Fade Far Away (excerpt)

It’s still raining when you take your little cup of iced green tea outside, but at least it’s gentled after its original outburst.

The break room is all the way at the far end of the store from the registers, so walking there and back would practically take half your break. You’ve developed the habit of sitting out here in front of the building, where the mulch bags are kept. There’s a little space between the stack and the wall, and you’ve moved one of the bags into the space to serve as a seat. The rest of the bags are perfect for cushioning your back and shielding you from the view of any passers-by.

It’s a cool, quiet little area, and there’s an overhang above it that keeps you dry. You like to hide here for your fifteen minutes of tranquility.

If you take small enough sips, the tea lasts for most of it.

And fifteen minutes can feel like an eternity if you just sit and think.

You think about a lot of things, but mostly you focus on Not Thinking about touchy topics, like your father’s employment situation or your mother’s illness.

Instead you think about what it would be like to get up after your break and just start walking. Walking until you’re far away from the cheap khaki pants and the uniform shirt that’s at least two sizes too big. How far could you walk before you’d collapse, lay down by the side of the road and wait for the rain to wash you away?

On your way back inside you throw out your empty cup, clock back in, and start again.

Three hours to go.

You try to keep from checking the time too often. Just focus on your work, ring the customers through, don’t think about how hungry you are or how little food is waiting for you back home. Your dad’s out of town, so no one’s going to cook tonight. Not you, probably not Emma, certainly not your mom.

Someone buys three pink lady apples, and the smell of them makes your mouth water.

You’re getting paid next week. Maybe you can splurge on fast food for dinner. That is unless you’re running low on gas again. The ten dollars it would take to feed you and Emma could also go toward another quarter tank.

You keep ringing the customers through, relying more on reflex than on conscious thought. Using the same stock phrases again and again. “Hi, did you find everything? Uh-huh, uh-huh, do you have your member card? Your total is ten thirty-seven. Thank you, here’s your change, have a nice day!”

His appearance catches you off-guard.

He looks like he’s in his thirties. More than that, he looks like he’s from the thirties. He’s tall, with black hair slicked back over the top of his head, and he’s wearing a blue pinstripe shirt with dress pants and suspenders. No blazer.

When you take the entire cart full of cheap wine into account, he looks remarkably like a prohibition-era gangster.

“Can I help you?” you stammer, forgetting your script.

“Just this, please.” He sounds perfectly polite, but something about his tone makes you uncomfortable. Maybe it’s your imagination. You reach for a bottle of six dollar sangria and are startled when the register prompts you for his birthdate.

“May I see your ID?” You’re starting to collect yourself again. This part, at least, is familiar.

“Of course.” He hands it to you. You enter the date and start scanning again.

You want to make a joke about how much booze he’s buying, but it seems safer not to. Sometimes people get touchy when you comment on their groceries.

“What’s your favorite kind of candy?” he asks, catching you off-guard again.

“What? Oh, um, I like Skittles.” You give the first answer that pops into your head.

“Any flavor?”

“Just… Skittles.” You feel your face heating up.

“Okay.” He steps down the aisle to browse the candy selection while you scan bottle after bottle and wonder what his deal is.

He comes back as you’re finishing and he adds the Skittles to the conveyor belt. You try to put them in a bag once you’ve rung them up, but he stops you.

“They’re yours,” he says.

“Oh! I can’t--”

“Please, I insist.”

“Thank you so much, you don’t have to do that.” You take them, even though you’re not sure if you’re allowed to take candy from customers. Even though you can’t help but wonder why a thirty-something guy in dress clothes is buying candy for a seventeen-year-old cashier.