MR. SALESFLOOR, PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT OF THE STORE
It starts with a C; of that much he’s certain. Sometimes he thinks he’s about to remember—and he reaches out into the darkness, so satisfying it will be when he finally takes hold of it—but the answer is always just beyond his grasp.
When I find him, he’s fallen to the floor, sitting at the center of an expanding circle of soft drink and broken glass. The liquid fizzes as the CO2 is released. A stream of blood trails from the cut on his hand, turning the clear soda pink. There’s a rolling cart of soft drinks next to an open refrigerator door. It breathes cool air onto his face and arms as he tries to stand. He steadies himself, using the lowest shelf to help him up, being careful not to send another avalanche of bottles crashing to the floor. He teeters to the side a bit, searching for his balance. He moves carefully around the puddle, taking another moment to collect himself before walking to the end of the aisle. As he does, the announcement sounds from The Store’s speaker system.
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
Ahkeem looks up only for a moment before walking deeper into The Store. I follow him, side-stepping the pool of soda and blood as best I can. He stops at a phone at the end of the aisle and dials out to the speaker system. Clean up on aisle eight, he says. He hangs up the phone and continues walking. I wait for the announcement to project through The Store’s speaker system, but it never does.
The aisles are a labyrinth of twists and changing numbers. After a while, The Store got tired of using the same countable suspects, so some isles are labeled with fractions or square roots. Some have negative numbers or square roots of negative numbers, so they’re imaginary. Some are mathematical constants like pi or Euler’s number.
It’s better to just follow the signs if you need to get to a specific destination; it’s best not to have a destination at all.
Ahkeem walks past Appliances, Clothing and Office Supplies. When he reaches Home Furnishing, he sits down in one of the leather lounge chairs and closes his eyes. The chair recognizes him; it bends and flexes to fit his body. His hand is still bleeding. I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He opens his eyes and looks up at me. What are you doing here? He asks.
I could ask you the same question, I say. He stands and we hug. I keep holding him after his grip begins to loosen. His grip tightens again until both of us pull away.
It’s great to see you, I say. I’ve missed you.
I’ve missed you too, he says.
Seriously though, why are you here? I ask.
The work never ends, he says, chuckling. You hungry? He asks. I nod and follow him deeper into The Store.
He always got his sandwiches from The Store’s deli. They knew his usual and they would always cut the sandwich into uneven halves, that way he never had to choose for himself which side to eat first. He’d always start with the smaller half, leaving the larger half to eat later. His future self always appreciated being left the larger half and his present self always appreciated being saved the burden of a choice.
What does he do now, now that The Store is his home, his present, his future, the entire scope of his reality?
His sandwich is waiting on the counter when he arrives. There’s no one else in sight. We need chips, he says as he grabs the sandwich and moves to the snack food aisle. You know something, I’ve always preferred The Store’s brand over the rest, he says, looking at me to try to gauge my opinion. I point to his hand. He follows my finger to his palm, which is still bleeding. There’s a trail of red on the floor marking his walking path. Oh dear, I forgot, he says before grabbing a bag of Store brand plain, unsalted potato chips and walking back to Home Furnishing. He pulls a fresh towel from the shelf, wraps his hand up tightly, hands me the sandwich and chips and walks to the back of the store to grab a mop and bucket. Once he has them, he walks backwards from Home Furnishing, cleaning his blood from the floor.
We walk to a walnut dining room table and sit across from each other. We have this same set at home, he says. I manage a slow nod and half a smile as he offers me the choice of which sandwich half I want. I take the larger half and a handful of chips.
Do you remember the family picnic that The Store held in the parking lot every year for the Fourth of July? I ask. His mouth is full of sandwich so he just nods.
You would always fall asleep before the fireworks started, he says after swallowing.
The noise would wake me up, I say, finishing his thought. He nods, touching a chip to his tongue so that it sticks there. When we’re finished, I gather up the wrappers and throw them into the nearest trash can. Will you come outside with me? Take a walk? I ask. Maybe we can find some fireworks.
I’d love to, he says, but I’ve still got work to do here.
Dad, this place is no good. This isn’t your job; you don’t work here. You haven’t worked in the real store in a long time. Please come with me.
He looks at me and smiles. Then the smile changes, becomes more knowing. His brow furrows and he leans in.
I can’t leave. It’s in here somewhere and I’m going to find it. The work I do for me, keeps me busy. Once I find it, I’ll be along. I promise, he says. We hug again. When we separate, I try to hide the tears. He doesn’t seem to notice as he turns and walks away. I clear my throat so that I can speak again.
I love you, I say. He stops and turns around again.
I love you too, he says before disappearing into Sports & Fitness. I walk to the check out counters.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
He stands seven feet tall in his forklift. Normally someone with Ahkeem’s position wouldn’t be expected to operate the forklift, but—having worked at the store for so long—he collected many jobs that were never and then became his. Ahkeem C. Salesfloor is what’s written on his name tag. There used to be a dash between the C. and the Salesfloor, but it faded overtime, so that now it reads like a name to the casual observer.
I find him standing in front of the wall of plaques for Employee of the Month. Here the wall—unbound by space or time—is allowed to stretch as long as it needs so that it’s able to display every winner since The Store first opened. The wall curves away from us like the surface of a bubble. Ahkeem is standing in front of one of his own plaques—December—and that too reads Ahkeem C. Salesfloor, as do the other eleven. He used to promise himself that he’d get one of each month. He won January twice, but February always managed to elude him. In all his pictures, he’s wearing the same shirt, the same pants, the same name tag. Blood drips from the cut on his palm. With his other hand he rubs his finger over the engraved letters of his name.
I’d rather not see you right now, he says. I’m not having a good day.
I need to speak to you, I say.
I have so much work to do, he says.
Then let me help, I say. He nods and we walk to the warehouse in the back, to the stacks of surplus that reach as high as skyscrapers. The sound of the forklift rips through the silence as we load boxes of candles, coasters, books and small appliances onto a rolling dolly, which we wheel to Home Furnishing. We refill the shelves and hooks with product. We work silently for a while, until Ahkeem starts humming to himself. Maybe he’s forgotten that I’m here.
You should have gotten that promotion, I say.
But I didn’t. You did, he answers. He’s wrapped his hand up so that it won’t bleed onto the merchandise.
It was such a long time ago. A lifetime. Literally.
So why bring it up?
I still feel bad about it and I don’t want to be the reason that you can’t… I trail off as Ahkeem stops working and stares at me, almost daring me to finish my thought.
I just wanted to apologize. I don’t want there to be anything left unsaid between us, I say.
Then apologize, Ahkeem says. I square to face him and clear my throat.
I’m sorry, I say. Ahkeem walks over to me.
Apology accepted, he says and reaches out his good hand to shake mine. We finish restocking and Ahkeem is on the move again. I follow closely. As we walk I hear the sound of a baby crying. It sounds like it’s only a few aisles away, but sound is misleading here. It carries. I could walk in a straight line toward the crying and never find it.
We pass a samples stand.
What do we have today? Ahkeem says. There’s no one in sight, only a table with small paper plates, each with two mozzarella sticks and a small cup of marinara sauce. Behind the counter is a freezer with stacks of the same product. The samples stands move through The Store like pop up shops. They’ll appear in front of a freezer of food and suddenly populate with whatever item is contained within that freezer. Ahkeem takes a sample, dips the stick and takes a bite. Very good, he says and offers it to me. I wave it away. He finishes the sample and deposits the plate into the nearest trash can as he continues walking. When I look back, the samples stand has reset itself.
We arrive at the manager’s office. It’s unlocked and empty. Ahkeem walks over to the filing cabinets, which take up an entire wall and are alphabetized with large letters chiseled on the front. He moves to the cabinet labeled with a C, thumbing through each of the folders in the three drawers and slamming each of them closed once he reaches the end of the stack. I manage to read a few of the names on the tabs. They all have a first name and an initial, followed by a job title: customer service, checkout counter.
Not here, he says and moves over to the cabinet labeled S, opening the second drawer from the top. The cabinet is full of names ending in Salesfloor. Without reading the tabs, he pulls a file from the beginning of the line and throws it on the desk, where it falls open. The file contains copies of all of his paychecks. He reads the name on each one. They’re all the same: Ahkeem C. Salesfloor. Not here either, he says, dejected. Even the folder is labeled Ahkeem C. Salesfloor. He arranges the receipts into a neat pile and closes the folder before returning it to the filing cabinet.
I suppose I’m in here somewhere too, I say.
Curious?
No, not really, I say. He makes a slight snorting sound through his nose and looks around the room again.
Ahkeem, why don’t we go and get a drink, huh? I know a great bar not too far from here.
Thanks, but I’m not finished here yet. Rain check? He asks.
Sure, I say. We shake hands and he walks back into the center of The Store. I walk to the check out counters, exiting the way I came in.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We were married for thirty-one years before it happened. Thirty-two years? Twenty-three years? The numbers are so hard to keep in place.
I walk through the aisles for hours before I find him. I try to follow the trails of blood on the ground but they’re unreliable. They split off and stop randomly. There are large collections of blood where he must have stopped and stood for some length of time, along with discarded towels covered with blood that have been left on the floor. I walk from section to section, ignoring Electronics entirely. He’s never there. He doesn’t like the news. The walls of televisions make it impossible to avoid.
I find him humming in the center of Gardening. Then he starts singing. He’s watering the flower beds and potted plants. He pays particular attention to the orchids. Nothing seems to have grown or moved or died since I last visited. Everything merely persists. The hose is wrapped around him like a serpent and then trails off out of sight. I walk past a line of Venus Flytraps; each of their mouths is closed around a squirming cricket. The box from which they came sits on the shelf above. The crickets that weren’t picked witness their future over and over again the longer they’re not chosen. Ahkeem has a beautiful singing voice. I wait for him to finish.
Our song? I ask. Ahkeem looks up when he hears me and smiles.
What else? He answers.
You look different, I say.
Do I? How so?
You look distant, I say.
Oh, he says and aims the hose at me. I squeal and jump back out of instinct. The stream of water ends a foot shy of where I was standing. He chuckles.
Did you cut your hair? he asks.
Ages ago, I say, running my hands through it and testing its length.
I like it, he says.
It’s almost grown back.
I like it, he says again. He takes one of the orchids and hands it to me. I take his hand and lead him to Home Furnishing. We fall onto a bed. I kick at all of the decorative pillows until they fall to the floor; I kick at Ahkeem’s and my clothing until the pieces fall to the floor. He kisses me along the usual path, moving from my lips to my collar bone and downward. At the end of the path, he moves inside of me. He holds me by the hips as the bed shakes with his movements. The soundtrack of our moaning begins like a well-worn vinyl and comes to a crescendo as we climax together. We fall back to the bed and he holds me, running his coarse hands along my skin. After enough time has passed, I begin to dress.
Will you come to bed? I ask. He looks at me and then back at the bed.
We’re in bed, he says.
No, our bed, I say. He nods his understanding.
I’ll be along momentarily, he says. I need to finish something. I sigh and finish dressing. Once I’m done, I walk over and sit down next to him on the bed.
Ahkeem, I can’t wait for you any longer. I need to move on, I say.
Oh, he says.
Please, come with me. I take both of his hands in mine. He looks toward the front of The Store and then to his shirt, lingering on the name tag pinned to his chest.
Tell me what it is. If I know, then I can leave, he says, a desperate plea in his eyes.
I’m sorry, Ahkeem, I can’t remember. You don’t need it though. Please, just come with me.
I want to, he says. There’s nothing I want more, but I can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry. I exhale one long breath and secretly hate myself for thinking that he would answer any differently. Hope makes fools of us all. I stand and he stands with me. I kiss him once more; when I pull away, I’m crying. Our hands stay laced until I start walking away. They stretch like gum, trying to remain entwined, but eventually I turn a corner and find that I’m clutching nothing but air. I watch him dress and make the bed. He walks to Appliances. I follow him, but keep my distance. He has a basket of bloody towels that he empties into a washing machine. He measures out a cap of detergent and adds some bleach before closing the top of the machine and pressing start. The machine comes to life and begins its shaking dance. From Appliances, Ahkeem moves to the Liquor Department and grabs a bottle of bourbon before moving back to Home Furnishing and sitting down in his favorite brown lounge chair. He drinks until he falls asleep. I still have the orchid in my hands. It’s a pale white with crimson accents. I set it down on the table next to the lounge chair and lean in to kiss Ahkeem’s forehead. He exhales and I can taste the bourbon on his breath.
I make my way to the checkout counters and exit into the unknown.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
I find him in the Pharmacy. He’s looking through the shelves of medication. Eventually he finds the bottle that he wants and places it into his pocket.
Excuse me, I say, approaching the man. His hand is dripping blood.
Yes? He answers.
Can you help me? I’m looking for the Baby Department.
Follow me, he says. He carries his own blood in his hand, leading me into the center of the store. The pill bottle rattles from inside his pocket. The colors change to pastel blues, pinks and greens. There are painted clouds on the high ceiling; they look to be moving. There’s a series of cribs lined up in a grid and surrounded on all sides by towering shelves of diapers, baby food and toys. I’m drawn to one with a plastic solar system mobile over it. It’s playing a digital version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It has eight planets spinning circles around the sun. I walk up to the crib and gaze in. There’s a baby wrapped in thick blankets. Its eyes are flickering open and closed as it falls asleep. The man looks at me from across the crib and smiles.
Isn’t it beautiful? he whispers. I nod.
What’s its name? I ask.
I don’t know.
You haven’t named them?
No, no. Can’t do that, he says. I take the baby in my arms. Can I help you with anything else? He asks.
No, thank you, Mr. Salesfloor, I say after reading his name tag.
Please, he says, call me Ahkeem.
You know, I think they made an announcement earlier asking you to the front of the store, I say.
I know. I’m on my way.
Okay, I say. Thank you again. I start moving toward the front of The Store, but Ahkeem he stops me.
I’m sorry ma’am, but you can’t take that with you.
Why not?
The babies aren’t for sale. Only the equipment. No, I’m afraid the babies must remain here, but you’re welcomed to stay here as long as you like and spend time with them. I’m sure they’d enjoy that. Usually all they see is my ugly mug, he says. He then leans in carefully and takes the baby from me and places it back into the crib.
I see, I say.
If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask, he says and starts moving to the back of The Store. I walk back to the crib and take the baby in my arms again. Just a bit longer; I’ll stay just a little bit longer.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
I find him in the Pet Department. There’s a line of metal cages along the back wall. Ahkeem is tending to the cage of puppies. They climb over each other, scrambling for his attention. There’s a small playpen adjacent to the line of cages. Ahkeem opens the door to the puppy cage and shepherds them into the circle. He begins cleaning. He clears the old soiled newspapers from the floor. He vacuums up dog hair and stray kibble; he collects all of the toys and places them into the box where they belong; he mops the floor and moves to a stack of fresh newspaper off to the side. They’re all the same publication—The News—which is The Store’s own newspaper. The headlines read as follows: Hanukkah Havoc, Memorial Day Mayhem, President’s Day Pandemonium, Mother’s Day Madness, Labor Day Disarray, Halloween Hullabaloo, Flag Day Frenzy, Thanksgiving Turmoil and Christmas Catastrophe. Each one is written in enormous capital letters that take up the entirety of the space above the fold. Below it the paper enumerates all of the sale items that The Store has on offer for that particular promotion. He picks up one newspaper at a time, unfolds it and places it down along the floor of the cage. He continues like this until the entire ground is covered.
I climb into the puppy pen and play with them as Ahkeem is cleaning. When he’s done, he turns back to the puppies and notices me. I’m lying on the ground with two puppies licking my face and six climbing on me. He leaves me with them and moves onto the next cage, cleaning the kitten, hamster, rabbit and bird cages in turn. When the birds see him they begin to speak.
Mr. Salesfloor. Mr. Salesfloor, they say.
Can you say nothing else? He queries.
Mr. Salesfloor. Nothing else. Mr. Salesfloor, they answer back.
When he’s finished with the birds, he moves onto the monkeys. There are five of them: a capuchin, a marmoset, a baboon, a howler and a rhesus. Ahkeem always calls the rhesus monkey Pieces and then he laughs at his clever word play. They wear tweed jackets and eyeglasses. Each one is seated in front of a typewriter. Their hands are covered in ink and feces. They punch away at the keys, occasionally stopping to replace the paper, which they either crumple up or set neatly in a stack next to them. When Ahkeem arrives at their cage they release their ire, throwing their crumpled pages and balled feces at him. Ahkeem waits patiently for the onslaught to end. Eventually they calm down and Ahkeem is able to clean the floor around them, picking up the crumpled pieces of paper and placing them into a recycling bin. He mops the floor and removes the empty liquor bottles, some of which are just piles of sharp glass where the monkeys have thrown them against the bars of the cage. He’s careful not to cut himself; he’s wrapped up the cut on his hand so that it doesn’t bleed as he’s working. The monkeys—empty of their ire for the time being—focus on their work, punching away vigorously. The carriages of their typewriters ding in perfect synchronicity.
Ahkeem walks back to the puppy pen and leads them back into their cage. I hold a Dalmatian puppy in my arms, counting it’s spots: zero; zero; zero; zero. I hand it to Ahkeem when he’s finished. He closes the door to the cage as the puppy falls asleep in his arms.
We arrive at Home Furnishing. The puppy is gnawing at Ahkeem’s thumb. Ahkeem, I say, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. I’m very proud of you, I say.
Thank you, he answers. I was thinking of barbecuing tonight, he says as he points to a grill. Are you hungry?
Actually, I was thinking you might want to go out for dinner. We can go to your favorite restaurant. What do you think?
I think I want to barbecue, he says. You should come over.
I’ll be there, I say. He smiles and walks off, still holding the puppy in his arms.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
I find him in Hardware. He’s sanding down a piece of wood. His shirt has a dark collar of sweat. There’s a pool of sawdust at his feet. He’s staring into the distance. He never looks at the wood. He’s mouthing something, his eyes narrowed. See, see, see, see, see, he says. He never knows what it is. He only knows what it’s not. I call his name. He doesn’t stir. I keep calling until he finally hears me. He closes his eyes and shakes his head before looking over.
I almost had it that time, he says.
I’m sure you’ll remember it soon, I answer.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him in the Grocery Department. He’s pulling expired items and tossing them into a large cart that he pushes from aisle to aisle.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him at the on site Pizza Hut. He’s picking up three large pies and dipping sticks for the game. The order is waiting for him on the counter.
Did you see the game last night? He asks.
Which game?
The game.
No, we missed it, we say.
My team won, he says.
Our team lost?
Which one is your team?
Our team isn’t your team.
Then your team lost. Number eight had an amazing play. He caught the ball at just the right moment, when everyone thought that he would miss the ball. It was the first time anyone caught the ball while constipated after sneezing twice with their cleats double-knotted and a jelly stain on their uniform.
He was constipated? We ask.
Yeah!
And he still caught the ball?
Yeah!
Wow. Can’t believe we missed that.
Do you want to come over tonight? He asks.
We wouldn’t miss it, we say.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him in Toys & Books. He’s constructing a LEGO model of a castle from a country he’s never visited.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him at the on site dentist. Standard cleaning. Ahkeem sits in the chair, waiting for the dentist to arrive. He has a tube coming out of his mouth and a disposable bib draped around his neck. He’s speaking aloud, but his words are garbled and beaten. We can’t understand him.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him at the on site ophthalmologist. He needs a stronger prescription for his glasses.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
We find him at the on site cellular provider.
I’m considering an unlimited plan, he says.
º º º
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
Who’s going to tell him? We argue amongst ourselves for the privilege. The answer came—unlikely as it seems—from an old childhood acquaintance. She’ll tell him, of course. Yes. We all agree.
We search The Store, trying to view it as he will, for the last time. We find him in Home Furnishing. He’s asleep in his favorite rocking chair. Each item of furniture has a hand-written price tag hanging from it. There’s a mock porch with a wildflower mural directly across from him. He sits facing it but his eyes are closed. There’s a half-empty bottle of bourbon at his feet. Next to it is a dalmatian puppy gnawing on the leg of the chair. The dog perks up as we approach and sit down in the rocking chair next to Ahkeem. On his lap is a fresh copy of Hamlet, written on typing paper. It’s opened to Act 4, Scene 5. We search the open page and find the line: We know what we are, but know not what we may be. When we look up from the page, Ahkeem is awake and smiling. He offers us the bottle; we wave it away.
Ahkeem, we say. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t focus. We call his name again. We move aside to make room for her. She’s dressed in a black blazer and black skirt, with stockings running down to black heels. She’s wearing a large hat with flowers on it.
Hello Ahkeem, she says. I’m Claudette. You probably don’t remember me, but we were at the same summer camp together for years. Do you remember that camp by the lake? Every day we would make box stitch lanyard keychains. She produces one and hands it to him. I’ve only recently made this one, she says. The keychain is at least three feet long and made of black and white colored string.
Truth be told, Claudette continues, I always had a bit of a crush on you. Ahkeem takes the keychain in his hands and stares at Claudette. We watch quietly, trying not to move.
Anyway—she continues—they said you were here and I knew I had to visit. They said you couldn’t remember your last name. She leans in and whispers in his ear, too soft for us to hear. His face is shapeless. It twitches and shimmers between expressions. When she moves back, he is staring at her. He takes off her hat and places it down on the ground. The dalmatian puppy begins gnawing at the brim as soon as he releases it. With the hat gone he’s better able to look into her eyes. His face still hasn’t settled on an emotion. He shakes it clean like an Etch A Sketch.
That’s not it, he says, looking angrily at Claudette.
It is, she says.
I don’t know you, Ahkeem says.
You do, she says, looking back at us helplessly.
Ahkeem—we say—come with us. It’s time.
It isn’t, he says as he stands to leave. I don’t know you.
I’m Claudette. I know I must look different.
I don’t know you, he says again. The puppy hops along after him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.
Where are you going now? We ask.
To get a broom, he says. There’s a mess of broken glass in aisle eight. I saw it when I walked past there earlier. I keep telling them they should stop selling those damn glass bottles, but no one ever listens to me around here. The work never ends, he says and walks away.
What just happened? Claudette asks. Why doesn’t he believe me? No one has an answer for her.
Come along, we say. Let’s get out of here. She looks back and forth between us and Ahkeem.
You all go ahead. I’ll be right behind you. She follows after Ahkeem and the two disappear into The Store.
* * *
Mr. Salesfloor, please come to the front of The Store.
I hope I don’t find him here; it seems far too listless a place for anyone to live. The signs do not lead where they claim. I attempt a systematic approach only to find that The Store resists it, changing faster than the time it takes me to blink. I always hated places like this, a small city of bulk supplies. Why do we need so much crap?
I stumble over a length of stitched lanyard, pulled taut as it stretches the length of the aisle and wraps around the corner and out of sight. The lanyard is made of a series of contrasting colors—black and white, orange and green, blue and yellow. I find the spots where one set of strings ends and another begins. I follow it from aisle to aisle. It seems to go on forever. Could this be another trick of the space, The Store giving me something more concrete but equally endless to follow in futility?
It snakes around several adjacent aisles and finally I find a man hunched over the lanyard, working out a kink in the stitching.
Pardon me, sir. Is this yours? I ask. He looks up at me and smiles, shakes his head and points in the direction of the continuing path of the lanyard. I thank him and proceed around the corner, where there are two more people. A woman is sitting on the floor at the end of the lanyard, a long length of completed box stitch coiled at her feet. She’s holding four long strings in her hands and working intently. Further down the aisle a man is restocking the shelves. All of the bottles and packages have The Store’s branding on them, a pale grey color that permeates the entire space.
Excuse me, I say. The man looks over and smiles.
How many I help you? He asks.
Yes, I am looking for Robert, I say. The man nods.
The new kid, he says. Yes, please follow me.
Thank you, Mr…
Just call me Ahkeem, he says. He leads me deeper into the store. The woman trails behind both of us. She’s concentrating on her lanyard so she walks much slower. I walk with her, being careful not to trip on the line of lanyard.
What’s your name? I ask. She looks up from her stitching and smiles.
I’m Claudette. That’s my husband Warren, she says, motioning toward the one behind us. He nods when I look back at him and then returns his attention to the lanyard.
That’s quite a project you’re working on, I say.
She looks up at me and then at Ahkeem.
Oh, yes. Any day now he’ll come around, I’m sure of it, she says.
No, no, I meant— I trail off and motion toward the lanyard on the ground. She follows my hand and understands.
Oh, this? This I do simply to pass the time. I walk with them to the back of the Grocery Department. We stop in front of the Deli Counter. Ahkeem calls out and we wait. Eventually Robert appears from behind the tall glass counter. As Ahkeem approaches, he extends his hand and holds out a sandwich.
Here you go, Mr. Salesfloor, he says. The usual. Ahkeem takes the sandwich and nods.
Someone here to see you, Robert, Ahkeem says as he motions toward me. I thank the man and approach the counter as the three of them disappear down a nearby aisle.
What are you doing here? Robert says. He’s wearing a shirt for The Store and a white apron with a name tag, which reads Robert M. Deli Counter. There’s the faintest remnant of a dash between the M and the Deli Counter. I stand on my tip toes and lean over the counter.
You need to come with me right now, I say as a flash of recognition shapes his face into a smile.
Oh, it’s you. Thank goodness. You must tell me: what is it? I’ve only gone and forgotten.
What are you talking about? I ask. He looks back and forth between me and the Deli Counter and then down at his name tag. He leans in and whispers to me.
It starts with an M; I’m sure of it.
Andrew Daniel Dick’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Down in the Dirt and Bourbon Penn.