A staticky voice sounded overhead, “Floater to break room, flooaatteerrrrr to the break room, please.” The voice reminded me of the show M*A*S*H, about surgeons during the Korean War. There was always someone speaking over the intercom.
I was a floater. As a floater, I didn’t exactly have a job, but I didn’t exactly not have one. I was the guy they told what to do and when to do it. Honestly, I didn’t mind. It gave me more ground to cover and kept things varied and interesting. One minute I’d be mopping up spilled cranberry juice, the other I’d be facing cans, the other I’d be walking old ladies’ groceries to their cars.
On my way to the break room a woman from the store’s pharmacy stopped me.
“Well hello there, Flynn.”
“Um, hey?”
“I’m Ann, silly. Don’t forget to take your vitamins,” she said, handing me three different types of supplements. “It’s important for your internal balance,” she continued. I pretended to take them, so as to not offend her. Into my right jacket pocket they went. I always rocked my brown suede bomber jacket; it was one of my prized possessions.
“Alrighty then, sweetheart!” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
And she was off.
“Bye,” I said, waving. This was an odd encounter, but I realized she was just a lady who was looking out for me, I guess. Maybe I reminded her of her son, or the son she never had. I never asked.
Ann was in her late sixties. Not fat but not skinny. Short, white curly hair, with a nurturing maternal vibe about her. That’s why I didn’t mind her giving me the vitamins, even if I wasn’t gonna take ’em.
Truth is, I hated pills. Always had. Just trying to swallow them would make me throw up.
I finally made it to the break room. Inside two girls sat across from each other drinking coffee—one wore a name tag that said Rebecca, but the other girl called her Becca. Her counterpart’s name tag said Rachel.
I got out my Moleskine and took notes. When I looked back up, they were staring at me blankly as I stood motionless in the doorway.
“New guy’s a weirdo, huh?” Rachel said out loud, not holding back her rudeness. Staring directly at me, saying it like one of those college girls: I’m hot and cool and don’t give a fuck but was probably molested at some point in my teenage years so I’m always in defense mode and attack others before they can attack me first. That kinda chick, you know the type. She looked oddly like Kat Dennings with her pale skin, big lips, bright red lipstick, bulging eyes, and dark brown hair that flowed over her shoulders onto her chest—she had a bit of a 1970s feel.
Becca, on the other hand, seemed sweeter, a bit reserved and shy. She had an Emma Watson vibe going on, minus the hot accent.
“Are you lost, new guy?” Rachel said. It reminded me of my first day in junior high. All the big kids already perfectly knowing the school layout, making fun of me while I’m reading off a sheet of paper, looking for classroom A23 and hoping I won’t be late for English.
“They said they needed a floater to the break room?” I said, looking away from Rachel. She didn’t break eye contact, like a witch casting a spell. Quite honestly, it made me a little uncomfortable. But maybe I liked it. I couldn’t tell.
“Must be in your head,” she said, the girls snickering like they were at a grade school lunch table.
A shadowy figure entered the room behind me. It was Frank. “ ’Sup, Flynn,” he said in a whisper.
“Hey . . . how do you know my name?” I said.
“I don’t know your name, new guy,” Rachel said in a smart-aleck tone. She and Becca stood up and started to leave. On her way out, Rachel stopped and flicked my name tag with her acrylic nail. “See ya later, Flynn,” she said, her tongue pressed against her cheek in a flirtatious manner.
The two left the room.
Frank nudged my elbow.
“I’m gonna fuck that girl,” he said. “And her friend.”
He pulled a banana out of his apron and peeled it.
Standing there confused and unanswered, I opened my mouth to ask again, but was cut off before the first syllable.
“Your name tag, dude,” he said.
“Oh, yeah . . . duh!” I said. “So how long have you worked here?”
“Long enough to have fucked every chick that’s clocked in this motherfucker!” he said, hoisting himself onto the countertop. He peeled a banana, then spit into the sink.
“What the fuck?” I said, a little stunned.
“Well, not every chick. They come and go so often it’s actually pretty hard to keep up,” he continued, his mouth full of banana. “You know . . . ,” he said, swallowing. “Most of these fucking girls are Daddy’s little princesses, off to college to become a grown-up.”
He took another bite.
“And then,” he continued, mouth so full I could barely make out what he was saying. “Mmph, theth girls gettah jawhb here.” He chewed fiercely, swallowed, and continued, his words clearing up perfectly. “And they think, Oh look at me, I’m a working girl,” he explained, mimicking with his hands. “Until they see that minimum wage check and realize Daddy’s credit card is king.”
The room was awkwardly quiet. Light music from the store intercom bled in. It sounded like classic elevator music. Soothing and unsettling at the same time.
“So bananas are your thing, huh?” I said.
“Bananas are your thing?” he repeated with a disrespected look on his face. “What the fuck does that mean?” he said. “What are you, a fucking racist? Huh? You saying bananas are my thing because I’m black?”
Frank was clearly white.
“Huh?” he demanded. “You fucking with me, Flynn?”
The faint sound of a Chuck Mangione flugelhorn solo filled the space between us.
“Hahahaha, I’m just messing with you, man!” he said, lifting his arms in the air.
I exhaled, feeling my chest deflate like a balloon at a birthday party. How long had I been holding my breath in suspense?
“I wouldn’t say bananas are my thing, but—” he said, taking one final bite and raising the peel in the air like a basketball. “Kobe,” he said, taking his shot for the wastebasket. Air ball. “Aaahhh . . . Shaq.” He looked at me. “Not my thing, but they are a great source of nutrition for the brain, and the brain is super important, man,” he said, motioning at me to come with him. He got up to exit the room. I hesitantly joined him, walking to the back loading dock by the dumpsters.
Standing by the dumpster was a guy I hadn’t met. There were so many people who worked here. Too many for the size of the store. He looked to be in his late twenties, white, and full of piercings. He had gauges, a nose ring, a bad Celtic tattoo peeking out of his sleeve, a leather wristband, a big-ass watch, and spiked green hair. Yikes. Not a good look. He stood, arms crossed, leaning against the top rail of a dumpster, smoking a cigarette.
“What’s up, I’m Flynn,” I said.
“Kurtis,” he said as he put out a fist.
Pausing, I reluctantly met his fist with mine.
“I work in the deli,” he said. Not exactly the most sanitary looking of fellows.
“Nice watch, where’d you get it?” I asked him, trying to make small talk.