POTATO CHIPS 4

Mr. Stock boy turns away from the store manager. He finishes regurgitating on Miss Sharon’s shoes. The sickening smell of stomach acid and mashed potatoes fills the air.

The crowd quickly disperses. Once again it’s just me, the store manager, security-guard Sharon and the ashen-faced stock boy.

The store manager’s thick chest is heaving with disgust and rage. He points a shaky finger at me as he addresses Miss Sharon.

“Officer, arrest this woman immediately!”

Miss Sharon is busy wiping potato-chip goo from her shoes. “Sorry, but no way, Jose. I’m leaving. I was going to quit this crummy job anyway next week when I resume medical school.

“Besides, this lady said she’d pay for the food items she used. So really, there’s no basis for me to do anything.”

Miss Sharon turns to leave, but the store manager gets in her face.

“No Basis? No basis, you say? Are you nuts, woman? Look around you. My shelves are disheveled. I’m dripping with vomit. Your shoes are unsalvageable. My stock-boy is more useless than ever. I think some kind of retribution is in order. Oh yes, indeed it is.”

The store manager has a wild look in his eyes. His face has developed a nervous tick. Miss Sharon hesitates, cowering under his glare.

“What do you suggest?” she asks, feebly. Mr. Stock boy pipes up.

“I say we put her in the meat freezer and let her cool down for a while.” He tries to laugh but it comes out as an asthmatic wheeze.

“No, that’s too good for her,” says the store manager.

“What happened to the ‘customer’s always right’?” I blurt. “You guys should be trying to make me happy. Wait until the corporate office hears about this. By the time your CEO gets through with you, you’ll be eating your underwear for dinner and asking for more.”

“She has a point, Sir,” wheezes the stock boy. The store manager looks at Miss Sharon for confirmation. But she shrugs unhelpfully. He shifts his unblinking gaze to me, regarding me like a rattlesnake regards a mouse.

“I’m unemployed. I could use a job,” I peep. The store manager’s eyes blaze.

“Excellent idea!” He turns to the stock boy. “Butch, please escort this young lady to the back room and give her a mop and bucket. I want this mess cleaned up, pronto!”

“I was thinking more along the lines of deli or cake-baker person,” I say, trying to think of a way out. “I can dust furniture, but the finer points of water and soap application escape me.”

“Oh, you’ll learn quickly enough.” The store manager has a grin on his face I don’t like.

I clean myself up and don a white deli-counter coat with “Marv” stitched on the pocket. I wheel the bucket and mop to the potato-chip aisle. The sudsy water in the bucket is black and smelly. It probably needs to be changed. But, I don’t care.

It takes me hours to wash down the splattered floor and clean the shelves, all under the watchful eye of Butch. When I’m finally done, I’m exhausted. Butch shuffles off to get the store manager. I’m looking forward to getting paid and exiting this House of Pain.

The store manager walks up and down the aisle. He stoops. “You left a spot,” he says. I look at where he’s pointing, but see nothing.

“Sorry, but I’m not paying for shoddy work. You’re fired.” His grin is broad and bright.

I’ve been had. I tear off my deli-counter coat.

As I stride toward the exit, I yell, “I’ll get you and your mutant chips, too!”

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