Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (11 page)

A few days later, here I am, dressed in my uniform, Sadie the Sadist disguised as a Courtesy Clerk.

I think the Courtesy Clerk costume brings Sadie the Sadist out. I’ve given up on trying to control her. Before my alcoholic husband croaked, I attended Al-Anon, and they tell you the only person you can control is yourself.

I recite the Serenity Prayer, silently.

God (or whatever), grant me the serenity to accept stuff I can’t change, the courage to change stuff I can, and the … smarts? ... brains? ... wisdom! to know the difference.

When the Store Manager walks by, I smile at him and say hi, hoping he’s received my résumé and application.

He nods. I’m not sure if he knows my name. If he doesn’t, how will he schedule me for an interview? I ask Doreen at Customer Service to print me a new name tag with giganto letters, so even people with bad eyesight can read:
SADIE
.

“Sadie, it’s your turn to do carts.”

I’m pinning my new name tag on my shirt, so I ignore Terri.

“Did you hear me?”

I don’t like her tone of voice. I don’t think that’s how she should address the soon-to-be Assistant Manager.

“When am I due for my break?”

Terri checks her clipboard.

“Not for a half hour. Right now, you’re scheduled to do carts.”

Can you believe this bitch? She’s always on me.

I grab the leash and put on the stupid orange vest. Orange never has been and never will be my color, but now that I’ve dyed my hair red the orange vest makes me look like a cross between a pumpkin and a tomato.

Mondays tend to be busy, especially in summer, and the parking lot is packed. Clouds have moved in, so at least the temperature is cooler. Pretty soon, kids will be heading back to school and the tourist season will slow down. The supermarket has already lost a few Courtesy Clerks who’ve gone back to college. Consequently, we’re shorthanded. That’s why I’m stuck collecting shopping carts for the second time this afternoon.

Some clown rammed a cart into the bushes, so I yank it out. Another dodo left a cart at the bus stop. I round up three more, and use the leash to hold them together. Some guys can leash ten carts at a time, maybe more, but five is my limit. The parking lot is on a hill which is a pain. Pushing carts uphill gives my thighs a good workout, but going downhill I have to be careful not to have a runaway. It happens. A cart gets loose, crashes into a car, and guess who’s held responsible? Not the store. Once, a cart escaped from me and nearly hit a passing BMW. The car screeches to a stop, the driver’s window glides down, and this jerk yells at me, “Do you have insurance?” I yell back, “Parking lot insurance?” The guy shakes his head, like I’m stupid. I mean, does parking lot insurance even exist? Anyway, he pissed me off. So, after he parked his BMW and went inside the supermarket, I keyed a swastika on his passenger door. When the guy came out, he tried to accuse me of doing it, but he’d parked beyond the range of the security cameras and had no proof. I blamed it on a group of kids.

The job interview thing is making me nervous, so I take a break from carts and pop a Xanax. Doctor Archuleta said Xanax is addictive, that I should only take it when I need it, and I need it now. The thought of speaking to the Store Manager is making me a nervous wreck, but I need to make him notice me. I ran into Liam in the elevator, and he told me there’s a rumor going around Produce that Terri applied for the position—and, according to the rumor,
she’s
most the likely candidate for Assistant Store Manager.

Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

I need to take action. I need to implement my plan.

Tonight I’m stuck with the closing shift. I don’t minding working late, but when you’re a Courtesy Clerk and you work
closing
you have to dump a lot of trash, clean the stinky Men’s Room, and other shitty jobs. The worst thing about working at the supermarket is the schedule. It changes every week, depending on the store’s needs, so you never know what days you’ll get or what the hours will be. Sometimes you work overtime, sometimes part time, sometimes days, sometimes nights. It’s hard to have a life. No life may be fine for robots, but it sucks for people.

I’m considering giving the Store Manager this book about Nonviolent Communication. According to NVC, everyone has
needs
. People fight because of
conflicting
needs. Peace can be achieved when everybody’s needs are met. The
store
has needs.
You
have needs, and so do
I.

For example, I
need
to kill Terri.

For all I know, Terri
needs
to kill me.

If that’s the case, I feel sorry for her,
I empathize
, because I’m going to kill her first.

NVC says, before we can empathize with others, we need to feel empathy for ourselves. I feel sorry for myself because of the screwed-up schedule. And I feel sorry for Terri, because she’s a bossy bitch who’s gonna die.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

That’s better. I feel calmer.

Sometimes the universe lines things up for us, but we’re too blind to see it. Like tonight. Reframing my point of view, I realize the closing shift is actually a good thing.

Wow!

This New Age shit is really helpful.

According to my smartphone, the moon won’t rise until 11:41
PM
.

That’s why the universe gave me the closing shift.

Terri asked me to do shop-backs, the perfect opportunity to implement my plan.

Shop-backs take me all over the store trying to find the proper place for stuff customers don’t want. Customers decide they don’t want an item for a variety of reasons—they find a better deal, see something they prefer, simply have a change of heart. No problem. But why leave the stuff in strange places? Raw chicken tucked between cardamom and cinnamon, sushi dumped in the cut fruit display, Tampax hanging out with Campbell’s.
Really, people?
This happens all the time, and Courtesy Clerks have to return the items to where they belong.

You may think shop-backs are easy-peasy, a job any dummy can do. But have you noticed how many items there are in a supermarket? It can take a lot of time to find where things belong and make sure the PLU codes match—the microscopic numbers you see on products designed to control inventory. Pressure increases for hot and cold shop-backs. If the temperature of a cold item rises above 40 degrees Fahrenheit, it has to be tossed. If the temperature of a hot item drops below 140 degrees that food is trashed. And have you noticed how many places you may find similar items? For example, salad dressing: cold dressings are in produce, regular bottled dressings are on the aisle with croutons and bacon bits, but you can also find dry dressing mixes in the baking aisle with spices—others are tucked away in specialty sections like organics or in displays for specific brands. On top of that, sometimes a product has been discontinued, so you won’t find it anywhere. And, with this remodel, even if you think you know where something belongs, chances are it won’t be there anymore. In other words: returning an item to its proper place is a shit job thrust upon the lowest of the low, like me.

But tonight doing shop-backs serves my greater purpose. I fill a small cart with misplaced items, then go along the aisles returning them. The beauty is, when I’m done, I leave the cart in back by the baler, and no one notices. I check my phone: 10
PM
. On schedule. All systems go in a half hour.

I check my phone’s log and notice a call from Dr. Archuleta.

I head back to the front of the store.

Terri glances up from her clipboard.

“You’re due for a break, Sadie.”

“Want me to dump the trash when I get back?”

“That would be great.” She smiles at me. “Thanks.”

As if I have a choice. Who else is gonna dump the trash? But collecting it early, instead of after the store closes, serves my purpose.

I head to the break room to listen to my messages. ME TV is playing
Gun Smoke.
Wendy sits at the table, her eyes fixed on the screen. She doesn’t smile as much as she used to, but at least she’s not crying every minute over Justus.

The new TV and a fresh coat of blue-gray paint hasn’t done much to lift the room’s spirits. Basically, it’s as small and dreary as it was before the remodel. A focal point is the giant trash can by the door, but no one seems to use it. The table is littered with empty soy sauce packets from the sushi counter in Deli, a half-eaten bag of chips, used napkins and, as always, the
Gazette
. The headline says something about a missing student, and my stomach clenches. But, thanks to Xanax, I remain calm. Avoiding the table and the newspaper, I sink on to the simulated leather couch.

I hit voice mail on my phone. Four new messages. The first is from my father—he must think he called his doctor’s office, because he’s left an angry message about a mix-up with his medication.
Delete.
The second message is also from father, mumbling something about ignoring the last message.
Delete.
The third message is from my sister, wanting me to call my father—she can’t deal with him. He took too many meds, and now he’s on a rampage.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Then, Dr. Archuleta’s receptionist—Doctor A told me to call him Marcus, or maybe I called him Marcus, and he asked me to call him Dr. Archuleta; I forget—anyway, Doctor A wants me to call his office and schedule an appointment.

My stomach does a somersault and my mouth goes dry at the thought of seeing him alone … just the two of us. What will we talk about? What can I tell him? Anything I say will make me seem mental. I swallow, trying to generate saliva. I get up from the couch, go to the sink. After drinking two cups of water, I pop another Xanax for good measure.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“You all right, Sadie?” Wendy asks.

“Fine.” It comes out brusquely, so I monitor my tone. “I’m fine, Wendy. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

“I’m here.”

She goes back to her TV program.

I’m wondering why Marcus—I mean, Dr. Archuleta—wants to see me. Does he think I’m unbalanced, demented, looney tunes? Maybe he wants to ask me on a date, but due to some kind of doctors’ code of ethics, he needs to call it an appointment. I
know
he’s attracted to me. I sense it. But, I read online, seeing a patient socially can be a violation of HIPAA privacy laws. I forget what HIPAA stands for—Hot Incredible Penis or something. Okay, not that, but if Marcus asks me for a date, I’m going to accept. Only, considering my track record, maybe I shouldn’t. I delete the message, play the next. It’s also from Marcus, I mean Dr. Archuleta. A different number, and his voice, so I’m guessing: personal cell.

How are you Sadie? I’d like to talk with you. Please call my office and make an appointment at your earliest convenience.

I like listening to his voice, so I play the message three times. (After adding his number to Contacts) I hit delete.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

My phone says 10:28
PM
.

The store closes in half an hour, and it’s time for action.

I locate the trash cart; it’s long and deep with lots of room for stuffed garbage bags, or the average cadaver. It’s my job to go from can to can throughout the store replacing full bags with new bags. I start in Produce, move to Deli, then hit the garbage can in Bakery—my goal. The garbage can in Bakery is by the door leading to the back area where they keep the baler. Leaving the cart by the display of day-old bread and cake, I slip through the heavy plastic panel door, walk past the freight elevator, past the loading dock where trucks unload and head to the baler.

The little shopping cart is where I left it.

A positive sign.

I find the stepstool and set it in front of the baler.

I glance around, making sure I’m on my own. The process is awkward, because I need to balance on this stool while I grab the cart. The cart rolls away, throwing me off balance. I grab the handle and drag the cart toward me, but when I try to lift the cart into the baler’s chamber it gets stuck on the feed gate and crashes to the concrete floor.

I jump from the stool and run to the door by Bakery to see if anyone noticed the commotion. Everything seems normal. A woman with purple dreadlocks is shoplifting; I watch her slip a Mango Passion energy drink into her purse. A gray-haired guy, wearing a motorcycle jacket and what appears to be a tie-dyed tablecloth, reaches out to squeeze a loaf of bread, ruining it for other customers.

I return to the baler. This time I lift the shopping cart
before
standing on the stepstool, then I heave the cart above my shoulders and throw it into the baler.

Perfect fit.

I hide the stool behind the baler, slip out from the backroom, and pretend to collect garbage. The woman with the dreadlocks and the motorcycle guy are gone. The coast is clear. Dropping a bag of trash, I start yelling.

“Hey! Come back! What are you doing?”

Abandoning the garbage cart, I sprint past the Deli counter and the robot.