November 16th 8:02 p.m.
My interview was at nine in the evening. I didn’t care to find it odd as I pulled on my best pair of faded blue jeans in preparation. The position was for night shift anyway and the hour wasn’t an inconvenience. Nothing awaited me but unfinished artwork and unenthusiastic masturbation. Winding my hair into my usual uncaring style, I brushed my teeth and called it good, refusing to offer any more effort than they did with their lax scheduling.
Trading the warmth of my apartment for the outside frost triggered daydreams of beaches; cool ocean foam running over hot sand, the glare of an eager sun and a line of azure sea. Anything to detract from the sensory overload that was public transit in winter: The cheap tires on underfunded pavement felt like riding a tin can, scars of constant use measured in scuffs and stains, the strangers’ eyeglass.
I plugged headphones into my ears, broadcasting my choice to opt-out of societal jargon. Five stops later, I skipped through the retracted doors and onto the sidewalk. The seventies era Foodway was ill-lit on the already dark street, a few fluorescent letters flickering over the snow-seasoned parking lot.
I thought the old place had character. That said, a lot of odd things triggered my curiosity.
Inside was pleasantly warm. I drifted toward the dull beep-beep of scanning barcodes, standing to the side until the woman behind the counter bade a customer farewell and turned to me.
“Hi, I’m Ada," I introduced myself. "I have an interview with a Mr. Roth.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Hi sweetie, I'm Mary. His office is down that way on the left.”
I almost asked right there, but decided to humor her reaction, locating the door with a plaque labeled Manager and knocking. I entered when he called.
"Well, hello." His intake of my appearance was greedy and obvious. “You must be Ada.”
You must be kidding.
"Mr. Roth?" I guessed, understanding Mary’s earlier disdain.
"Please, call me Harrison." He was eager for a handshake.
When seated on opposite sides of his disorganized desk, he began with a question; “So, why did you apply here?” which quickly devolved into a monologue; “You know, I've been managing this place for eight years. I got my first job when I was around seventeen…”
He detailed lifeguard duty as an athletic young man, the trials and tribulations every privileged male encounters when they don’t finish college, ending with his superior position as a grocery store manager. I didn’t miss the way Harrison tried to look past my winter gear to the shape of my body, or the small picture of a half-naked model that hung by his computer.
The idea of getting up and walking out played in my head as he mansplained taking inventory and the universal technique of rotating stock. “… That’s how we do it here, and it works just fine: I’ve been doing this for a long time. As such, I’m also an excellent judge of character.”
He finally stopped talking as he reached into a desk drawer. “Do you want the job, Ada?” Harrison concluded, extending me a navy-green apron.
Hired on the spot. I’d have felt proud if it wasn’t this guy offering a red flag on a silver platter. I had nothing to lose if I declined—in fact, perhaps a few things gained—but after a flash of internal debate, I found myself reaching for the uniform.
“If you have time, I can give you the tour now.”
With his offer, the store abruptly felt a lot different. Employees Only meant Enter Here, everything previously off-limits now in my realm of responsibility. My presence felt as vital as the role of a triangle player in a symphony.
I followed Harrison through a break room with fixtures as vintage as the rest of the place before he led me further into the back-end of the store. “This is the receiving room. Everyone is cross-trained and has the same responsibilities--with the exception of Simon who handles deliveries and maintenance.”
He led me past a pair of identical teenagers wielding box cutters. “Oscar, Hector, this is Ada.” I only had time to wave a greeting as Harrison continued his stride. The young twins gave me the same sympathetic smile Mary did.
Through crates and boxes, we stopped near a loading dock.
“Simon!”
The man Harrison called out to was pulling shut a large roll-up door. He secured the lock, then turned to us, his baby blue eyes contrasting his pitch black beard.
“This is Ada. Starting tomorrow Mary will be training her on the front, then you’ll show her everything in the back.” Harrison spoke, then quickly dismissed him, imploring I follow with a turn of his heel.
