Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (6 page)

I bat my eyelashes at Ranger, imagining how he’d look completely naked, his skin oiled and brown, juices flowing as I roast him slowly on a spit.

“You’re a sweet girl, Sadie.”

“No I’m not.”

He places the color-coded bags on a cart, preparing to dump them. Says, “There are starving people in this world who’d kill me for these chickens.”

“In this town,” I add. “So, are we on?”

“I could go to hell.”

“For fucking me or dumping chickens?”

I walk away, feel him watching my posterior. I think of
his
, tight and muscular.

Pausing by a display of salami, I lean over the bin, admiring the sausages, and twerk my ass for Ranger.

I’m gratified when I hear the splat of roasted chicken falling on the floor.

A sudden craving for corn—the food I’ve been avoiding, find repulsive—steers my body into Produce. I grab an ear out of the bin—big, fat Olathe—and slip it into a pocket of my apron. The store has cameras everywhere, but at this time of day the security guy is probably half-asleep, bored out of his mind from staring at monitors. I pass through Dairy, shove a tub of imitation butter into another pocket.

Rack it up to
shrink
; that’s supermarket jargon for losses.

I circle back to the bathrooms, collect a spray bottle of cleaner and a box of paper towels from the cart sitting at the entryway, pull on rubber gloves, and push open the door marked
Women’s.

A customer washes her hands at the newly refurbished sink, oblivious to the mess she’s making. Drips of soap smear the counter and water spills onto the floor. She glances at me and, noticing my cleaning supplies, offers a patronizing smile.

“I’ll get out of your way,” she says politely, but disdain screams from her eyes.

“No hurry, take your time.” Under my breath, Sadie the Sadist adds, “Meanwhile, I’ll fill that sink with soap and you can lick it clean or die.”

I don’t think the woman heard me.

She waves her hand at the automatic dispenser (another recent upgrade), wipes her hands on the resulting towel, and tosses the crumpled paper at the trash can. She doesn’t notice (ignores it) when the towel lands on the floor.

I wonder what would happen if I spray this cleaning solution in her eyes. Would the whites turn red? Would the ammonia burn? Cause a milky film to form on her retina? Would she beg me to stop?

The woman leaves. I squirt the counter, wipe it. After polishing the mirror, I run my gloved fingers through my hair, mouse brown, nondescript. I wonder how I’d look if I dyed it flaming red. Red is an appropriate color for Sadie the Sadist, don’t you think? I turn sideways to the mirror, stand on tiptoes, suck in my gut. The tub of imitation butter pouches my apron, and I look like I’m about to give birth to an alien. I slip my hand into the apron’s pocket. The cob of corn feels like a giant hard-on.

Makes me think of Ranger.

I glance at the stalls. Chances are
Terri the Terrible
will come in here to inspect my work, so I
have
to clean the toilets. I pull my phone out of my pocket (we’re not supposed to carry phones, but everybody does), check the time, and realize I’d better hit the Men’s Room if I want to hook-up with Ranger.

Thinking about his ass makes me cream.

I fill out the chart taped to the door of the Women’s bathroom. Time: 8PM. Cleaning: visual, light, or deep. (I choose deep.) Initials. Hugging the spray bottle and box of paper towels, I head to the Men’s Room, anticipation causing pussy juice to trickle down my thighs.

I knock, and then call out, “Anybody in there?”

No answer, so I push the door open.

A guy stands at the urinal, shaking himself.

“Be right out,” he says.

I watch as he zips his fly.

Bypassing the sink, he leaves.

Do men ever wash their hands?

I set the
Cleaning/Wet Floors
sign outside the door. To pass the time while I wait for Ranger, I spray down the counter, glance into the stalls. One’s not too bad, but the other looks like a ticker tape parade marched through it: streamers of shitty toilet paper trampled on the floor. I’ll leave that mess for the porter.

I glance at my phone, checking the time.

Ranger should be here by now. Dumping chickens shouldn’t take twenty minutes. I go out to the cleaning cart to get the mop and pail of water, glance toward the check stands.

No sign of him, so I text:
Wair r u?!?

I watch my phone for a full minute.

No response. So, I call him.

Finally, he picks up.

“What? I’m working.”

“Are you coming?”

“Later.”

“Hahaha.”

What does
later
mean? Before I have a chance to ask, he hangs up.

If he’s not coming, I’ll come by myself.

I grab the mop and dunk it into the pail, splashing water on my sneakers. The Men’s Room floor is covered with yellow-brown foot prints. I mop around the toilets, avoiding strands of paper, and back my way out of the door.

I had plans.

I hate it when someone screws up my plans.

The dent in my female pride deepens into a chasm—a dark abyss churning with rage.

I bend over the pail and twist the mop, imagining it’s Ranger’s neck, imagining it’s every man who’s ever jerked me around. The corncob in my pocket jabs me, and wet heat rushes through my body as I formulate a
new
and
better
plan. The thought of it makes my slit gush.

Forget the Men’s Room. I need privacy.

I run back to the door marked
Women,
peeling off my rubber gloves. All the stalls are empty.
Good.
I duck into the first one, secure the lock. Bending over the pail meant for discarded tampons, I quickly shuck the cob of corn, dig my fingers into the tub of margarine and butter up. I’m dripping with anticipation. The cob slides right in.

Who doesn’t love creamed corn?

I get off at 9
PM
(no pun intended). Ranger gets off at 10. (I mean that
literally
.)

Before I clock out, I hit the Deli again. Ranger’s wiping down displays. Admiring his butt, I watch him bend over the glass. After a few moments he notices me.

“Sorry, Sadie. I couldn’t break away.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t,
Richard
?” I call him by his real name to let him know I’m pissed.

“Don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you.”

Yes, you will.

“Okay, Dick. Meet me at the river when you’re done. By the picnic tables.” It’s not a question, not even an invitation. It’s a command.

He swipes the glass before saying, “Sure.”

Softening my tone, I say, “We’ll have fun. I’ll bring vodka.” And then I flash a smile.

“Okay. See you in about an hour.”

His shoulders drop about three inches as he relaxes.

My plan is falling into place, only a few more details I need to take care of.

I cruise past the check stands. It’s all self-checkout at this hour, so they don’t need baggers, I mean,
Courtesy Clerks.
I have plenty of other duties to occupy my time: emptying trash, restocking bags, cleaning check stands, returning shop-backs to their proper place, and there’s always conditioning the shelves.

Wendy is working self-checkout. And the security guy is standing by, checking
her
out. Everybody knows (except the security guy, apparently) that Wendy’s hung-up on Justus, so she’s all upset about the accident. (Overly dramatic, if you ask me.) Anyway, I doubt the security guy will score anytime soon. Earlier today, I asked Wendy if she knew when they were holding Justus’s funeral. She shouts, “That isn’t funny, Sadie!” Then she broke into tears, abandoned her check stand, and stomped into the break room—like I’d said something weird. Wendy’s been in the break room a lot today, sobbing on the couch; that’s why mascara is running off her chin. But the security guy is oblivious, sniffing around her like a dog, hoping to find fertile ground where he can plant his boner.

Personally, I’m glad the dude is occupied, so he won’t notice me. But, even if he’s busy monitoring Wendy rather than the store, the cameras keep recording. I’m pretty sure I’m safe. He won’t watch hours of nothing happening. A missing ear of corn will never be detected, and swiping a tub of fake butter is hardly a felony, but lifting a bottle of sleep aids might be noted, and in hindsight a missing bottle could be used as evidence. Receipts can be traced; I learned that from
CSI
.

Walking the aisles of Pharmacy, I condition bottles and boxes of various over-the-counter drugs, so I look like I’m doing my job. Conditioning involves pulling items forward, at least two deep, and lining them up for a waterfall effect. I zero-in on a bottle of Unisom Maximum Strength SleepGels. Turning my back to the camera, I slip the box into my apron.

Check my phone.

Time to meet Ranger.

Terri stands behind the Customer Service counter typing entries into a computer.

“I’m outta here,” I say as I punch my code into the time clock.

Without looking up, she says, “You got the bathrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“And the trash?”

“Uh-huh,” I lie. I forgot about the trash.

After clocking out, I pick up a jar of cranberry juice. It takes me a while to find it, since they moved juice from Aisle 6 to Aisle 4, plus I got sidetracked because several people asked me where to find spaghetti sauce, pickles, croutons. I choose the store brand juice, so my purchase qualifies for the employee discount, and pay for it at self-checkout. I always use self-checkout. Interacting with human checkers requires more effort.

Then I head to the break room, glad to find it empty. I close the door. ME TV is on the new flat screen TV we got as part of the remodel. An ancient episode of
I Dream of Jeannie
competes with Elvis Costello singing “Allison” over the intercom. I open the jar of juice, take a few gulps, then dump about half of it into the sink. I’ll spring for vodka at the liquor store. It’s an investment, but Ranger will be worth it. I sit at the table where we eat lunch, push someone’s forgotten container of chicken bones out of the way, and notice the latest
Gazette.
My hand shakes when I pick up the newspaper. A photograph of Justus stares at me from the front page. If I actually read the article and learn the details of his death, chances are I’ll go into convulsions. I set the paper at the far end of the table, cover his face with chicken bones.

My hands tremble so badly, I have trouble opening the Unisom. I dump about a dozen SleepGels onto the table. Using the box cutter they gave me when I worked in Produce, I slice into a pill and nearly cut myself. I breathe deeply, forcing myself to focus on the task, and squeeze the gelcap’s contents into the jar of cranberry juice. I repeat the process fourteen times.

The door opens, and I quickly slip the bottle of Unisom into my apron.

“I thought you left a while ago,” Terri says.

“Just collecting my stuff.” I point to the half-empty jar of cranberry juice. “Needed to hydrate before riding home.”

She sits across from me, pushes aside the container of chicken bones, and picks up the newspaper.

“So weird about Justus,” she says. “I can’t believe it.”

“Heart attack?”

“No. Says here, ‘possibly an accident.’”

“What does that mean,
possibly
?”

Terri reads aloud, “‘Police continue to investigate.’” She glances at me. “You look flushed. Are you all right?”

“Just tired.”

Preparing to leave, I reach for my helmet.

Nose back in the paper, Terri mumbles, “Guess they’ll be looking for a new Assistant Manager.”

“You applying?” I ask.

“Hadn’t thought about it. Maybe.”

I strap on my helmet, thinking about how I’d like to take this jar of cranberry juice and smash Terri’s head. But that would put a damper on my plans.

“So,” I say, “what, exactly, are the cops investigating?”

“The cause of the accident. It may have been a hit and run, or even intentional. Says here, ‘Police are canvassing the neighborhood for possible witnesses.’” Her eyes meet mine, and the contents of my stomach lurches back into my mouth. To keep it down, I take a swig of juice. “You live on River Road, don’t you, Sadie?”