Smile

The World is a Bloated Corpse

"How was lunch?"

"Good." I scan the front end. There are no lines. Dave has a guy from paint on the register. "Wow, this place is...under control."

He shrugs and hands the front end mobile phone to me. "You used to have it under control too."

I scoff. "When?"

"When you were head cashier. This place went to shit when they promoted you."

Sighing, I slip the phone into my apron. I know he's right.

"What happened?" he asks. "It's the same job. Step up, but the same job."

I shake my head and lean against the terminal in the center of self-checkout. I watch a blonde woman flip through the sample boards of carpet on the opposite side of the main aisle. I actually liked working in flooring. If the department sup wasn't such a massive dick, maybe I would have stayed there. I liked the customers and the work anyway.

"You don't really talk anymore either," Dave presses. "You used to come in and talk my ear off. I couldn't even use the flooring computer without you telling me your life story."

A flash of heat in my cheeks. "Sorry I bothered you," I mutter.

He stares at me for a moment and I shift under his scrutiny. "No. No, I liked it. You were annoying but sort of fun. Now it's like you don't want to be here."

The words burst out of me. I don't plan them, and yet, suddenly, there they are, hanging in the air between us. "I don't want to be anywhere."

And now it's Dave who is sighing. This short black man ten years my senior who used to always smirk when he talked to me. Now he doesn't smirk. He avoids me. And it's not that I care all that much, because I always found him a bit annoying too. What bothers me is that he isn't the only one who avoids me now. It occurs to me that I am the asshole.

"Listen..." Dave looks around and then lowers his voice. "I don't think you're cut out for this, Claud."

A contractor approaches self-checkout. A regular. I see him everyday. I give him a wave and he shoots me a thumbs up, before he starts scanning.

I don't meet Dave's eyes. "I got a good six month review."

He barks out a laugh. "Yeah, because nobody wants this job. Front end sup is the worst DH position. The last three walked out in the middle of a shift and didn't come back."

"No," I correct. "Lindsey-"

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Two walked out without notice and one had a literal heart attack in the middle of a shift."

"Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get one too."

He doesn't say anything and I finally do look over at him. The expression on his face makes something slithering unfurls itself deep down in my belly. "Claud...I'm sorry I didn't want to cover you."

"It's-"

"Stop talking. Listen. Do you..." He runs a hand over his shaved head and furrows his brow.

"Do I what?"

"I don't know. Do you want the number to the Care line?"

That slithering something stiffens and the violently thrashes.

"The Care line?" I mutter. Everything feels so dead and rotten. Like all the word is a bloated corpse. "That corporate therapy hotline?"

"Yeah. You might need to talk to someone."

Damn it all. I haven't been faking it well enough. Nobody actually wants to hear how you feel. They just want you to pretend to be happy, because when you're not happy it's uncomfortable for them. Bottle all that sadness up. Put it away. Keep it away from respectable folks. Only let it out behind closed doors. Call the 1-800 number. That's what they're for. Call them. Call them. Now put on a smile. Put on a smile and say 'yes, everything is fine, everything is fine.'

I drag a smile onto my face. I force it to meet my eyes. The effort drains me.

"I'm okay, Dave. Thanks."

He looks relieved. "Good. You can do this, Claud. I-"

A sharp crack snaps like a whip and we both jump. 

I don't have time to make sense of what I'm seeing. A flurry of sparkles and dust rises into the air. And then, it's coming back down. A glittering storm falling and on instinct, I drop to my knees and cover my face.

A thin mist of something rains over me, coating my shoulders. Sharp prickles hit my skull and the back of my head.

Someone yells and there's a clattering, then feet pounding over concrete.

The falling mist has stopped. I uncover my face and stand.

In the middle of the self-checkout registers there are three shattered fluorescent tubes. A guy with a red face and wide eyes, stands there looking down at them.

"Dude, you okay? Oh man, I'm sorry."

He's talking to Dave. Dave is doubled over, holding his face.

"Fuck. This shit is in my eyes," he groans.

"Crap." I look around. All activity has stopped. There's a line at the register next to self-checkout, but the guy from paint has stopped scanning. I dart over and shut his light off. He gapes at me. "Take self," I say. "I'm gonna bring Dave to the eye wash station."

He nods and mercifully, none of the customers pitch a fit that the register they've been waiting for is getting shut down. He grabs a broom and starts sweeping up all the small crystals of glass, while I take Dave by the arm and we slowly make our way to the eye wash station at the end of the registers.

"We're almost there. Keep cool."

"Fuck," he mutters. "I been the DH of electrical for eight years and managed not to once break one of those damn things."

"That's Home Warehouse," I sigh. "Whatever can go wrong..."

We've reached the station. I turn on the water and continue to hold Dave's arm as he flushes his eyes.

Finally, he raises his head and blinks a pair of very irritated brown eyes. He pulls his arm away and mutters, "Think I'm good."

"You sure? You can see?"

"I can see. I'll be alright."

We part ways there and head back to self-checkout. I release a hiss of air as something singes my skin. I touch my neck.

It's the butterfly necklace. It's hot.

I pull it away from my skin, only a moment later, it's perfectly cool. Exactly the temperature that a piece of plastic costume jewelry should be.

It must be my lack of sleep...I really have to stop with these long shifts.