NationStates Jolt Archive

I remember the first time I applied to Giant Eagle Grocceries. A household name in Southwest PA as familiar as the back of your hand. It was late spring just before I graduated from my sophmore year. I didn't have a car then so I relied on transportation via my mother's Subaru Legacy. When we entered Norwin Hills Plaza, taking a left off of Route 30, a highway lined with bustling businesses ranging from pay-by-the-hour shabby motels to full blown hardware stores and computer outlets. The massive sprawling blacktop parking lot seemed daunting like the Sahara desert or some other natural and unforgiving barrier. Luckily, I was not a Bedoin trader but a 16 year old kid looking for a Summer job.

Adjacent to Giant Eagle there's a toy store, Chinese Restaraunt, and several other businesses connecting to it but all paled in comparison to the in your face bold red neoen lettering of GIANT EAGLE. It was plain, simple, and overpowering to the senses. Walking beneath the sign made you feel inferior, like it was a privelage given to you by some higher power to get your buy one get one free deals or a rotissery chicken for dinner. I myself, felt this affect but persisted anyways through the cool blast of air conditioning and into the nerve center of our groccery shopping local giant. A cavernous space with signs dangling high from the factory-esque ceiling, full of vents, air conditioning grates, and miscellaneous pipes and spriklers. I took a gulp and approached the front business counter which multi tasked as the drug store/ cigratte area. It was a quaint little hypocritical sight that caused me to smile and stillc auses me to smile when I see it. One side gives you medicine to make you feel better while the other side sells cancer-enducing sticks of death (If you can't tell from that statement: I'm a non-smoker).

Anyways, that is neither hear nor there. I politely requested an application, instead; I got a telephone number that I had to call in order to apply. The woman, older with sagging breasts and the look of "I've given up" hardly said a word and viewed me as a...pest.

Back home, I felt confused at the complexity of the automated job application system that I faced and suffered. Repeated attempts to make it through and saty awake. At some points, I desired nothing more than to rip the phone from the plug and smash it into the wall. The automated female voice mocked me. The more I became flustered and angered, the voice remained calm and in control. An unfair judger of my temporary career at the store! Finally, I finished and the final message was "You will be contacted if you are accepted". I eagerly anticipated a call from somebody important at the store.

3 Days Later...

"Eric, telephone!" my mother's familiar and audible voice emminated from the kitchen. I scampered up from the basement, putting down a rather interesting book.

"Hello?" I asked dully, as usual. My mother continued cooking dinner, breaded chicken. Always a fail-safe option.

"Is this Eric Lansgaar?" asked a voice who struggled to pronounce my Scandinavian last name.

"Yeah" I reply, rolling my eyes. That unsure voice is something myself and my family have grown acustomed to hearing. Though it stings to hear, it's the norm when we meet those who don't know us.

"Oh, great!" relief poured through his throat, "I'm Paul Hamilton, Assistant Manager at Giant Eagle. I'm just calling to try and set up a good time fro you to come in for a short little interview. When would be best for you?" Westbrook asked.

"Today, I guess" I shrugged my shoulders to add effect to my words, even though he couldn't see it.

"Okay, can you come down around 4pm?" Mr.Hamilton asked, he probably looked at his watch.

"Sure, I'll be there" I replied, "Thank you very much"

"Alrighty, see you then, bye" and he hung up.

Later that day...

My interview with Mr.Hamilton was uneventful for the lack of a better term. He worked with Giant Eagle for the past twelve years, basically at the same store. His short, neat hair, black farmed glasses, and overall air of "I'm a tool" summed him up in my mind as a square. A neat little box that stuck to its' predetermined angles, never bending in other directions. I doubt he even thought outside the box. It didn't matter, I doubted I would see much of him over the summer so I sat up straight, answered politely and honestly. He asked if I ever smoked weed. It was more like:

"Have you..." he leaned in, as if to tell me a deeply kept secret that only I was privy to hearing, 'Ever smoke marijuana?" his eyebrows arched, lips quivered in pain from uttering that phrase. I replied:

"Nope, I listen to the anti-drug commercials and my parent's regular talks with me over the subject."

This answer secured my spot as a stock boy at Giant Eagle, I started the next week...

(OOC: Feel free to post comments and criticism. I welcome both positive and negative feedback)

Well, my first summer working at Giant Eagle was a growing experience. Although a less than nurturing enviroment, it had that quality that resounded the nostalgia of yesteryears. Neat rows of stocked items, always clean and shiny floors, easy smiles and excellent service from those who worked directly with customers. I, on the other hand; worked behind the scenes. An invisible shadow that appeared and disappeared without a beep on the radar. Unloading trucks, bustling with new stocks, bulk items, and frozen foods. Stocking the shelves, even though you're out in No Man's Land, is still an invisible job. I can't begin to tell you how many times people grabbed items all around me, almost shoving me out of the way as if I wasn't there, just to get their Dill Pickles or cat food.

Returning to the trenches after a bloody assault was a welcomed relief. I met some cool people like Kaz. No one knew his real name and he told even fewer people. He shook my hand hard and sloppily, saying: "Hey, I'm Kaz" the words muffled out from behind a lite Camel Lite cigarette that was half ash. His name tag even said Kaz. He's a cool guy with a casual/slacker attitude. He wasn't lazy by any means, just a slacker who lulled around a little longer or lingered on a spill that he was tasked in cleaning, or getting me to do it. Me being to optimistic newbie. he taught me how to buck the system but remain below the radar. I think he's a year or two older than me, must not be going to college or just takes community classes from time to time. He was tall, with black hair, scruffed face, rather pale skin. His demeanour stated" "Yeah, I did drugs, what about it?" he was a blunt yet charasmatic figure that didn't take shit from anyone or anything. Kaz and I got along well, I never saw him outside of work but while at work we stuck together.

Now, I just graduated from my Senior year of high school, casting away the adolescent shackles and preparing my body for the real world iron maiden that eagerly opened up to me. Most kids that graduated with me are concerned about partying and hooking up with "that girl" over the course of our last summer. I preferred to make as much money as possible for when I went to college in a few months. This time, however; Mr.Hamilton decided to put me with the night shift. Giant Eagle is a 24hr establishment, much like Wal-Mart, only less sinister. The night crew, a skeleton crew of motley employees. Those they didn't like, those who were unfit to be in the daylight, to be daywalkers. It was going to be interesting.

Working at Giant Eagle allowed me to save enough money for a car. A neigbor was selling his old junker and I eagerly bought it the day I saw it, of course after consulting with my father who judged it to be "A proper first car" for me. It's a gray 1991 Chevy Blazer with the primer showing on the hood and a dent on the rear bumper. It had 100,000+ miles on its' mileage reader. She ran fine enough for an older vehicle. It's tradition that every teenager's first car be a piece of shit that shouldn't be allowed on the roads. I'm proud to be perpetuating that age-old tradition. After some work and a trip to the auto-shop, she returned like the phoenix from the ashes to shine even brighter than before.

As I drive down Route 30, I can see the evening sun set in, it's glow less blinding than at noon. Luckily, it's not low enough to where my vizor can't block out its' rays. Traffic is a bitch as usual around this time. My skills behind the wheel are second to none in my mind but my friends would beg to differ. I have the claw marks on the arms rests to prove it.

Finally, I make the turn off onto the Sahara Desert and park at the side parking lot for employees only. The inside of my car is sparce, an old radio that barely works makes up the most notable feature. The AC/Heater works when it feels most conveniant. I contemplate wether or not to lock my door. My theory is, that seeing how there is nothing of value in my car, then why lock it? I'd rather some would-be thief open the door, find nothing and leave. As opposed to using the universal key (a brick) or jamming the door open. As I walk, I'm pulling the blue Giant Eagle shirt over my own and continue to walk towards the entrance. There's still plenty of people shopping and it won't quite down for another hour or so.

"Hey, Eric" a voice comes from the side. I turn my head to see Amber Reynolds sitting on the hood of her car, igniting one of those cancer sticks. Her demeanor says "I don't give a fuck". Of course, I know that there's something on her mind. There's always something on her mind that she refuses to tell anyone. She graduated with me and we've known each other for most of our lives. She's a punk/anarchist. Wearing a plain black t-shirt, a studded belt and a black leather wristband. Her jeans are frayed as usual and heavy eye liner on her lashes. It gives her...I guess the look she tries to project, that "I don't give a fuck".

"What's up?" I ask, walking up to her, but keeping my distance. She's a dangerous predator.

"Dicks and helicopters" she retorts while puffing out a cloud of smoke, watching the strands of heavy cigarette smoke dance in the light breeze which is sweeping across the parking lot. She's always been a smart-ass, as myself.

"I don't see any helicopters" I say, looking skyward then feel my own crotch briefly, "And neither is my dick, try again"

"I'm sure there's a helicopter up somewhere and some guy's got ahard-on over a porn on his Window's Player" she cleverly replies.

"I'm sure of that too, where's Carl?" I ask. Usually I see her and Carl (last name escapes me) slipping each other the tounge before she goes to work. Yes, she works the same shift as me.

"I dumped him a month ago, Eric" he eyes linger on me, sizing me up. "I finally realized why a bastard he and all guys are" she elans forward, both hands on the hood of her car, as if insinuating that I fall into the category of "Bastard".

"Impossible, I know who my father is" I reply.

"Nice one, Eric" Amber replies, cracking a smile.

"See you inside" I say and walk on, leaving her there to finish the cigarette.

You should really write books. These are just so good, it's almost too good for this place.

Seventeen out of Ten, mate.

You should really write books. These are just so good, it's almost too good for this place.

Seventeen out of Ten, mate.

Thank you so much. I aspire to be a writer and am working towards an English degree

In the break room, a cramped cube with a couch, a kitchenette with a sizeable fridge, a table, and a tv I sit, waiting for my shift to start. It's almost six o'clock and I like to be early. Not because I enjoy being an employee of the Giant Eagle Groccery Store family or anything, it just safeguards me from being yelled at by the night shift manager, Walter Burgess. Everyone calls him "Burgers" because he seems to have an affliction called "obesity" as a result from eating too many. He isn't like the fat people you see on Maury who haven't been out of their house in five years and haven't walked in three who eventually die after taping the segment because while sleeping they roll over and crush their internal organs; fat. Just heavy enough to allow us to point it out.

"Prince" walks in and avoids me while I sit on the couch, dully staring at the clock. His real name is Nathan Fredericks, a year behind me. He's a pretty boy who value external appearance over internal satisfaction. I forget what he does here, I think it's at the Iggle Video Rental.

I hate him

"Hey, Eric" he briefly wisps while seraching for his food. For a second, I could swear that his image in the mirror we had, almost stopped him mid-sentence. There's an "I don't like you but I'll say hi anyways" tone to his voice. I don't share the same view as him and only look at him and nod. The awkwardness escapes my attention but not his and he departs, elaving me alone.

"Eric, what's happening?" Amber asks, poking her ehad into the "lounge".

"Life?" I question my own response. What is really happening? A question that I ask often and annoyingly frequent.

"I guess" she replies shrugging her shoulders. Before Prince left, he gave Amber a wink, flexing his muscles underneath his shirt which he purposely got a small instead of a regular size.

"You seen Kaz?" I ask, looking up at her.

"No, I don't think he's comin' in tonight" Amber replies, moving like a feline across the room. I watch her go over to the fridge and take out a bottle of Arizona Green Tea that had in sharpie "Nate" on it. She unscrewed the cap and lets loose a loogie which I can hear the drop of saliva collide with the tea. She then screws in close, returns it to the exact spot from which she took it and closes the fridge, all wiht a nonchalant air around her.

I often marvel at Amber's lack of...order, I suppose. She isn't a neatly packaged person that makes sense and one can predict their movements and thoughts. No, she's that shabby, brown paper, overly stamped, and tied loosely with a string. The kind of package that makes you wonder: Is this a bomb? But intrigue drives you to open it anyways and it blows up in your face trying to make sense of it. She's the kind of package sent out by the Uni-bomber. There's no method I can see in her madness. During breaks I see her reading in the corner, but she has a covering over the book that obscures the title or anything recognizeable. I suspect that it's the Anarchist Cookbook.

She casts me a look, I'm not sure what to make of it. It's not the: "You better not say shit" look, nor is it the "I am a bomb" look either. I think in a way we are all bombs, just ticking away till we explode. Of course, we explode in different ways and degrees. Some reactions are little letter bomb sized ones while some people dwarf Hiroshima. Her eyes were blank, maybe it was just a glance to see what expression was on my face. Naturally, you learn to develope a poker face around Amber, less you be played. Whatever it was, it must not have been important because she doesn't say anything and walks out of the breakroom.

I punch in my card and place it back in the metallic sleeve that holds all out names. There's not much to do right now, just unloading some milk to the dairy section. The job is easy enough and I place the milk onto the cold shelf one after the other, without much thought. I feel like a robot right now. if you feel like a robot while working, then that means a robot can do your job, which means your job will no longer be yours. Much like how the toll workers are going to be replaced soon with automated toll machines. Secretly, I wish I was replaced by some stocking machine. But, for the sake of monetary gain, I refuse to let that though remain in my mind.

"Excuse me" says a quaint little old lady, hands clasping her purse tight, glasses like bottles. "Can you tell me where the bread is?"

I stand up and point a mere ten feet behind me. There's a large sign that says BREAD with pictures of bread products in the backround, "Right there ma'am" I say.

"Thank you soo much, dear" and she walks off. I return to stocking the shelf, feeling my fingertips becoming ever colder from the milk and the freezer air cascading down like winter onto my hands.

Upon completing my first task of the night I found myself with little else to do for a while. The flow of customers, as I predicted, decreased steadily after six. The video store stayed open late, especially on weekends. With my lcuk, it is a Friday night. The weekensd were a time I dreaded. This brought out the scum of the universie. The loitering, pot smoking, vandalising hooligans whom I endured coexisting with in school and on the bus. There, in the back of the class they'd scoff the teacher, throw paperballs with dazzling percision despite all the canibis they consumed in the bathroom. Their most noteable irritating attribute was what I dubbed: "The Stoner Laugh". It's an unholy union between a weezing, gasping laugh and a donkey crying. There's no escaping this laugh and upon hearing it, one can instantly identify what kind of lifestyle the laugher lived. My mother found it a God sent miracle that I traversed the educational system without succumbing to drugs. Most kids don't make it out without at least trying weed or abusing a perscription drug.

I look down at my black Nunn-Bush shoes. They're probably thee most comfortable shoes I ever owned. I observe a scuff on the left toe and frown at this observation.

"Spill, aisle 5...Spill, aisle 5" the intercom buzzes overhead. It's "The Voice" the omnipresent force that speaks from above to us mere mortals. It's the voice of God, sending his message of unbeatable deals, percentage cuts on canned goods, and messages that speak directly to the people, such as: "Will a Linda Beckers please come to the front desk, your child is here".

I answer the call, dutifully scooping up a bucket and mop, heading to aisle 5 which is part of the Ethnic food aisle. There you can find Jewish foods, Chinese, Mexican, and a substantial Italian selection. There, I see a jar of spaghetti sauce, like gunshot splatter on a wall. The culprit was nowhere to be seen, as usual.

"Excuse me, is someone going to clean that up?" asks an overly concerned mother, towing a screaming child behind her.

I look down at my mop and bucket then back up to her.

"That glass is dangerous, you know" her statement is directed towards me. She's a quick one alright, theorizing that broken glass is dangerous.

"Yes, I know that very well ma'am" I reply, "Just go around it"

"But it's dangerous!" she pleads, "My child could cut himself"

Dangerous? It's not like it's a landmine or anything. Stepping on it won't trigger some Indiana Jones-eqsue trap of sorts. Cut himself? Do you let your kid listen to My Chemical Romance or other emo songs? I contemplate a smart response but then remember: 'The customer is always right'.

"I'll take care of it, just keep your kid away from it" I try to calm this woman who gives me a very familiar look. It's a look I dread, the look of "I'm going to fuck your day". That's when a customer goes to your boss and over embelishes what really happened, warping the story to fit their agenda. It's so convincing, their story, that when approached by your boss his/her mind is already made up and your fate decided. I sigh and begin cleaning...

I feel the urge to just knock something off a shelf and just walk off. This of course, is a stupid idea and I scorn myself for thinking thusly. In the closed-in area attached to the main store where shoppers can pick up groccery carts, I look through the large glass windows and see the sun begin to touch the hills overlooking riute 30. Cars stream past and people criss cross the Sahara Desert, loading grocceries and returning carts. It's funny to see the world go on around you. I'm standing here, hands in my pockets sighing and just outside the world continues without me. I want to walk outside but there's more work to be done.

I chat with several other employees that I'm on good terms with but not close friends or anything. Mike and Ben work in Iggle Video. They spend their shifts debating which superhero is better, Batman or Superman. As well as other things that are related to the subject matter. They often ask me which one I prefer, my usual reply is "Spiderman" just to piss them off. Mike is tall, lanky, and wears glasses. Ben has a brown beard and is in his late twenties I believe. He's a bit portly but a nice enough guy. I enter the video store, past the life-size cut outs of famous actors and posters for new movies.

"I'm telling you!" Ben exclaimed, flailing his chicken wings around for dramatic effect, "Superman: Man of Steel is going to blow that ridiculous new outfit off of Batman!"

"Like hell, The Dark Knight is going to be the best superhero movie ever! The Joker is totally sick!" Mike retaliates by forcing an index finger towards Ben who knocks it out of his way. "They're finally getting the Joker back to his roots as a vicious killer"

"That actor in Superman was shitty! He couldn't act his way out of paying for dinner!" Mike adds, trying to twist the knife. "Eric, what do you think?"

"I think Spiderman 3 was a disappointment" I manage, content with watching them go at it. I manage to get them off the volatile topic and onto something we can all agree on.

My attempt at a sneaky diversion away from the subject goes awry. They simply agree with me and find some loose thread that somehow ties Spiderman to the other heroes in question. I decide it is best to check up on them later.

"Where are you going?" Amber asks, emerging from the horror aisle.

"To the storage area" I reply. She rounds around a large cut-out of Freddy Krueger and leans against the counter, near where Mike and Ben are arguing.

Amber crooks her head to the right and back, exclaiming, "Boys, give it a rest"

Mike and Ben have a 'secret' crush on Amber which is obvious to anyone, even Helen Keller. Like obedient dogs, the silence themselves and disperse. Mike to the back room, Ben to assist a man who can't find a selection. Amber works in the video department where she listens to her angry rock music, chews away at customers with her sharp yet blunt and brutal wit, and toys with Mike and Ben, a big tease.

"Eric, you know that those two will get into a fight over the subject" she gives me a tisk tisk and a disappointed wave of her index finger.

"You know those two will get in a fight over you" I leave the last word linger in the air, hoping she'll catch it, which she does.

"You know me" Amber states with complete innocence, with an accompanying pouty face.

"No, I don't" I tell her and walk off.

Five minutes later...

In the produce section, a sea of vibrant colors and fruits and vegetables of different shapes and sizes. Juicy watermelons, crisp heads of cabbage, red apples, and such items that are good for you. I find myself restocking the plastic bags at the weigh-in counter where customers can get the net weight of their selection. Out the corner of my eye, I catch a sight I don't want to see but I see nonetheless.

Melissa Townsend swings her hips from side to side, balancing on heels and cradling her purse while searching for something in its' expanse. Her curly red hair cascades down, dangling just above her shoulders. Green eyes flutter and look up and meet my gaze. It's almos a strut, similar to a showhorse.

"How's it going, Eric?" she asks, briefly making eye contact with me, instead she opts to continue browsing, just acknowledging my existance.

"It goes" I sigh, placing the empty box onto the steel counter, "Yourself?"

"Just doin' some shoppin'." Melissa slangs.

Melissa and I were what gossipers would call 'a thing' back my junior year. There was a mutual interest and we began to talk, and talk, and finally go out and such. I can say with complete honestly that I loved her. I put my emotions and secrets out on the chopping block, hoping that the execution would be nulled with her intervention and kindness. Of course, the stroke fell. It went well for a while but crumpled steadily, chipping away. Was I the best boyfriend? No, but who is? I guess being a nice guy never works out. Girls either want to control or be controlled. I refused to let her control me and I would not control her. That must've confused her mtv-wired brain. A guy who treats me...with respect? So, she ended it stating that it just "didn't work out".

A friends once told me when I repeated the long over-used phrase: "Nice guys finish last". He leaned in and replied,

"No, we never finish" the phrase has stuck with me ever since and makes complete sense. We never do finish, it's a continuous distance race.

She flicks some of her red hair back across her ear and studies what I'm doing like a zoologist watches a monkey try to fit the square peg in the triangle hole. I finish wrapping the plastic bags which are in a roll and gather up the boxes, turning back to her.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask, wondering exactly why she doesn't move on and find someone else to pester. I've learned to become far more guarded in my emotions since what happened and my poker face is second to none, save Amber.

"Yeah, do you know where the State Store is?" a male voice asks from over the produce rack. I look up to see the broad chest and shoulders of Vince Hayward. His neck muscles are as thick as my thigh almost and his piercing blue eyes are concentrated on me. In PA, alcohol is forbidden from being sold in groccery stores. State-owned stores sell the hard liquor and wine while private distributors sell solely beer.

"Take Route 30 and take the second exit, Vince" I reply to his answer quickly, hopefully he'll just leave. He comes from around the counter and wraps an arm around Melissa and rubs her arm roughly.

"Thanks...Eric" Vince's tone has that certian air of cockiness. I guess from all those years of football and the occasional steroid shot to the ass gave him the feeling of "I am better because I can catch a ball and run really fast". I can already forsee his future. He's good, but not NFL good and I'm sure will do well in college but will get caught up in a frat, party too hard and end up dropping out after his...let's be generous and say halway through his second year.

"Anytime, Vince" I retort, my tone less than friendly.

Without even knowing it, my fist began to ball up on its' own. Luckily, it remains hidden behind the counter. I know full well that this walking pile of muscle could easily kick the Hell out of me. There's an awkward air lingering like mustard gas around us, this time I feel it.

"Eric...You're needed in the office" like a miracle, The Voice delivers salvation to me from having to watch my ex-girlfriend be felt up by the living neanderthal man.

"I'd love to stay and chat but...my job calls" I say over my shoulder and begin to walk off.

"Yeah, this is your job" Vince manages enough brain cells to speak. I guess in his mind this comment is a weapon of mass destruction, one from which there is no escape. His tone is cocky and demeaning. I turn around and face him square.

"The difference between me and you is this job is only temporary" I walk closer but remain out of swinging distance, "You, on the other hand, will be getting quite comfortable with this job soon enough" I let the words linger in his face, letting him know full well that I have no faith in his academic prowess.
His face contorts and winces, anger is boiling inside. He can't think of anything to say back to me. I decide to walk off, leaving him standing there, both hands balled into fists. I imagine that he'll use those later.

I make my way past the front desk, past Captain, an aged man who works in administration. I have the sneaking suspicion that he's actually a millionaire and does this because he's bored. There's a difference between him and other old people working at stores. His real name is Henry Jazjck, born and raised in Polish Hills, a district in Pittsburgh. His voice has a slight twill of Polish, just enough to where you question wether or not he's a native of the US. Captain was a Korean War vet by all accounts, Kaz says that he's a Medal of Honor recipient.

Then...

I remember one day a few months ago while Kaz sat in one of the metal chairs, one leg resting on another, the bottoms of his worn sneakers waved at me.

"I'm telling you, Eric" Kaz pleaded with me. I was skeptical on Captain being a war hero. "It was in 1950 when the North Koreans pushed the UN forces back to the Pusan Perimiter. There, in the sweltering heat and in face of hordes of bloodthirsty commies that Captain earned that medal. It was on a hill called Hill 870. It was the linchpin to the allied defense of the perimiter. They withstood barrage after barrage of mortars and artillery. The shock shook the Earth beneath them. On that hill, an entire North Korean battalion began their assault. While his fellow soldier fell around him, Captain manned a machine gun and blasted away. Then, he charged with a satchel full of grenades, lobbing them into the ranks of the enemy. He had to hold them off until reinforcements arrived. The battle was brutal. He just kept killing and killing. No one knows how many Koreans he killed that day. They do know one thing, his actions staved off a major enemy attack, protecting the fragile Pusan Perimiter and saving the allied forces and allowed them to continue fighting"

I sat across from him, arms folded wondering how much of the story was true. The fact of the matter is that Captain tells tall tails all the time. If he was in the military, I'm sure it wasn't as a captain.

Now...

"Hey Captain" I wave as I pass by him. Captain looks up from a copy of The Tribune and gives me that grandpa smile that reassures you that you are loved. Is he just a kind old man with a talent for storytelling? Or, Is he a hardened war vet that crushed men's skulls?

OOC: Sorry to spoil it but...

WoW this should really become a book, it has been a fantastic read! Somehow I can't be like you no matter how I learn, our New Tom Clancy Ladies and Gentlemen! ;)

I poke my head into the assistant manager's office. The administration offices are on the second floor, with small windows overlooking the store. Burgers is sitting at his desk, doodling something on a piece of paper. He doesn't notice my entrance so I rap the door a few times and wait for him to acknowledge me.

"Yeah?" Burgers bellows without looking up.

"I was called up here, Mr.Burgess" I admit, still halfway in the door.

He pauses, like he is frozen in time or even seeing a ghost. The cheap pen falls onto the large calendar that covers the entirety of his desk, "I didn't call for you" his voice is like a movie actor during the climax. Through his glasses he observes me with confusion and suspicion. Not of me but of something else. Is there a global conspiracy that I don't know about?

"I'm sorry then, I guess I was mistaken" is my reply and I gladly depart and head back downstairs.

I continue to stock a few more items. The Hostess section was a little sparce of Swiss Cake Rolls and Zingers. Myself and Greg, another stock boy of no noteable attributes or qualities stock the shelf. I call Greg "Gray" like the aliens. He hates it but we do it anyways. I do so because I know it irritates him and I enjoy getting reactions from other people. Gray always seems detached from the world around him, almost observing everything that goes on.

"So, Gray" I break the silence with a sledge hammer, "Where are you going to college?"

He stops stocking the Swiss Cake Rolls and looks up at me, his eyes are dull and lifeless, like a walking corpse. "Penn State" is is reply, blunt and to the point. That's how he speaks, never saying more than needs to be said. There's nothing else I feel like asking so I nod and continue to put more Zingers on the shelf. We take the empty boxes out back and break them up and set them on a pile.

OOC: Sorry to spoil it but...

WoW this should really become a book, it has been a fantastic read! Somehow I can't be like you no matter how I learn, our New Tom Clancy Ladies and Gentlemen! ;)

OOC: Thank you very much for the quite positive review. I most appreciate it. Remember, anyone can be a great writer. I am by no means a great one but keep in mind this: Hemmingway, Huxley, and Steinbeck all had to start somewhere.

I sit atop a pile of freshly collapsed cardboard boxes. It offers some stress relief to crush something that can't fight back. Gray disappeared or was beamed up by the mother ship and I am left alone outside. The sky is a mixture of fleeting shades of orange and red. Three fourths of the sky are now dark and there's a full moon out. Strange things always happen when there's a full moon. I'm not saying that werewolves are going to shread through their human skins and terrorize the countryside or anything, it's just that people act differently. It's going to be an interesting night.

"Hey Holden Caulfield!" Amber shouts at me. That's her nickname for me. I guess it's an accurate comparison. The only difference is I'm not fully enveloped with the idea that everyone is a phony. In The Cather in the Rye, Holden had to have been the biggest phony of them all. I do have a cynical and sarcastic outlook on many things but I have an underlining humor to my personality.

"What, phony?" I wonder aloud.

"Got a light?" she asks, knowing full well that I don't smoke. She leans up against the wall a few feet from me. She starts tapping the back of her head against the wall and looks up at the moon and holds her gaze at it for a minute or so. I think this is the part where she transforms into a hungry beasts and thrashes me to pieces. I breath a sigh of relief when she snaps out of it and looks to the ground. Amber produces a pack of cigarettes and starts tapping the carton against the heel of her palm.

We're facing the employee parking lot and I look out to see Prince walking to his car, greedily enjoying his Arizona Green Tea. There's a noticeable smirk on Amber's face just before she lights the cigarette.

"What drives you?" I ask, cracking my knuckles and watch as Prince finishes the last drop of tea while he opens the door.

"Balance" Amber replies, "There has to be balance"

I shoot her a confused look.

"Eric, if I wasn't here we'd have peace and harmony and everything would be boring. You are calm, organized, and stable. I cannot allow that to go unchecked. So, I am here to maintain the balance. God needs the Devil, right?" she winks at me.

"I am no God. But you certainly are a devil of sorts" I chuckle. In a strange way, what she just said made sense. She is the complete opposite of what I stand for and thusly, there is balance...

As I sit atop the pile of collapsed boxes, a car pulls into the parking lot, high beams glaring at us. I squint and try to make out the kind of car but it's like looking into two suns. This attempt to undertsand is fruitless so I raise my hand above my brow and hear the roar of an engine. It's a gutteral noise that purs and sputters, but sounds awesome at the same time. A strong car that must've had alot of love and attention dedicated to its' maintenance. What is going on? Why are the high beams on? I start to feel a little sick in my stomach, it's like there's some unseen force behind the lights bearing down on me.

"Dammit" Amber curses under her breath and flicks the cigarette to the ground. She pushes herself off the wall and stomps off towards the lights. Her figure casts a shadow as beams of light outline her. Then, she disappears behind the lights, there's the sound of a door openiong then an arguement. Sharp words are being exchanged. Her tone raises higher and higher, there the sound of a disgruntled guy, swearing every known curse word.

"Him?!" I hear the man question loudly.

"No, Carl!" Amber pleads. Suddenly, I see the square frame of a guy approach me, his dark figure scares me as I see nothing but his outline. I stand up, eyes still hurting from the solar flares on the car.

"You Fuck!" the guy shouts just before I feel the sharp pain of a clenched fist connecting my stomach. It takes the breath out of my lungs, forcing it up my throat and out in a horrid gasp. The force behind it is extraordinary and almost lifts me off my feet. But, I manage to stand my ground, which shook beneath me. Sadly, it's my legs that are really shaking and I bend over, grasping my stomach as if I am trying to gather up my intesties which are imaginarily spilling onto the pavement. My legs lose their balance but luckily the wall is there to catch me. The figure, triumphant leans over and places a hand on my shoulder, the same hand used to take my breath away, athough not in the romantic sense but rather a savage and violent way.

"I'll remember you, Eric" he snears then taps my cheek with his hand as if he has his brother in a chokehold, playfully of course and just giving him a tap. I felt no fraternal bond wiht this guy. I begin to weeze and hear a car door shut and the engine roar as the car sped off. Light is replaced with darkness and I back up against the wall, unable to think.

"I'm sooo sorry about that, Eric" Amber apologizes for what I don't know and puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, "Are you alright?"

"N-No!" I choke out, the word is strangled by pain, "Who was that guy?"

"Carl, he's mad at you" Amber says rubbing her hand on my back, as if that will help.

"Why? What did I do?" I am unable to comprehend what I could've done to piss Carl off to where he'd do me physical harm.

"I told him that you were my new boyfriend" Amber says nonchalantly.

"But we're not!" I feel my words easing out of my throat as the pain begins to fade. What is she talking about?

"Yeah" she gives an awkward laugh and scratches her head as if there's something she forgot to tell me earlier, "You see Carl's not what I thought he was. Ever since I broke up with him, he's been stalking me. Showing up at work, driving past my house, blowing up my cellphone with sporadic, bipolar text messages. I figured that if I told him that there's a new guy, then he'd leave me alone-"

"Or piss him off!" I yell aloud, "I can't believe you'd do something like that!" my anger is comprable to what Carl is feeling right now. If it wasn't for my upmost respect for women, stemming from being raised by my mother for most of my life, I would've sent her head into the wall with a smile on my face!

I want to keep yelling at her but find it best to just stagger away and let myself cool off before I take up our discussion again. Now, I can honestly say I have my first real enemy. I am the protagonist in this story we call Life and he is my antagonist. A person dedicating himself to my utter downfall and destruction. Someone who will not rest till I am in ruin. All because Amber found it convenient to make a little white lie, so innocent in nature but instead it is my death nail. I always knew Carl was unhinged somewhere in that scrambled dome one might call a brain. Now, whatever paperclip that help him together is bent out too much and the papers cascade down, their edges like knifepoints. We are in a 1920's black and white movie, he is the dastardly man with the crooked mustache, driving the train furiously down the tracks on a collision course with out hapless hero, me, tied to the rails. I cannot free myself from this reality and he cackles evily, awaiting my death.

As I pass by the loading docks, empty of any trucks, I see a dark figure spray painting in black letters: WELCOME TO

"Hey, get outta here!" I demand in a forceful and determined tone. The kid, who's probably a few years younger than me gathers his spray can and dashes off like a strike of lightning. I look at the unfinished words, shaky but thick from black spray paint on the walls. The words are at an angle. It's not worth my bother so I ignore it, having done my good deed for the day in halting an act of vandalism. All I want to do is go inside and be alone, which is all I wanted in the first place but I am constantly denied that satisfaction by a particular tormentor...

"What's wrong, sport?" Captain asks, setting down the newspaper as I try to walk by unnoticed.

"Nothing" Is my blunt reply, he looks quite inquisitively at me, cupping his chin with his hand, rubbing his beard. I've been made, he's too smart to fall for my excuse.

"You look like you got the wind knocked outta ya" his comment is frightfully accurate, I wonder if he knows what just occurred. A lucky guess I'm syre.

"The wind decided that it was its' time to go and someone helped it leave" I reply as sharply as I can muster. The lines along his face crease as he offers a gentle smile. I envision Captain gouging out the eyes of a Red in Korea, bloolust in his face. That is replaced with a gentler Henry Jazjck who seems far too nice to have killed even a rabbit. I continue to walk past him and into break room and rest my weary body on the couch, sighing relief and pure mental exhaustion.

So far, it's a shitty day at work. Even worse than usual. Today's even worse then back in February of '05 when the Steelers were fast approaching the Superbowl after a Cindarella season. We had to wear Steeler gear whenever a game approached. I recall two games prior when the Steelers faced the Colts, a team favored by sports experts. During the climax of the game, Jerome Bettis fumbled the ball at the three yeard line and a Colt scooped it up and took off like a lightning bolt down the field. There were no Steeler defenders left. The entire game was closely contested, yard for yeard. Luckily, Ben Roethlisberger, the Steeler's Quarterback, managed to leap and catch the guy's foot, thus ending their chances for victory. A man in Pittsburgh had a heart attack when Bettis fumbled the ball. I believed that that man was Burgers, who was a Steeler's nut. He'd walk into work like a massive billboard for the Steeler's. He was one of the original people to wave the Terrible Towl after Cope invented it to rouse the fans. On the local news, it turned out not to be him, much to my dismay. That day at work was shitty. Not only was that disappointment bad enough, it was a bitterly cold day. The Sahara Desert morphed into Antartica. A blinding blanket of snow flurried around, whipping up snow in your face, blinding and freezing. I was tasked with retrieving stranded and forgotten carts from the Artic landscape. despite my best layerings of clothing, it proved futile againstt he ever dropping wind chill.

My friends would cross their fingers and place bets on how many carts I could gather up before I had to return to the safety of inside. Kaz made out like a Wild West card shark that day. He gave me a few bucks which I spent on a new watch cap. The cold that day, as well as other setbacks prompted me to name that the worst day. Now, it was being contested with this day.

In the break room I open the slender locker that has my name taped on the front. The tape is old and beginning to peel, I'll get a new one whenever I get around to it. The contents of my locker are as follows: nothing. I never keep anything in my small, cramped locker. Not like much would fit in there anyways. I have a backpack I carry with me that has spare clothes and other items in case my clothes get dirty which they frequently do in this hazerdous line of duty. Inside the backpack I pull out a copy of The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon. One of my favorite pasttimes is reading. My mother is an English teacher for our rival school district. One could say her love for literature rubbed off on me. I'm only ten chapters in and find myself struggling. It's a unique book but there's too many Yiddish terms in there and I don't speak nor understand the language or its' phrases. Despite this, I plot on and always manage to pick it up again and that's what I'm doing now.

I get through chapter 11 and decide to set it down for a moment, my eyes are straining. I blink rapidly then pick the book back up.

"Whatcha readin'?" asks a familiar voice, it's Kaz.

"Kaz?" I turn around to see him in the door frame, thumbs hooked into his pockets. "Where you been?"

"Around the place" Kaz lazily replies an walks into the break room, craning his neck from side to side like it's sore or something. "Burgers tried to chew my ass out, but I don't care. He's a fat piece of shit"

"Are you in the clear?"

"Like a rabbit flushed out by the hounds" a cryptic reply indeed. I wonder what the meaning behind it is.

"Will you get fired?" I ask, closing the book and setting it aside.

"Probably, but it's no big deal. I'm leavin' soon anyways" Kaz takes a seat in one of the fold out chairs.

"Where are you going?" I ask, still full of confusion.

He simply shrugs his shoulders and redirects the conversation, "I heard you got your ass kicked by Amber's ex" he raises an eyebrow.

"Punched in the stomach to be more correct" I reply, "She fabricated a relationship between the two of us to try and get him off her back. It blew up in my face"

"That's Amber for you" Kaz looks at his watch, "I 'spose I should do something" with that he stands up and walks out of the room, leaving me there with questions unanswered. There's something on his mind, his demeanor tells me that something is up, of course he'll never spill a drop of truth.

There's one thing I look forward to thee most while working at the store. This activity, a spory in my mind is what makes this job bearable and even fun. It passes the time with excitement and for do-gooders, you get a feeling of well served justice in the end. What am I talking about? The answer: Shoplifting. There is nothing more fun and comical than identifying and catching shoplifters. It's like Jerry Springer meets Cops. It's a sport, The Most Dangerous Game.

Shoplifters are an interesting breed of criminal. This is where many future criminals get their start. Shoplifters range from kids on a dare, to hungry homeless people, to people who just didn't wat to pay the already cheap price of the item. While working as a mild-mannered stockboy, I moonlight as a hardboiled detective, tracking leads, shaking down informants, catching the bad guys. One developes a keen eye for detail and suspicious activities while working in a grocery store. The shifty eyes, clammy palms, shaky hands, chapped lips, these are all dead giveaways of shoplifters.

My most memorable story stems from last year during the summer of last year. It was a real scorcher that summer, blistering temps, high humidity, and no end in sight. The farmer's almanac didn't no shit as it would seem. We were dilligently stocking the shelves when we noticed a kid walking into the store, we wore a long hoodie and baggy pants with a low cap. Already, we could tell what was going on. We developed call signs and everything. Amber worked at the register that fateful day and went over the intercom: "Would Mr.Hood please come to the front desk". It was a reference to the king of thieves, Robin Hood. That means we had a suspected shoplifter in our store. We flooded out onto the aisles, keeping our eyes peeled for anything suspicious. Then, I saw him in the meat aisle, practically humping the edge, shoving as many rib-eye steaks into his hoody and down his pants as humanly possible. I waved to Kaz and Paul (another stock boy). We formed a T with our approach. One from each side and one coming from behind. Kaz gave me the go ahead to confront him. We kept our distance, obersing the would-be criminal mastermind as he shifted his eyes from side to side, aware that his mission was a dangerous one.

Finally, we went to leave when I stepped out from behind a display of cookies. He halted nervously as I squared off with him.

"You get a little fatter since you walked in sir? Slim Fast is in Aisle 2" I said, folding my arms.

"No, I'm fine" he contorted his face and sounded offended that I called him fat, "I gotta go find some coupons"

"Hold on there, sir" I raised my hand up "Mind if I see what's in your pockets?" I stepped forward. He looked to his right and saw Paul standing, then to his left to see Kaz creeping closer. It was fight or flight. He dashed in my direction, under my grasp and tried like a greased pig to escape but I clung on and lifted him off the ground, rib-eye steaks, and ground beef fell to the ground as if I was breaking apart a pinata. The three of us grabbed onto him and forced him onto the ground.

"We're calling the cops!" I grind out from my teeth as we strained to hold him down.

"You guys planted that on me!" he swore up and down, even when Trooper Bob, a State Trooper from the local barracks swung by to pick him up. Trooper Bob is a stand-up guy who doens't look for trouble but will go from Police Academy 4 to RoboCop in five seconds flat. He accidently tripped while escorting the shoplifter away, causing his nose to collide onto the hood. As the shoplifter sat in the back, nose bleeding, we all gave cheery smiles and waved him goodbye.

After resting for a few minutes, that sickening pain in my stomach is now gone and I can confidently say that I took a punch to the stomach and lived to tell about it. Back out in No-Man's Land, I weave in and out of the different aisles, inspecting to see if any particular item is getting lonely. It's a simple enough task and I write down what we need more of, there isn't anything at the moment. Since the incident outside I haven't seen Amber around. She usually pops out of nowhere and has a few smart things to say about someone or something. She's not at the cash registers. There's only three lanes manned and four self-check ones are operational. Once again, more evidence that robots are replacing us. Soon enough "they" as in the personification of developing technology will devise a way to replace stockboys.

Mike and Ben shake their heads as to the whereabouts of Amber, as well as Captain. I finally manage to track down Kaz who is actually working.

"Hey, Kaz" I say, walking up to him while he stocks pickles onto a shelf, "You seen Amber anywhere?"

"I think she's outbacl somewhere" Kaz looks up at me, "What's up?"

"Dicks and helicopters" I reply and walk past him and down the main open area towards the back. The number of shoppers dwindles as time grows later. It's long since been dark out and the gentle glow of the parkinglot lights illuminate everything in a cool amber aurora. Outback, it's a different story. Only a sparce amount of lights illuminate the path, long shadows cast an eery feel over the place. There are rows of dumpsters, palats, and piles of boxes and such. I step quietly, listening to any sound. I hear a can knock over, probably a mouse. It's like in a horror movie when the dumb teenagers split up and are killed one by one. There's an axe murderer out here, there's always an axe murderer in the darkness, that's why we're afraid of the dark, right? Well, that may be the source of my nocturnal fears anyways.

"Amber, you back here?" I ask blindly in the dark. Suddenly, my foot catches a box and I trip, almost hitting the ground but miraculously maintain my balance which is unusual because I wear a size 15 shoe and am only 5'11" tall. It's a curse when it comes to walking or buying shoes. Buying shoes is an unpleasant challenge for myself whenever the time arises. With that comes the ignorant, female originating phrase: Big shoes? You know what that means...

It means I have a frustarting time finding proper shoes. I wsiht he rumors were rigt. Wait, I'm getting of track. Anyways, I catch myself and look around in the darkness.

"What?" I hear her ask in the darkness. It's difficult to pinpoint the origin.

"Where are you?" I ask, hoping she doesn't have an axe high above her head.

A lighter lights in front of my face and I falter backwards, this time the box claims me and my elbows impact the rough pavement, sending pain up my arms. There's no reaction from me, I simply sit up and look up to see the glow from her cigarette which illuminates her face.

"You alright?" she asks, taking a long thoughtful drag of the cigarette.

"I'll live" I manage as I rub my elbows, wincing in pain.

She sits Indian-style on a pile of crates, there's no inclination that she is going to say anything anytime soon. The sent of smoke, coupled with trash just a few feet away make me consider just leaving, but I choose to stay.

"Carl still bothering you?" I break the silence with a sledgehammer.

"Nope, I think my scheme worked" Amber sighs, taking another drag. There's a strange detached tone to her voice. I wonder if she's lying, I'm not sure. I opt to just sit on the pavement, looking from side to side, ignoring the scrapes on my elbows.

"Where you been?" I ask, once again, desperate to break the silence. It's strange now that I stop to think about it. I normally enjoy tranquility and silence but this time I'm determined to carry a conversation.

"At work" a brick wall response which leaves me with nothing else to say. Now, I'm feeling like it was a bad idea to come back here because now I look like a jackass. She remains calm, face blank. I get the feeling that she is secrectly enjoying my awkwardness and discomfort with our current situation. I decide to fold, throwing all my cards onto the table in frustration.

"I guess I'd better get back to work" I say as Ib stand up and sut off my jeans, "God knows what Kaz is doing", with an accompanying chuckle.

"I'll be around" Amber replies as I begin to walk back to the service entrance. She flicks the remains of the cigarette off into the darkness, leaving a faint, pitiful glow on the ground. I can't hear her footsteps behind me, must be sulking or enjoying the darkness I suppose.

The doors open and a cool blast of air rushes against my cheeks. That recirculated air that keeps pumping through the air ducts. It has a hint of dust that doesn't irritate your nostrils and throat but heightens your realization that this is not fresh air. It picks at the back of your mind, that feeling you just can't escape from. I hear the low hiss from the air ducts above, trying to see the particles that I know are spewing out of it. My sight is not that keen so I continue to walk past the doors and back into the fray. The deli meats section is beginning to wind down. The two people who work back there, their names escape me, always seem like they're back there working. One is a plump yet cheery woman with an ear to ear smile painted on her face. The other, a bearded man with a scowl who looks less than thrilled to be an employee of Giant Eagle.

They're back there slicing the slabs of chipped ham, pepperoni, and cheeses. I think the bearded man wants to put a customer's head through one of the cutters, I wouldn't say anything if he did. I've had this long standing suspicion that he is a serial killer. Now, I have no concrete evidence nor do I go in search for it, it's just one of those "gut feelings" we all get about a certain situation or a person we meet. It's a feeling you can't explain, perhaps a sixth sense?

In the magazine section I see the expected crew. There's a man with a beer gut and a John Deere green hat on, grazing over a copy of Guns 'n Ammo. I hate rednecks with a passion. I'll get into that later. Also there, I see Trooper Bob reading the latest Playboy edition.

Trooper Bob is an interesting member of the law enforcement community. He's in his late thirties I figure. He's square shouldered, rather tall and even imposing to lawbreakers. His eyes give off that dull, fading glow that speaks: "I hate my job but it's the only one I have". What I like most about him is how he doesn't care. Bob's area of responsibility is this strip of Route 30. I see him from time to time, either sleeping in his patrol car out back or eyeing teenagers. There's two sides to him. The casual side and the forreal no shit side. Like I said before, he can go from Police Academy 4 to RoboCop in five seconds. He sets down the Playboy, fixes both hands on the front of his belt, hiking it up some and moves on.

"Hey, Trooper Bob" I say as I come from behind. He casually turns around and looks at me.

"How's it going, Eric?" Trooper Bob asks, tipping his hat up. His uniform is impressive with sharp creases up the pants and his shirt. His shoes are shiny as well. 'Perception works both ways. If ytou look like you know what you're doing, then you know what you're doing' he once told me. It's a very true statement.

"Not bad, catch any criminals?"

"Nope"

"Write any tickets?"

"Hell, no" Trooper Bob smirks, "I like to handle things at the lowest level possible. I'm not out there to fuck anyone. That is, unless they piss me off"

"That's good" I reply, "Where you headin' to next?"

"Wherever I feel like going" Trooper Bob tips his cover down and walks off. I feel safer knowing that he's around. I could've used him when Carl decided to test the durability of my internal organs.

OOC: For those of you who are actually reading this story I want to apologize for my lack of posts recently. My internet is down quite frequently as of late. I'm too drunk right now to post anything other than this message. Rest assured that when I sober-up, there will be more to this action-packed adventure.

This story is awsome! It is much better than many actualy published books! I'll be waiting for the next part!

You know that disappointment you feel when you're at a fast-food joint or in line to buy some food. You've been craving it ever since your eyes caught a glimpse of its' captivating picture on the display panel behind the registers. Alas, you reach in your wallet and discover you don't have enough money to buy it. That disappointing feeling is comprable to this moment when I look up at the clock. It mocks me, it controls me. I don't appreciate this in the least but what can I do? That damn mechanism of wheels, ticks and tocks. It is my master and I the slave. The break-room is empty and the only sounds are the gentle hum of the fridge and the mockings of the clock as it ticked away.

For some reason, I feel sick.

It crawls through my stomach, an infestation of discomfort that forces my face to wince in pain and bend over. I think Carl's addition to my internal organ function has resurfaced. It's dizzying to say the least and the room feels...distorted. The trash bin offers the only solution as I lunge forward and heave a chunky mixture of today's lunch mixed witrh stomach fluids into the trash bin. I weeze and cough and gag. Throwing up is one of thee worst feelings in my opinion. You don't want to go through the whole ordeal but you must regardless. The stream dies down and I begin to dry heave, a second helping is at hand and it delivers into the bin. Finally, I sit back, wiping the residue from my mouth and eyes fixated on the bin. Remarkably, a feeling of relief overwhelms me and I stand up and decide to dispose of the trash.

"You alright, Eric?" Amber asks, she's hesitant like a child wanting to ask for a cookie before dinner.

I nod, still intaking deep breaths, "Yeah, I'll live. Your boyfriend sure worked a number on me"

her left hand slides up her right arm, almost embarrassed, "Yeah..."

OOC: I'm having a shortage of inspiration as of late, I fear writer's block. As soon as it clears, there will be more posts.

There's something strange in her tone and demeanour. Like there's so much pent up...I don't know, but what I do know is it's desperate to crawl its' way out. She's the kind of girl that I wouldn't call a Tomboy or anything. Amber is tough, independent, and hard-headed. It's impossible to figure her out and even harder to get to know her. Amber's that kind of girl that has to talk to you in order to get any sort of feedback.

"What's up?" I ask, leaning against the counter.

"Dicks and helicopters" Amber smirks, "But that's besides the point. Look...I got a text from Carl...Let's just say I would stay clear of him...forever"

"Aren't you afraid of him hurting you?" I wonder aloud.

"I told him countless times that if he harmed me, his dick wouldn't be his anymore"

I believe her,

"It's hard to explain him." Amber says, moving closer, "I did really like him and things were going great. It's just...there's something wrong with him" It appears difficult for her to explain.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want" I offer an out for her.

Amber offers a weak smile of gratitude. It must be difficult for her to be having a personal moment. I know, I have the exact same difficulty.

Before another word can escape from her lips, Burgers fits through the door and places hs hands on his hips. From behind his glasses, his eyes blink wildly, I think there's a nerve in his head that's busted and maybe he's about to become semi-retarded.

I wait in anticipation for this revelation

"The two of you, get back to work" he takes a serious tone, as if this job was actually important or worth putting effort into. Burgers may have no future outside of Giant Eagle, but the rest of us actually have a fighting chance. I'd turn to a life of crime before I did this job for any long period of time.

"I'm on it, Chief" I reply sacrastically and hop off of the counter and almost brush past Amber who I'm sure once I'm gone, will say something even smarter yet much harsher than me.

Out in No-Man's Land, I see hardly anyone. Captain is still reading a newspaper at the front desk, carefully turning the pages meticulously and with purpose. It seems that everything he does from what I observed is with that same lasting effort. He takes pride in everything he does and takes his time doing it. I can't explain why he does, it's just a fucking newspaper. Captain adjusts his glasses and coughs.

Gray is no where to be seen, I'm sure he's still studying the habits of humans in their natural habitat. As I walk down the aisles I check to make sure that everything is still stocked and no spills to be accounted for.

"Eric, wanna race?" Kaz asks from nowhere. It almost starles me, if it weren't for the fact that I know he's like that. He smells of freshly burnt cigarettes and a hint of alcohol. I'm pretty sure he has a flask of some hard liquor.

"Sure, got nothing better to do" I reply. Racing is one of the favorite pasttimes of ours. It's one of those things you can only do late at night when there's no customers or concerned mothers around, or if you just don't give a damn who sees it or not. We abscond two shopping carts from the front area and head to the frozen food aisles. One one side is a long aisle of freezers, a lane, an open area that you can reach into for things, then an open lane, and more freezers. Every frozen delight you can think of can be found here, even things you didn't think or would want to be frozen.

Kaz is the reigning champion of cart racing and proud of it. We assume our positions, I raise one heel on the cart and my right leg tightens with anticipation. Chris sits atop one of the open freezers, both hands raised.

"Ready...On your mark...Get set...GO!!!" Chris shouts and drops his arms dramatically. I push off, my leg kicks like a mule and I keep kicking, hands clasping the handle for dear life. It's a death-defying race, testing the steely nerve of men. This is the stuff of racing legends...at least at groccery stores anyways. Kaz is full of cool confidence, gaining on me. With frustration I kick wildly, almost losing control of the cart. My adrenaline pumps, my heart races, I feel a fire burn inside me. I begin to gain, then fall back.

"You'll never beat me!" Kaz shouts calmly as we near the end of the aisle which signals the end of the race. I can't let him win! Suddenly, Kaz explodes away, taking an impossible lead and wins. I'm still heading too fast and try to stop but lose control and the cart slams against the freezers, knocking me onto a pile of frozen peas and vegetables, ice shoots up and I slam hard onto the pile and the cart crashes onto the floor. I half expected it to explode for dramatic effect, like in the movies. I look up and see the vents pumping out their dusty air and wonder if I'm dead.

"Told you, Eric" Kaz tells me and helps me out and back onto my feet. We burst into laughter, the first time I laughed all night. My spirit uplifts and I feel a little better and hate this place a little less. We return the carts like nothing happened.

After our little race, I decide to actually do some work. Making sure the carts were back inside, the shelves are stocked, and out of pure bordeom, I decide to make sure everything's where they're supposed to be. I walk down the dry foods aisle and shift boxes of crackers here and there. Some cans of food needed to be put in their respected area.

"Excuse me..." I hear a voice from behind me as I sit Indian-style on the floor, staring at a line of soup cans.

"Yeah?" I bluntly reply without looking to see who it is. Who bothers me? A pesty customer perhaps?

"I was walking in when I noticed a car was broken into" this guy tells me. It catches my attention and I look up at this elderly man with gray hair and spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

"Where was this?" I ask

"I believe it's in the employee parking lot" the old man replies in a concerned tone. Without warning, I pretty much leap from my sitting position and dash out of the store, past Captain. The night air is still warm and the parking lot is sparce with vehicles. I round around the building and to the employee parking lot. There...to my dismay...is my Blazer, the driver side window is smashed open and the tires are slashed, murdered!

I stagger up to my Blazer. Shards of glass crack under my shoes. Looking throuh where my window used to be, atop the seat is a brick. What pains me is that I didn't lock the door so the thief could've just opened the door unless...it wasn't about robbing me! It comes to me like a shotgun blast to my mind: Carl. The pieces fall together and I realize that Carl and possibly some of his cronies came around and hurt my baby. I run a hand along the hood, shushing my pained love whom I know is hurting right now, she needs me. I open the door and grasp the brick, clamping tightly on it.

Eric, why me? My Blazer pleads, What did I do to deserve this?

I have no answer, we are both victims here.

The front driver tire and the back left tire are deflated and the doors are keyed up. It doesn't matter about the key marks. She's a tough girl, having endured much in her time, but nothing like this. I am angry, the brick may come in handy later.

"Eric?..." I hear Amber behind me.

"What?!" I snap at her, furious. My anger must be brough to bear on someone, she is more responsible than even Carl. He wouldn't have done this if she hadn't made that damn ficticious statement about the two of us. My tone seems to startle her. I take pride in keeping calm and reserved in any situation that arises. This time; however, I can hardly contain myself.

"I-I wanna apologize for this" she points at my car.

"What, you did this?!" I continue to rant before she can say anything, "You're just as responsible for this as him! You are the worst thing ever to happen to me, Amber. You use every guy you come across"

My words are like arrows, I see her armor crack and her face contorts with every arrow I shoot, there's no response from her and I storm off.

I storm back into the store and try to walk past captain who manages to stop me. He stands up, setting the newspaper down as well as the spectacles. His face offers a gentle expression, one that your grandfather would give when you are a young child on a visit to your grandparents.

"What's troubling you, Eric?" Captain asks, offering an outlet for me to vent. I nod, not wanting to say anything out here. He understands and takes me to the breakroom and locks the door behind us.

"I can't take this!" I explode. Captain takes a seat and looks up at me, not saying a word, "This whole place is bullshit!"

"How so?" He prods me to continue ranting, his voice is flat and even, empathetic is the best way to describe it.

"My car has just been vandalized! All because Amber wanted to get her psycho ex-boyfriend off her back and he in turn is channeling his anger towards me. He's already hit me and now this!"

I throw my arms in the direction of the parking lot, as if I can see it through the walls and steel.

''It's just a matter of time before he kills me. I try to stay out of other people's bullshit, staying to myself and trey to be everyone''s friend and no one's enemy. Now, I'm smack-dab in the middle of it!" I sneer.

"Eric" Captain holds a calming hand up, it works in silencing me, "These things happen. You should fear no man. If you go through life fearing the unknown, too catious to take a leap. Then you'll wake up one day, old and wondering if you lived a life worth living" his tone speaks of experience.

"But he's a psycho!" I exclaim, "I'm tired of this shit!" I feel myself crumbling from all the pent up frustration.

Captain listens to me unburden a world of trouble upon him. As I vent, it's miraculous to see him sit there, nodding and soaking in all this pent up frustration I have towards just about everything. The problem with me is that when something bad happens, it's like a snowball effect where I manage to tie that bad event to past bad events and it compounds my troubles greatly. The issue with my car and Carl is nothing more than the catalist for past issues or ones that I see everyday.

This goes on for a while. I can't find much more to say. I cover this twisted position I'm in between Amber and Carl, my overrall hatred for Giant Eagle (especially the customers), and my frustrations as a teen who hasn't found his niche in the world. At this point I am exhausted, my heart is racing and I feel a sweat coming on, I'm sure I'm red in the face but can't tell. All the while, Captain never changed his empathetic expression.

"It seems you have some troubles, Eric" Captain breaks his seemingly everlasting vow of silence, "You need to understand something."

"What's that?" I run a hand through my hair and exhale forcefully.

"Your young and I know what it was like. Believe me, your problems are just the same as they were in my day...You're only 18, you're not supposed to know what you want in life."

I lean against the counter, taking in his words. It all makes sense in a strange way. I always prided myself in knowing my situation and place and how to deal with problems. Of course, I don't know how to deal with this situation.

"You're a good kid" Captain offers a smile, "I am a firm believer in karma, Eric. People like...Carl will get theirs in the end. It may seem like that's never going to happen but trust me, it will."

"Thanks, Captain" I say, feeling better. I'm not sure if it's the always useful tactic of venting to deal with frustration or if Captain's short words of encouragement worked for me. I push off from the counter and Captain gives me another smile.

As I walk away, "By the way, Eric" Captain says as I place a hand on the knob, "That mistaken call to the manager's office was placed by Amber...Of course, you didn't hear that from me"

I pause, recalling in my memory when I was confronted with my ex, Melissa. That would make sense. I give a smirk that I make sure captain doesn't see and I walk out, without another word.

Captain listens to me unburden a world of trouble upon him. As I vent, it's miraculous to see him sit there, nodding and soaking in all this pent up frustration I have towards just about everything. The problem with me is that when something bad happens, it's like a snowball effect where I manage to tie that bad event to past bad events and it compounds my troubles greatly. The issue with my car and Carl is nothing more than the catalist for past issues or ones that I see everyday.

This goes on for a while. I can't find much more to say. I cover this twisted position I'm in between Amber and Carl, my overrall hatred for Giant Eagle (especially the customers), and my frustrations as a teen who hasn't found his niche in the world. At this point I am exhausted, my heart is racing and I feel a sweat coming on, I'm sure I'm red in the face but can't tell. All the while, Captain never changed his empathetic expression.

"It seems you have some troubles, Eric" Captain breaks his seemingly everlasting vow of silence, "You need to understand something."

"What's that?" I run a hand through my hair and exhale forcefully.

"Your young and I know what it was like. Believe me, your problems are just the same as they were in my day...You're only 18, you're not supposed to know what you want in life."

I lean against the counter, taking in his words. It all makes sense in a strange way. I always prided myself in knowing my situation and place and how to deal with problems. Of course, I don't know how to deal with this situation.

"You're a good kid" Captain offers a smile, "I am a firm believer in karma, Eric. People like...Carl will get theirs in the end. It may seem like that's never going to happen but trust me, it will."

"Thanks, Captain" I say, feeling better. I'm not sure if it's the always useful tactic of venting to deal with frustration or if Captain's short words of encouragement worked for me. I push off from the counter and Captain gives me another smile.

As I walk away, "By the way, Eric" Captain says as I place a hand on the knob, "That mistaken call to the manager's office was placed by Amber...Of course, you didn't hear that from me"

I pause, recalling in my memory when I was confronted with my ex, Melissa. That would make sense. I give a smirk that I make sure captain doesn't see and I walk out, without another word.

In 9th grade, I had this Social Studies teacher named Mr.Crowlin. He was for the most part, a good teacher, despite the fact that I think The Persian Gulf War fucked his mind up. Yep, he was a vet of that...I guess war (lack of a better term). I was in the army, many of us believed him to be a green beret but he shot down these accusations and instead claimed to have been in supply. Regardless, Tyler Crowlin returned a different man, perhaps those pills they were forced to take messed with him. Or, possibly the blank, desert landscape of Saudia Arabia drove him mad.

He was a war freak, everytime we encountered a war during our lessons, he'd flip a switch and become well involved witht he class, almost energized. Anyways, he proposed a small project out of the blue. Don't ask me why we had to do this, I'm still not sure to this day why we had to do this.

"Class" Mr.Crowlin clapped his hands together thunderously, "We're going to do a team building exercise that will help you understand all those around you. I have a list of everyone in this class and each of you will write five good qualities about everyone else. It will remain annonymous and I will collect the lost, compile them, and give each of you a list without names back so that you can get a better idea of what everyone thinks of you"

As I doodled in the back of the classroom I looked up, confused and crestfallen at this latest "team building project". It was hard to come up with five things for everyone. so, I bullshitted, seeing how I hated most of the people. In the end, a few days later, I got a general idea of what people thought about me. Here are the reaccuring themes:

Guarded, Reserved, Calm, Quiet, Cynical, Sarcastic, Handsome...and...nice

I think they lied about the last one, but the others are quite accurate. Though, I'm not sure cynical is admireable in certain circles. I crumbled up the paper and tossed it in the trash in plainview of Mr.Crowlin and the class. I think it disturbed him further.

It was a hard thing to do: Apologize. It's a word I rarely throw into a sentence and even scarcer mean. Amber...I guess...deserved an apology for my outburst. I am a proud man, not boastful, but just proud and always tried to save face in any situation. Dammit, this will be hard.

My eyes dart down the lengthy aisles in search of something. With renewed vigor I stride with increasing speed towards a destination unknown. I don't know what's going to happen and I don't care. everything we try to forsee and map out in our lives seems perfect...and are usually too perfect for life, a force which doesn't give a damn about our plans. We have to adjust to life, not the other way around. My steps echo through the silence, I hear nothing other than the pacing of my own heart.

Chris and Matt head out of the dark cavernous entrance that is the video store. Behind them is nothing but darkness, forboding darkness. With heavy hearts they give the video store one last look before turning away. I notice them as I blaze past, not hearing their continuous arguments regarding some other movie related topic. They're good people.

Something strange is coming over me, a deep knowing of something that I tried so hard to keep buried beneath my layers but is finding itse;f sratch to the surface. There's nothing I can do but embrace it and allow it to come to the surface. Captain was right...good things do come. I was never a believer in karma but maybe I could give it a chance. The search is to no avail, Amber is nowhere to be seen. There has to be some place I missed, perhaps outside?

Outside the air is still warm but are beginning to cool. I can hear the crickets and the occasional car on the nearby highway. There are islands of cars in the sea of pavement. I look from one side to another and decide to go to the employee parking lot. Out there, I see headlights on on the other end. It's odd but of course, it could be Matt and Chris ready to go back to their respective homes or one of their parent's waiting. My car is basked in that dull light from one of the parking lot lamps. There's still glass on the ground and I kick some of it away with my shoes. prior, I cleaned out the glass from the seats. I open the door and it creaks open.

"Eric?" I hear Amber's voice from behind.

"Amber" I exhaust, "I wanted to talk about what happened earlier"

There's something that's changed about her demeanour. Usually she punches you prior to initiating a conversation or says something blunt. This time, however, her tone is different.

"There's something I want to say" Amber looks up. I have my arm hooked through the window and decide to close the door. There's a pause and she clears her throat, "I-I'm really sorry about what happened. I didn't mean for anything to happen to you-" she stops herself.

"That's quite odd to hear coming from you" I reply, "You see...I didn't want you to take what I said the wrong way. It came from an angry moment and it wasn't directed towards you or meant for you."

"Well, I've been trying to calm Carl down. He's still angry and I just don't want him to come back and-"

"Don't worry, I think I can handle myself" I scoff, "He won't want to mess with me again. My stomach probably cracked his knuckles."

Amber laughs slightly, easing up the mood in the air.

"Yeah, you sure did show him a piece of your mind" she slides her arm up the other and flicks her hair back.

"More like a piece of my stomach" I reply

Her gaze lingers at my truck. It's a curious look, as if she were studying some dead animal that she never saw before. It's a very flattering look. After a few moments, the look starts to annoy me.

"Yes, he did do that" I remind her, breaking whatever concentration she had on my truck.

"Sorry, I was miles away" Amber brushes it off.

"No you weren't, you were right here." I correct

"Stop being a smart-ass" Amber crosses her arms.

"Would you rather me be a dumbass?" I question. This was my favorite answer for when people called me a smart-ass. It frustrates the hell out of my Mom and forces her to give up on nagging me.

"You're weird" She shoots me a look, very convincing.

"I'd rather someone come up to me and say, 'You're weird' as opposed to someone come up to me and call me, 'Ordinary'". Is my reply.

Amber steps closer, closing the gap. "That's a good saying to live by. I didn't know that that's how you saw things. Ordinary people are boring. People like us make it a little more interesting."

"Naturally, there needs to be...balance" I mimic her earlier statement. Amber's poker face cracks and her face becomes gentler and more friendly. I must've struck a cord somewhere down the line.

I don't know how it happened but somehow, the two of us are standing in close proximity to each other. She toys with me by pushing me, saying "Balance eh?"

My hand clasps onto hers and pull her closer, there's a sudden change in her face, her eyes are getting glossy for some reason. my heart strangely remains the same beat, I can hers is racing like a damn race car on the final lap of whatever the big race for those damn redneck's is. Amber draws closer, allowing me to reel her in. Our eyes meet. Are we having a moment? This is me holding that shabby box that I suspect is a bomb. Curiosity drives me, compells me, forces me...

Our lips connect...the bomb explodes in my face; however, I embrace this fact and allow it to consume me. I always thought about the future, planned for it, and expected it. Despite this, I learned that: If you neglect the present, then the future may never happen. Who gives a damn about the future? Life is going to shift away from your sight anyways, just live in the moment. Is this the best thing for me? Is she the best girl for me? Hell no! But, it's what's now. My eyes close and I wrap an arm around her slender waist, bringing her body to mine.

Stop.

I know what you're thinking at this point: What the fuck is going on? That's right, I can read minds better than you think. To tell you the truth...I don't know either. Just an hour ago, I wanted to put her head through a wall, it's hard to explain. Usually I can give good answers and advice. Now...I'm not so sure of myself and the world around me. Amber brings chaos and disorder to my neat and tidy world. Like an invading army she's burned the villages to the ground, killed all the intelligent people, sowed the fields with salt, and sold the women and children to slavery. What does this leave me: Nothing but the now. The world I knew has exploded.

Damn her...

Our lips part from this embrace but our faces hover dangerously close. I can feel her breath against my face, like a gentle breeze...that same breeze you feel brush against your cheeks just before a thunder storm.

"What now?" I ask, breaking the silence. Her eyes slowly open, revealing those eyes...it's like I'm seeing them for the first time, beautiful and green.

"Hell if I know" is her short reply before she shoves my face into hers. She is forceful with her intentions. She's a tough girl and her tounge...I have to admit, is the strongest muscle in her body. My arms flail out, she's like the woman from Species. This must be the part where she kills me for not being a match for her reproduction. My back crashes against the truck and my arms give a death grip around her body as we fuse together. It's a good thing that my seat recliners work...