everything the country had fared. And where there was
people, there was mess; floors would always need sweeping and washing, and it
took no language to do either. In fact, silence was preferable, even if the
muteness of the worker was forced, caused by the inability to speak the
language around her. The obviousness reflected in that she had been hired, the
irony that his role in the company was little different than hers, and that she
was paid more than he, did not escape Paul, either.
At least she can't complain, he thought as he passed her, unlike the
white collar forced to work here by the depression. It was why Paul kept
quiet, at least concerning his managers, and was why he was the only Caucasian
he knew in his position as well. That irony wasn’t lost him, either.
He
continued along the ruddy white colored hallway, heading still in the opposite
direction. Sacks of vegetables; potatoes, onions among numerous other varieties
sat stacked upon each other in a small causeway next to the aisle. It abruptly
ended; turning into a white, but scratched wall.
The worn wall had been scratched from the many thousands of times
carts had brushed past it as somebody hauled something somewhere on the metal
or plastic carts. Sometimes they were scratched from the machine that would
lift the wooden pallets, always filled with pounds upon kilograms of produce. The
white wall ran down the length of the back of the grocery store, and was
interrupted by two things; a freezer, where the other half of the dairy
department was kept; mainly yogurts and cheeses, and a staircase. It was at
this Paul paused. He gazed up the stairs. They were metal and very steep. In
fact their angle was so much so that it was reminiscent to Paul of the ancient
Aztec temples he had studied, and twice in his childhood visited with his
father when he was still around. Like those temples and their stairs, the ones
at Big People were incredibly worn with time, but clearly as sturdy as ever.
Though
it had been much time since, it had once led to the spot Paul had gone to when
he wanted to hide from work. However, he had stopped when evidence of his retreat
had been found, and he even heard word that a camera would be installed there.
Wary, of course, of being caught, he relocated.
But truthfully, it
was not just for this reason, but another, that was the cause of his having
stayed away from the spot for months, not since his accident and his near-brush
with death. It had occurred in the early fall of that year, when he had fallen
from the next-to-top step of the steep stairs while carrying an extremely old,
and thus bulky, microwave. He had attempted to turn, and not expecting quite so
much inertia, had stumbled. He fell down the majority of the stairs and had
landed on the concrete and stone ground; his shoulder taking the brunt of the
blow, though somehow with almost no pain. However, shock had left him lying
there, in befuddlement-- that is until the microwave had crashed an instant
later, its jagged point-first into the ground next to his head, scaring the
Jesus out of Paul, for sure.
The memory of this event was as fresh as the minute it had occurred. However,
he refused to allow something as simple as a staircase have a grasping hold of
fear over him, and so resolutely began to climb, cautiously keeping an eye open
for any of the cameras he had heard whispers of. It was similar fashion of
confronting his fear face first he had overcome his early fears of both height
and dark, and so believed the strategy would work again.
Small
specks of dust scattered with each step he climbed, the metal making a dull,
echoing noise as he did. With every step he took each grew successively more
dusty, until finally, five steps away from the top he had reached both a
platform and seeming plateau of the amount of the powder that there covered the
surface in a thin but fluffy layer. It was small and narrow, and filled with
many, many boxes. It was directly over the freezer he had passed before, and
barbed wire lacking its trademark thorns ran around the length of it as did a
number of erect poles, the only things that kept the contents above from
spilling below. It, like the stairs was dusty, but this had done nothing to
daunt him from using the space so many times before as both a place to rest and
relax, train, and even eat.
In
the dust he could still make out his earlier footprints, from the days he had
spent time practicing fencing there, taking great caution to do so as quietly
as possible within its narrow confines. He could never recall a time he had hit
the walls, and took pride in this. He had been practicing for seven years then,
and even though alone in doing so those days, long since at the school above
the city of Cherrydale’s fire station, he had greatly improved.
Paul did not stop there however, continuing to the very top of the
stairs. Next to it was a door that was twice the length of a normal doorway,
and as always, he found it to be unlocked.
He
twisted the silver knob, and with ample force swung the door open with a low
groan that was immediately drowned out by the noise therein, the door having
quite effectively masked it. He closed the door shut behind himself, and
noticed a large schematic of the store. The paper was white though faded and
torn, and appeared to date from before the store's remodeling.
It
was in this room that Paul saw the source of the dust he well knew, as dozens
of machines whirled about, powering and driving the inner workings of the super
grocery store. It was not the near deafening noise that each of the machines
produced that drew his attention, but rather a ladder opposite to the door.
Paul
both approached and placed a hand on it, feeling the hum of the metal and
plastic as it attempted to match the powerful vibrations the bulky machines gave
off collectively. With hesitation he grasped it with his other hand, and
shouldering his satchel closer to himself, he began to climb. The door that the
ladder led to was but ten feet above him, and within seconds he was there,
having made the climb many a time before. Skillfully, with a practiced hand he
turned the latch that kept the door closed, and like the door he had opened for
the room, it too was unlocked. He did this without a hint of noise and metal
scraping, unwilling to draw attention to himself, though he doubted he could
have been heard over the humming thrum of the whirling fans beneath him.
The
door swung open with just one easy shove, the cold air of the outside world instantly
assailed Paul so bitterly that he had to shield his face and turn away from the
gusts of wind. Slowly acclimating to the frigid temperature, he climbed the
last few rungs and hoisted himself onto the firm but still very much slick and
cold foundation of the roof of the store. He caught his breath for a second
once he stood, it misting in the dry air as he looked around the familiar
setting. The entire top of the store was covered in two feet of snow, as no one
had thought to shovel the top. Across the roof several generators stood idly
apart on opposite ends and corners; what the store kept prepared and constantly
running should the power ever fail, which would happen every few months
depending on the weather. It too, like the times they were in, felt as if it
were becoming more tumultuous.
Paul
looked up, and even then, the gray skies looked ready to unleash the full fury
of fimbulvetr upon the Virgin earth. Paul knew, as the weather forecast had
spoken, that it would snow again later that day. Thinking of the forecasters
made him smile; once upon a time seers had entertained such roles, the farmers
worshiping the men they were dependent on. For it was through them they
understood when to plant and seed. It seemed to Paul that little had changed concerning
the matter. The only difference was instead of worship they were given money
and attention on television; in Paul's world something tantamount to the same
thing from their age in his modern one.
He
was always impressed, concerning the matter, that they were capable of
predicting the future with such certainty and correctness that they could even provide
percentages. He wished sometimes that he could apply that to people. But no one
was ever that predictable, especially not himself he had to admit.
With
careful steps so he would not slip, Paul stepped through the snow toward the
far wall of the roof, the snow up to the middle of his shins, and almost coming
up to the top of the law wall surrounding the roof. Because the store was built
on the hill at a slight angle, it was impossible for anyone to see the top of
the roof from the ground. As such Paul had little to fear of being caught;
while others might consider his endeavor risky, Paul knew there was little
chance of his being caught. There were no cameras, and hardly anyone save a few
maintenance people ever went in the generator room, let alone taking the sojourn
Paul had to go on the roof. In fact he had never seen anyone else ever in it. But
Paul thought not of this, too busy looking out over the edge at the vista that
met him. The sun hung idly in the direction he faced, it shining brightly off
of the snow that covered lots of ground, making it reflect off the ground and
the day appear brighter than it actually was. The skeletous forests that
surrounded his store, doting the land in thick patches of brown that only the
road found penetrable as it wound through like a long earthen snake. Even from
where he was, he knew the almost black color of the tree trunks came from the
wetness of snow.
Paul sighed in relief, and looked up at the sky again, tilting his
head back and chin upward after several seconds noticing the gentle, subtle
curve of it as he slowly moved his gaze to the horizon.
How
is it anyone could ever be so gullible, so trusting, to believe another that
the world flat; when all they had to do was just look up, take a minute, and
see the truth and their err? He wondered and shook his head. He stood there
peaceably, idly considering the matter of truth, something that meant quite a
deal to him. However, the sharp cold began to grasp the small figure, and when
its icy fingers began to curl around him and he began to shiver, he made his
retreat back inside, firmly shutting the door behind himself as he did and
locking it as well as any other might.
Within
half a minute he had exited the room and climbed back down the stairs, frost
clinging to his pants and sweater. He looked around sheepishly, but no one had
seen either him or his foray, and he shook off the last bits of little white
evidence from his
clothing.
Paul
removed his jacket, and then the bag he had kept slung over his shoulder
beneath it, revealing his own bright yellow work uniform. It was a long sleeved
yellow shirt which he kept tucked into his slightly faded dark-blue jeans,
something relatively new in his attire. It had only become permissible with the
company's re-imaging campaign, one to mask the inner stagnation and economic
turmoil, and as far as the customers and their contented ignorance were
concerned, it had been a complete success. Paul felt the jeans most of all the
oddest part of his attire, invented in the 1960s to protest business, it had
become part of the business attire.
Atop his shirt Paul wore a brown sweater, several small off-colored white
stains on it from past chemicals he had worked with. It was well worn, and fit
him very comfortably. He had worn it so often that during a week long period
when he had stopped wearing it, both co-worker and customer had asked about it,
though far more the former rather than the latter. Paul placed both the jacket
and bag in an obscure cardboard box that sat on the metal wrack alongside
others like it; more bulky supplies that he and his department needed. They
were namely paper towels, toilet paper, and various other miscellaneous but
necessary supplies.
But concerning his uniform, it was his name tag that he found most peculiar of
all. It was cheap and small as far as such things went, but there was a
classification system used through such color coordinating. There were three
kinds of employees in terms of their name badges; the young, who were given
green badges, all of whom were under eighteen. The purple for anybody over the
age of eighteen and under sixty, and the yellow badges for those secto-cenarians
and disabled when Big People did rarely employ them. Paul had to wonder what
Kant and his categorical imperative would have made of it. To Paul it felt at
the very least Hitleresque, for few knew that when kept in camps the prisoners
had not been a random assortment and hodgepodge of prisoners, but in fact had
been very well sorted, organized, and kept track of. Each had been assigned a
name tag and its colors explained why the prisoners were there, and though
there was a great many assortment of colors, yellow had been for Jews like Paul,
green for habitual offenders, and purple for the more unaccepted concerning
Christians; Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons and the like. The death camp's
uniforms could get rather colorful, depending on how diversified the prisoner's
background was, of course. Paul knew this because his grandfather knew this,
having seen it first hand when wearing one in Auschwitz.
It
did not matter to Paul which group was assigned to which color, the very fact
there was a color for a generalized group of people brought enough irking to
him that he nearly, every day, didn't wear the name-tag in protest. To Paul, he
did not see what difference age brought... save in age. It did guarantee
intelligence or wisdom, nor anything of assurity for that matter save age. Paul
had met more than one elderly racist and fool in his lifetime, and knew that no
man was ever innocent of that possibility. There were just as many foolish
elderly as there were foolish young people, and so Big People's reason to separate
their co-workers by it made little sense to him. There surely was a reason, but
none that he could fathom where the separation of age wasn't something ominous.
While
Paul never spoke of it, a faint ink, briefly, could be seen on his skin as he
took off his jacket and his shirt had pulled up as well. Had one followed it,
they would have found the picture of a great tree, vividly inked and comprised
of writing; many different words and sentences, an amalgamation of the wisdom
Paul had found in life, and kept with him always. It was his own personal tree
of wisdom that he took with him everywhere.
From the pockets of his jacket, Paul withdrew his keys and money pouch,
slipping them into his pants. From there he then exited through another door,
passing through the butcher's department toward the front of the store. The
traffic was slow, both literally and figuratively; few customers in the store
at that time were unlike the elderly man Paul had seen before.
Paul walked past the manager's desk. Neither of the two behind the counter
looked at him. Both wore purple shirts, neatly setting up a boundary,
separating them from he. To Paul, despite the color, the shirts appeared no
different than his own, save by a size or two. He exited through the narrow hall
he had entered earlier through, and once outside took one of the nearby steel
carts that were lined again the wall, knowing he would need it later for
transporting the supplies. He turned, and with an ease and skill few others
had, he spun the cart and with the inertia both pushed and then after hopping
on its back briefly rode the cart inside.
Re-entering, Paul turned again and followed the window until it came to the
wall, and then he followed that too. He passed the front-end desk again, as
well as the two motorized carts that the store kept for the handicapped or
those who had eaten into excess until being left physically unable to even walk
on their own. He had ridden the electric carts many a time, and though they
could not go very fast, were a lot of fun to toy around with. Paul always found
himself eagerly awaiting any opportunity that presented itself to use either of
the two the store kept, though it was usually just to return one to its proper
resting place once done. It always struck him as cruelly ironic there was
something enjoyable explicitly for the disabled; he mused that from one
perspective it cast a light of there even being benefits to be in such a
state, which to a degree, might make it desirable...
Paul rolled his eyes at his own thoughts, I doubt anyone would ever willingly
make themselves handicapped just so they might get something out of it, let
alone to ride a cart, he thought, and as he continued to look at it, raised
an eyebrow, as fun as they are... he finished his thought sardonically.
Paul continued his idle thoughts as he searched each register for a spare
bottle of cleaning fluid. There were plenty of empty bottles in the back, but
he hated filling them. However, none were to be found, and he resigned himself
to yet another task on his long list he had to do after the boxes.
He
looked over the side of the counter he was checking the bottom shelf of, when
he heard the sound of familiar voices wafting over. As he looked Paul noticed
two of the cashiers standing together. The tallest of the two was named Dawn;
she was Caucasian, her skin always well-tanned, and her hair brown and streaked
with white. The other was shorter and named Rosemary. She was Filipino, short,
squat, and black-haired. Both women, like Paul, were dressed in the yellow garb
of Big People, and each was slightly past middle-aged.
"Did you hear?" the taller of the two asked to her co-worker,
"Suzy got transferred."
The other shook her head, "They sometimes don't even tell them until the
day before or so, did you know she was leaving?" she asked. Dawn shook her
head.
"That must be what's happened," the shorter continued, and then
sighed.
Paul, having overheard their conversation decided to approach.
"Excuse me; did you say Suzy got transferred?"
Both nodded their heads at this question. Paul frowned,
"why?"
"No one really knows, “Dawn spoke, “but in the twenty-three years I’ve
been here it’s always been like that; the managers and head-managers get
transferred,” she finished and learned on the metal rolling bridge that
connected the cash register with where the bagger would normally stand. Paul
frowned.
“Do they do that to us? I don’t know anyone outside of management who has been…?”
Paul asked.
“No,” they said together in unison.
“At our level, where you begin is the store where you stay,” Dawn continued.
Paul stood patiently listening as the two, like old biddies, began to talk amongst
themselves again.
“Do
you know what a serf is?” he asked suddenly, interrupting their loo. The two
fell
quiet.
“No,” Dawn replied hesitantly. Paul nodded; he had expected as much.
“A serf was a peasant in Russia, and, well, everywhere throughout medieval
Europe, who was tied to the land,” he
explained.
“Oh, right,” Dawn said, as if she had suddenly remembered it. Paul, however,
doubted that, but nevertheless noted it.
“Like slaves?” Rosemary asked.
“Kind of,” Paul replied, “but they did have rights, they were considered
people. But, the land they lived on, in farms or towns was called a fief and
ruled by a lord. What the lord said or did, so long as it did not violate the
king, was more or less the law of the land; and what they said went.”
“Did the serfs ever leave their land?” Rosemary asked. Paul nodded,
“Occasionally one might leave, and flee to a town where the lord may not find
them, though generally they did. If he managed to stay in the town for a year,
he became a freeman, and there was nothing the lord could do. But usually the
peasants stayed where they had been born, kept constrained by economic reasons
to stay where they were.”
He looked from one woman to the other,
“But when this particular social system was at its height; when a lord died, or
left for whatever reason, a new one would take their place, known as a lord
regent. This new lord inherited the estate, property, land, and those who lived
and worked on it. The word of the new noble became law, and this system lasted
hundreds of years, and arguably still does, in a sense, in certain areas of the
world and social settings...”
Neither said a word, and he cast a backward look at the front end and
essentially manager’s desk.
“It seems to me... that not much has changed. There are so many connections
between then and now...” he said and again looked back and forth between the
two. “One manager comes, one manager goes. We, the lowest workers stay here, at
Big People; what could be considered our land, so to speak.” Paul then looked
upward, “Corporate is our king, of which the lord of our fiefs pledge
allegiance and fealty to. Corporate is the ultimate authority in the land, and
what it says goes, unquestionably so. They send our ruling noble away, Suzy,
and give us a new one, Ali, with a new set of rules and authority.”
He shook his head and then chortled with a small amount of laughter.
“Funny,” Paul remarked, “It seems to me not much has changed; even every Sunday
we still congregate at the same places, the centers of worship spiritually
satisfying us until the next week, lest we despair with our existence and then
actually do something about it." Paul sighed. "We’re the peasants of
the twenty-first century,” and then slowly began to walk away, pushing his
cart. "They should have a new word for the work we do, in the twenty-first
century; work, with an e, for this is the era of electronics," he said as
much to himself as to them.
“I’m not tied here," Dawn replied, referring to the store. Paul stopped at
the end of her register's aisle. Magazines lined the small space above the
rolling conveyor belt. He turned, slowly, and evenly met her gaze. His normally
demure, and deep eyes suddenly had a focus and an un-before seen intensity to
them. There was conviction in his voice when he spoke, and when he did, it was
as if they were equals regardless of status, age, or anything.
“Of course you’re constrained here, just like I am, and just like Suzy is-- whether
by poverty or some other reason; and most of our fellow Americans are like
this, too. Three generations have become indebted, desperately trying to pay
off mortgages and debt from their use of credit. That is the real cage; that of
plastic and money. Not because any is naturally evil, but as a people we are
pretty sick. We spend well past our means- in fact, we're even poorer than
those in the Dark Age-- at least those peasants knew that they owned what they
had. We however do not, we merely rent things using our credit, paying
exorbitant fees and interest until the collection company comes calling and one
is stuck homeless, and as much in debt as ever, and without a home either. We
spend our lives tied to the land we desperately work to not only pay off, but
keep over our heads. And almost every one of our fellow people is but a
paycheck away from starvation and destitution. And we're told it's good for us,
that we need credit, that we need to spend, spend, spend to keep the economy
afloat... listening to self-propagating agents, all the while digging us
further into debt and the system an oligarchy has subtly thrown over us."
Paul
shrugged.
"We
werk here because we can’t find better werk; it’s as simple as that. Remember
the rule of three," he warned, holding up three fingers, and then
explained for their clarification. "Three raises or promotions at one job
and then quit or retire, or else you’ll be stuck at that job for the rest of
your life. This just seems to be the way things go," he said with a solemn
sounding acceptance of the matter. "We can’t leave this place,” he said
and made a broad gesture at the store, “We can’t leave, or we would have
already.”
All three were quiet at this, and though in her heart Dawn felt the truth of
his words, her stubbornness kept her from accepting them. It was a human err,
and to Paul it was alright to be human.
“I will leave... eventually,” Dawn protested.
“Yeah,” Rosemary concurred. Paul looked at Dawn, the smile he wore was thin.
“I mean like you said you've been here twenty-three years, no?" he asked.
Dawn's face grew long, her eyes narrowing. Hesitantly she replied,
“It's none of your business, my age,” she said. Paul gave her a sad,
sympathetic, and understanding smile. His point had been made all too clear.
Those who hid their age often did so because of their fear of the abundance of
it. Paul had never understood how gray could possibly be something to be ashamed
or have enough of, but such was the society they lived in which all too often
treated it as such.
“Do
either of you know Bob?” he asked and the two shook their heads.
Paul was not surprised by either's ignorance of their fellow co-werker's existence,
but surely, he thought, at some point in the last twenty-three years
they must have crossed paths, but even as he thought it, knew it might they
might have never met him. That alone struck the young man as odd people could
work at the same place for so long and never meet. The front and back rarely
communicated; they were separate and distinct parts of the store. They put the
food on the shelves, and the customers brought it to the front.
There
was no need for contact, and it probably best to separate plots, Paul considered and
the smile he wore grew slightly again.
“Bob werks in produce. He’s been here fifty years. Claire, who went to the
local high school just down the street, the same I attended actually, and who
works over in the non-food stocking department, HBC, has been here for
thirty-four years. Ask either of them if they can leave their jobs anymore than
a peasant in medieval Europe could leave their small plots.” He then frowned,
both contemptuously, and yet at the same time, sorrowfully, for he realized
that he, too, could be like those he spoke of, and who stood before him.
“Have fun plowing,” he said and continued to push the cart, leaving both in silence.
