Fiction

April

Too Slow

Mark Gelbart

“Jesus Christ is nothing more than a version of the story in Greek mythology of Prometheus,” Harry said. He glanced at Cal and Ken. Cal was shucking the corn, Ken was putting the ears on styrofoam trays, wrapping them in plastic, and sealing the packages closed with a hot iron rod before stacking the packages in a grocery cart which when full, would be pushed out to the floor for stocking on an end cap.

“You know, you’re headed for hell if you keep spreading this athiest crap,” Cal said with a half-smile on his face.

“Hell is also a Zoroastrian myth. But let me tell you why Jesus is simply an adopted version of the story of Prometheus.”

“He need to lecture us ‘bout history. All that book learnin’ goin’ to waste working here at the Pig,” Ken said.

Cal snickered and Harry stayed silent for a minute. He was working the potato bin which entailed pushing a lever down with his foot, holding a ten pound sack open, and allowing gravity to fill the bag up with potatoes before he twist-tied it. The bin was triangular and tilted. When the bag was full he lifted his leg and a slot of wood blocked the opening on the bottom of the bin until he was ready with another bag. The job was physically laborious because periodically he had to fill the bin and this meant lifting one-hundred pound bags of potatoes over the bin and cutting the bags open with a knife. He didn’t mind the labor, but the minimum wage pay was an insult for a recently graduated history major. Nevertheless, a job in the produce department at Piggly Wiggly was the best he could presently do.

“Go ahead,” Cal said as if he was open to an intellectual discussion that would get them through the tedium of work, “tell us about Prometheus.”

“Prometheus was the creator of man, modeling him after the Gods. Sound familiar? Sounds like Genesis. Anyway, he gave man fire and helped men fool Zeus by sacrificing inferior parts of butchered meats to the Gods, while saving the best parts for themselves. Zeus found out and punished Prometheus for eternity by chaining him to a rock where, daily, a great eagle ripped out his liver, but because he’s immortal it grows back. He’s just like Jesus, suffering on the cross and dying for Man’s sins.”

“That’s interesting. I still say you’re headed for a toasty inferno,” Cal said.

“He better repent,” Ken said.

Sarge came strolling back, the sharp odor of his cologne making everyone stiffen as if his strict supervision had become associated with the smell. He stood by Harry and inhaled deeply and for a minute Harry wondered whether the man was trying to sniff for a semen spill so he could say, “Quit jerking off on the job.” The ex-Marine, a veteran of the Vietnam War, still wore his hair in a crew cut which was square and white as a fresh dusting of snow on a lawn. He’d been wounded in the war: a hearing aid was evidence of one injury, the other was hidden behind his zipper, though curiously he was oftentimes willing to show the remains of his manhood in the lavatory. Therefore, everyone held on to their bowels and bladders when they knew Sarge was in there.

“You’ve still got fifteen bags on the pallet in the back. You’re too slow. You need to finish packing these potatoes, I’ve got more work that needs to be done.”

Sarge turned around and looked at the sales chart on the wall. It compared the sales of all the produce departments of all the Piggly Wigglies in the region. He pointed to his bar on the graph and silently mouthed the numbers. Much to everyone’s relief, he went through the swinging doors to the floor.

“You heard the man, hurry up with them spuds, potato head. We’ve got to be the number one produce department in all the South,” Cal said.

“Fuck that asshole,” Harry growled under his breath.

“He jus’ like my coach. He think drivin’ people who be working for him make him a success. My coach yellin’ at me don’t make me work no harder,” Ken said.

“Your coach did get you that scholarship to Western Tech,” Cal said.

“Bull! That was my own hard work.”

“Either way, pretty soon you won’t have to see ole Sarge anymore,” Cal said.

“You got that right. I look at his ole ugly face much longer I gon’ go blind.”

Harry wished he had a promise of opportunity, an escape from the dull toil. Instead, his immediate future was more labor. The potato bin was low. He took the four-wheeled hand truck to the back of the warehouse. Joe, the stockroom supervisor, and his buddies—the high school age kids who apparently worshipped him—were sitting on the loading dock eating their bagged lunches. Joe muttered something to his friends and they laughed and watched Harry load the cart with the one-hundred pound bags of potatoes. Joe slid off the dock and swayed his hips.

“Ooh! Look at the tight pants Harry’s wearing. It makes his ass so sexy I just want to grab it. Oh! I feel so enticed by college boys wearing tight slacks.”

Harry continued working though the confrontation seemed unreal. The guy was simian, short and chunky, and had Aryan brotherhood tattoos on both forearms. He approached Harry, his hands out as if he was reaching for Harry’s behind.

“What’s this I hear about you being an atheist, college boy? You shouldn’t have a problem if I fuck that tight sexy ass of yours. Let’s have Godless homo sex. Since you’re an atheist, you ain’t go no morals anyway.”

Joe pressed closer and Harry was ready to slug him.

“Fuck you! College boy,” Joe said and he held both middle fingers up toward Harry. He retreated back to the approval of his admirers.

For a brief moment Harry fantasized playing basketball in college just like Ken. He was digging for artifacts in Greece. He was walking on a secluded beach. He was anywhere besides the inside of a Piggly Wiggly warehouse. He stacked the last bag of potatoes on the cart and rolled it back to the potato bin.

Harry mopped the floor of the produce department as fast as he could. New shopping carts were leaving black wheel tracks on the floor and just as soon as he’d mop behind one cart, another customer would roll in. Plus, there was sticky dried pineapple juice over by where Mrs. Nuttall cored the fruit. Harry was in a hurry because Lillith was about to clock out and he wanted to ask her out for a date. He raced his way swabbing left and right in front of the salad vegetables and turned the corner through the swinging doors to the warehouse. Sarge sat at his desk, studying a book on produce management.

“I finished mopping the floor,” Harry said. He leaned the mop against the wall, and the perspiration on his back and neck became clammy immediately.

Sarge turned off his reading lamp.

“Ok, college boy, let’s see how good a job you did.”

The delay annoyed and frustrated Harry and all he could do was anxiously wait, while Sarge carefully, anally inspected every corner and crevice. He was almost done when a middle-aged matron rolled a grocery cart in front of the apple aisle. She left black wheel marks behind.

“How could you’ve missed this?” Sarge asked.

“This wasn’t here when I mopped a few minutes ago.”

“Mop this, then you can go.”

Harry returned with the mop, discreetly following the lady who meticulously scribbled on her grocery list with every scallion bunch, butternut squash, and lettuce head she put in her cart. She stopped in front of the big table stacked high with bags of potatoes.

“Eeww! These potatoes are green from being exposed to light. They’re poisonous.”

“They’re not poisonous,” Harry said.

“They most certainly are. I’m not buying these,” she said.

Harry saw Lillith crossing the floor, headed for the time clock. If he ended the conversation soon enough, there would still be time to intercept her.

“I’ve got some in the back that haven’t been exposed to light. I can go get you a bag.”

“Well…ok.”

Harry rushed to the back, bagged the few potatoes left in the bin, and clocked out. Lillith was putting her windbreaker on in the lounge. He was ahead of her. He presented the woman with the fresh bag of potatoes and she thanked him and moved on, leaving black trail marks up the juice aisle which wasn’t Harry’s responsibility. Lillith passed in front of him and Harry’s heart seemingly bounced up his windpipe and lodged in his mouth. She was wholesome, dressed in a form-fitting white uniform that accentuated her womanly yet young hips. Her face was pure and familiar. Harry followed her out the door, but it seemed as if she purposefully turned her head away from him, refused to acknowledge his presence—a non-verbal kind of rejection. He was unable to spit one word out, at least not any words that he knew would lead to Lillith turning him down. Harry, feeling like a whipped dog, slipped behind the steering wheel of his car.

Harry slept in his bed beneath the dark blue comforter. He was deep into restorative sleep where there were no dreams, just rest in peace. The trailer he lived in by himself was cool because he refused to pay for heating oil, but under the covers he was comfortable. He would use the money he saved on heating oil to buy Christmas presents for his parents and sisters. He was off work the two days before Christmas, and he planned to spend the first day at the mall, shopping after getting drunk at the Liberty Bar and Grill next to the food court.

The phone rang, a rude cessation of bliss. Sarge cut Harry’s sleep short by at least one full cycle.

“I need you to come in today, pronto. You still have half a pallet of potatoes to finish bagging.”

In the state somewhere between unconsciousness and drowsiness, Harry agreed to work on his off day, only partially realizing his plans for the day were shot to hell. Harry collapsed back on the bed, still tired from the ten hour shift he’d put in the day before. The motivation to work for a lousy thirty bucks a day didn’t move Harry, and he dozed for another half-hour, not enough to replenish the sleep bank but a sufficient delay to be a symbol of protest, his idea of going on a little strike. The delay was justified. There was no emergency—the potato table was already full, stacked high with over a ton of potatoes; and the lady was right—green potatoes were poisonous. All of those potatoes exposed to visible light for weeks were growing poisonous and having a big table of potatoes was stupid. Sarge was stupid.

Harry finally got up, ate a leisurely breakfast, and drove to work.

Sarge greeted Harry with a look of furious hostility. But Harry knew Sarge couldn’t accuse him of being late when he wasn’t even supposed to work that day. Sarge used his foot to push a cart with two big boxes of apples in it toward Harry.

“Rotate these apples. Put the newer ones on the bottom and the older ones on top.”

Sarge marched to the swinging doors and Harry reluctantly began the tedious task. Half of the end cap had red delicious, the other half had golden delicious, and both were mushy because the season for those varieties was long past. Even the fresh ones in the box were mushy. Nevertheless, Harry moved the older ones toward the front, but he moved slowly, knowing that when he finished this task he would have six straight hours of standing in front of the potato bin, six straight hours of mind-numbing labor. Harry could almost feel his brain cells shrink at the thought of the intellectually un-stimulating activity.

Sarge returned to the floor and saw Harry’s slow movement. Anger spread across his face, turning it red as if a blood vessel had constricted, completely shutting down the sanguinary flow. He pointed his finger directly at Harry, bringing stares from Mrs. Nuttall, Cal, Ken, and Lillith who were all stocking the shelves of the produce department.

“You’ve got lots of work to do today. Finish these apples so you can bag those potatoes. That pallet should’ve been finished yesterday. You’re too slow.”

And Sarge marched off again.

There was something about the words “too slow” that bothered Harry. He remembered his childish dream of being a great athlete, and then seeing that dream crushed in high school upon discovering his speed was lacking—he was too slow. And the accusation that he was a slacker, that he couldn’t finish his workload also seemed unfair. His work behind the potato bin had constantly been interrupted the day before with mopping up the grocery cart wheel tracks.

Suddenly, Harry felt overwhelmed with boredom. The prospect of working a tedious job to exhaustion all day for a lousy thirty bucks, though unappealing, had been endurable. But now the boredom was intolerable. Sarge and his pointless pushing bored him. Lillith and her cold attitude bored him. Joe and his bullying hostility bored him. Working all day for a lousy thirty bucks bored him. Harry stared at the apples. If he moved another apple, he was certain he would drop dead of boredom.

Harry, literally bored to tears, started crying. He clocked out. Sarge stood in front of the potato bin and blocked him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I quit.”

“Let’s go back to my office and talk about this.”

Harry sniffled all the way back to Sarge’s desk.

“Look at you. You’re a grown man and you’re crying. I was only giving you a little constructive criticism. If you can’t take that, you’re never going to make it in a man’s world.”

You’re too slow, Harry thought, was not constructive criticism.

Harry could have said he was doing his best and if his best wasn’t good enough, there was no need to stay. But for a lousy thirty bucks a day, he wasn’t even motivated to explain himself. These kinds of jobs were a dime a dozen. He’d just find another. Without saying a word Harry turned and left and went through the produce department one last time. On the way out the door he looked into Ken’s eyes and he was surprised to find a newfound respect in them, even though he was crying, seemingly in disgrace.

“I’m quitting the pig,” he said.

“He quittin’ the pig,” Ken echoed.