Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (13 page)

Shut up,
I scold myself.
Don’t give them information they don’t ask for.

Then I say, “What’s this about?”

The older cop hands me his card. “I’m Officer Gorski and this is my partner, Officer Redbear. We’re questioning possible witnesses of an accident.”

He pauses, watches me.

“What accident?” I bat my eyes, attempting to look innocent.

“A bicycle accident that occurred on the path below your balcony. Were you home on the morning of Friday, July 19th? About 10
AM
?”

My knee is trembling, and his question makes it worse. I need more Xanax and a bottle of tequila.

“Let’s see,” I say, biting my left thumb and then my right. “I think so, but I better check my calendar.” I head to the kitchen.

“You might want to set the roller down,” Officer Gorski suggests, his voice not unkind. He points to the line of
Smoky Salmon
I’ve dripped on the carpet.

I grab a damp cloth from the kitchen sink, wipe frantically, but that only spreads the paint.

“The calendar, Mrs. Bardo,” Officer Redbear prods me.

It’s a free calendar the bank gives out at Christmastime. I keep it on the wall. This month features a photo of the local rodeo. I flip back to July and a photo of mountain wildflowers. A line runs through the dates of July 3rd to July 20th, when I was off work due to my so-called accident.

“Yes,” I say. “I think I was here that morning.”

“Did you see a man fall from a bicycle?”

“I—” I glance at Gorski then at Redbear, trying to control my shaking knee. “I don’t think so.”

Redbear looks up from his notebook. “You don’t
think
so, Mrs. Bardo.”

“Well,” I glance at Gorski. “I cut my thumb at work.” I hold up my left hand so they can see the scar. “And I was taking painkillers, so I don’t remember much.”

Gorski says, “You work at the supermarket, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“With Justus Johnson?”

The fact that they have done their homework makes me nervous. But maybe Gorski remembers where I work because of my 911 call.

“You sure you don’t want some water?” I say, getting a glass for myself—at the kitchen sink. No way am I going to risk opening the refrigerator to get filtered water from the pitcher, but I’m not sure which hand I should use to hold the glass, so I don’t drink. “Yes,” I say. “I worked with Justus.”

“Did you witness his accident?”

“No.”

“I thought you said you don’t remember.”

I shake my head.

“Did you, or did you not, see him fall from the bicycle?” Redbear asks.

“I-I didn’t.”

“May we see your balcony, Mrs. Bardo?”

“Of course.”

I lead them to the bedroom, open the sliding door that leads to the balcony. There’s only room for two out there, so I remain inside. I glance at the closet, still open with shoes spilling out, and I see the drill. Before the cops notice the drill’s red tip, I shut the door.

Gorski leans over the balcony, points at the fence and shakes his head.

Redbear opens the folding chair, glances at me, and asks, “May I stand on this?”

“I guess.”

He climbs onto the chair, peers over the fence, and nods.

After a few minutes the cops come back inside.

“You’re sure you didn’t see anything, Mrs. Bardo?”

Gorski circles my bedroom, taking in the unmade bed, the scattered shoes, a bra I neglected to toss into the hamper.

Still writing on his pad, Redbear asks, “What was your relationship to Mr. Johnson?”

The question hangs in the air, and I’m afraid my legs won’t hold me up. I lean against the closet doors.

“Relationship?”

“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you got along?”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much?” Redbear glances at me. “You seem nervous. Why?”

“It’s just—” If I weren’t leaning against the closet, I’m sure I’d collapse. My mouth feels dryer than New Mexico. I glance at Gorski and make a play for sympathy. “A lot has happened over the past month, especially since the … since the rape.”

Redbear is about to ask another question, but Gorski waves his hand to silence him.

I offer Gorski a wan smile, offering him my best impression of a victim.

“Are you seeing anyone, Mrs. Bardo?” he asks.

“Seeing anyone?”

Is he asking for a date?

Maybe he’s one of those guys who needs to feel like a knight in shining armor—swooping in to save the helpless woman. I bat my eyes frantically as my mind flashes to fucking him, right here in my bed. I’d want him to wear his gun and holster. And his socks.

“Are you getting counseling?” he asks.

The image of his stiff Glock, nuzzled hot between my thighs, quickly fades. “I’m, ah, seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Good.” Gorski glances at Redbear. “I think we’re done, for now. Officer Redbear will take your number.”

“One more question,” Redbear says. “Are you right handed or left?”

I almost say
right
.

Shut up, idiot!

I bite my lip, realizing I nearly blew it. All the training, hours of practice, learning to take aim with my right hand, so no one would suspect a left-handed person had thrown the rock.

“I’m a—I’m a lefty. Why?”

“We’re covering all possibilities.”

The visit from the cops put a damper on my painting project. The interview left me with a headache that feels like Sadie the Sadist crept inside my skull and went berserk with a power drill. I took another Xanax and lay on my bed, a cold compress pressed over my forehead. Streaming a couple of episodes of
Criminal Minds
only made my headache worse. Sadie the Sadist is screaming, threatening to cut my head off with a chainsaw. On top of the Xanax, I took my last Dilaudid, but she won’t shut up.

I need to see Marcus, Dr. Archuleta, whatever I’m supposed to call him. I need stronger meds. Morphine would be good, or heroine. Can doctors even prescribe stuff like heroine? What I need is an anesthesiologist, a doctor who can knock me out with high-end drugs.

But right now I need to go to work.

I drag myself out of bed, force myself to dress.

By the time I reach the supermarket, my head feels ready to explode.

After securing my bike, I run into Janet corralling carts in the parking lot. Janet has been a Courtesy Clerk for about a hundred years, and her face has frozen into permanent surprise. I’m not sure if her astonished expression is the result of too much contact with the public or if it’s due to the arched eyebrows she paints on her forehead.

Janet rolls a line of shopping carts toward me, her eyes circled by black liner, her lashes caked with mascara. The first thing, she says is,
Terri the Terrible has been appointed acting Assistant Manager.

When Janet sees my reaction, her dangling earrings tremble.

My mood swiftly changes from lousy to outrage. I’m pissed off by the injustice.

Acting
Assistant Manager. What does that mean, anyway? She’s just
pretending
to be Assistant Manager?

I’m a better actress.

My fury builds as I stomp into the store.

Now Terri the Terrible will be dishing out orders more than ever, and lowly
me
will jump through hoops to do her bidding.

After I clock in, Terri’s smiling face greets me.

“Hi, Sadie, how ya doin’?” Her voice is cheerful to the point of puke. “Please help Wendy on Check Stand 4. Thank you, Sadie.”

See what I mean? She’s always bossing me around, and now that she has
real
power, she’ll be worse than ever. As soon as I lay my eyes on the Store Manager, I’m going to ask him why I didn’t even score an interview, why he passed me over and neglected to promote the most qualified candidate. I know for a fact that Terri has never managed an entire supermarket like I have.

The flow of piped-in music is interrupted by, “Wet cleanup on Aisle 9.”

Terri nods at me. “Sadie, would you get that. Thank you, Sadie.”

She phrases it like a question, but of course it’s an order. Who is she? Master of my Universe?

No, Terri, I won’t get that. Why don’t you get down on your knees and suck that mess up yourself?

Armed with a broom and dustpan, I stomp over to Aisle 9 where someone dropped a jar of pickles. People step around me, their shoes squashing dills and crunching glass, as I creep along the floor sweeping greenish vinegar into the pan. By the time I’m finished, I’ve been doused with pickle juice.

I return to the registers and start bagging for this guy I like. If Carlos weren’t married, I would definitely do him. But messing around with married men goes against my principles. That’s not to say I haven’t fucked a few.

“Nice perfume, Sadie. Kosher Dill?”

“That a Half-Sour in your pocket, Carlos? Or does my Sweet Gherkin turn you on?”

“You know I relish spicy pickle in my tuna.”

“Mmmm … I like your Bread and Butter. You’re jerkin’ my Gherkin now.”

We laugh.

Carlos is one of the good guys.

One of the people Sadie the Sadist won’t target.

The next customer may not be as lucky. She’s got a cart full of groceries, and she’s unloading them on the belt in no apparent order, so they’re difficult to separate. Why would you stick hot roasted chicken next to your overpriced raspberry sorbet? Even more annoying, she brought a heap of her own bags—most are not designed to carry groceries and some of them are filthy.

“Do you want me to put your chicken in a plastic bag?”

“No plastic,” she says, like she’s headed to heaven on the express train.

I’m delighted to help her reach her destination.

Reaching into my apron pocket, I find a small baggie filled with a few leftovers. I toss a fistful of maggot infested meat into the bottom of a filthy bag, and stick a head of Romaine lettuce on top of it. Then I add loose tomatoes, celery, cilantro, and throw in a lukewarm kidney for good measure. Chef Salad à la Sadie.

My day goes on: bagging, collecting shopping carts, cleaning spills, propane tank exchanges, a quickie in the bathroom with Carlos.

Doreen calls me over to the Service Desk. The woman with the filthy bags called to complain about the maggots. I tell Doreen I remember the disgusting bags, ask if I should file for workman’s comp. End of subject.

When it’s time for my lunch break, I’m determined to confront the Store Manager and find out why I didn’t get the job. My anger over the injustice increases as I walk around the store and glance down each aisle, trying to find him. After circling the perimeter, I determine that he must be downstairs in his office. I only have a half hour, and the stairs will be faster than the elevator. I hurry past Seafood and slip through the heavy panel doors, entering the domain of Meat. Here, an enormous ice machine operates 24/7 producing crushed ice for the display of rib-eyes and crab legs, T-bones and scallops. If you continue down the hallway, you’ll find Dairy. As a Courtesy Clerk, that’s where I bring cracked eggs, leaky milk, and the container of strawberry yogurt that some moron abandoned in Bakery.

Dairy displays are different from displays in Produce. Stocking dairy is like being backstage at a theater. You get behind the glass shelves and push products forward. That way the freshest product is always at the back, maintaining the
cold chain
—first in, first out. I determined that through observation. I’m smart that way. Another reason why
I
should have been appointed Assistant Manager.

A girl stands behind the refrigerated case stocking milk and cream.

She calls out, “Hi, Sadie. Having fun yet?”

“Soon as I kill someone.”

She laughs.

At the bottom of the stairway, an arctic blast hits me. The heavy sliding door of the frozen foods storage locker is open, which explains the sudden drop in temperature. There are lots of cold places in the basement, and this locker is the coldest. It’s kept at -10 degrees (or lower) Fahrenheit.

An image springs to mind: Terri encased in ice, like a giant popsicle—lips blue with cold, fingers black with frostbite.

That’s wishful thinking.

According to this site I found online, LiveScience, people don’t actually
freeze
to death. A person will die of hypothermia well before their body reaches a temperature low enough for freezing. In fact, most people can survive exposure to cold, although they may suffer frostbite. Frostbite occurs when the body pulls blood away from the extremities to sustain the core temperature. There is, however, a way to expedite the freezing process. The survival rate decreases quickly if the body becomes wet, causing heat to be lost at a much faster rate. Wind chill also helps. But there’s no wind chill in the freezer. Locking Terri in frozen foods storage and expecting her to die just isn’t practical.

I walk along the dimly lit corridor leading to the manager’s office. Shelves of supplies encroach on the narrow path. There’s a section for bags (paper, plastic, net), another section filled with cleaning supplies (paper towels, garbage bags, spray bottles of chemicals), and other shelves crammed with stuff I can’t identify. The corridor opens to an area filled with pallets stacked with cases of soft drinks and bottled water. Next to the soft drinks, and across from the manager’s office, there’s a 10x10x10-foot chain-link cage. They keep it padlocked. I asked Terri if that’s where they imprison bad employees. She said yes. Peering through the chain-link, I see shelves of stuff like razor blades.