Taking Stock Read Online Free Page B

thief.”
    “I recommend you keep all your receipts. You may be asked to produce them at any time.” He maintains eye contact for another few seconds, then looks down. “Your forearms are skinny, like a T-rex’s.”
    He faces the front of the store, puts his hands in his pockets, and walks away.
    Jack’s threats don’t scare me.
    What scares me is that Spend Easy is my first taste of what’s commonly referred to as the ‘real world’, and so far the real world reminds me of high school. I didn’t do so well in high school. My best memories are of the times I managed to make myself invisible. I graduated friendless. Soon after, my Mom died.
    Two years after that, I searched the internet for how to tie a noose.
     
    *
     
    Gilbert returns as I’m fronting the last section in Aisle One, his hair shorter.
    “What happened to your hair?” I say.
    “I got a haircut. You’re still fronting Aisle One?”
    “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” someone calls from the other end of the aisle. He’s a tall, athletic-looking guy wearing a Spend Easy shirt. He nods at Gilbert. “Nice haircut.”
    “Hey, fat-ass. Meet the rookie.”
    “Hi,” he says. “I’m Paul.”
    Gilbert heads toward the warehouse, and I follow Paul to Aisle Two, which affords me the opportunity to evaluate Gilbert’s claim regarding his ass. It’s true: despite an otherwise muscular frame, Paul’s ass is enormous. We begin fronting the canned vegetables.
    “Are employees normally allowed to go for haircuts during work?” I ask.
    “Only employees named Gilbert.”
    “Why?”
    Paul shrugs. “He just gets away with stuff.”
    Fronting goes much quicker, with two. Paul tells me I’m being too meticulous—the product doesn’t need to be lined up perfectly.
    “Good word,” I say.
    “What?”
    “Meticulous—that’s a good word.”
    “Thanks.”
    It turns out I know someone who works here: Ernie, a guy I went to high school with. He’s Gilbert’s ‘Ernest’, I guess. He walks past as we’re fronting dog food.
    “Hey, Paul,” he says. “I’m just popping in to check the schedule.”
    “Okay.”
    Ernie makes it to the end of Aisle Two, and then he turns around and stares at me. “Holy shit.”
    I raise my eyebrows.
    “Sheldon?” he says. “Sheldon Mason?”
    “Yeah.”
    He rushes back to us, hand thrust forward. “Holy shit! I haven’t seen you in like three years! What have you been doing all this time?”
    “Nothing.”
    He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “No, really—what have you been doing?”
    “Really. Nothing.”
    Whereas most people ignored or ridiculed me in high school, Ernie constantly pestered me to come hang out with him at his house. I learned to have an excuse prepared at all times. I felt bad, but the truth is, I think he’s disgusting. His house smells bad, and his personality makes me nauseous. After I graduated I started using a different email account, and whenever Ernie called, Mom told him I wasn’t home.
    “Are you still writing?” Ernie says.
    “No.”
    “Oh. Right on. Well, I’d better go, then.”
    “All right. See you.”
    “Hey—we should hang out some time.”
    “Uh. Okay.”
    Once Ernie’s gone, Paul glances at me. “Is he a friend of yours?” His face is blank, and his tone is neutral, but I sense there’s some silent judgment being passed. Of course there is.
    “Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
    He nods. “I’m glad. He needed one, here.”
    Paul’s pocket emits a brief, 8-bit melody. He takes out his phone and starts texting. “Not supposed to be doing this,” he says.
    “Was that the 1up sound, from Mario?”
    “It was indeed.” He puts away his phone. “So, you’re a writer?”
    “Used to be.”
    “Anything published?”
    “No.”
    “What did you write?”
    “Fiction.”
    “Cool. I write a blog. About video games.”
    “Good for you.”
    “I’ve been thinking about trying a novel. This place is actually pretty inspiring.”
    For some reason,