Back to School

This was the last major story I wrote a while ago. My professor judged me on it, placing me in the place of the speaker, instead of remembering they are a character, not me.

            It was ten minutes to closing when I heard that godforsaken door, gears sliding with a tease in its voice, announce the arrival of customers. I glanced over, hoping to see a face looking sheepish and giving off an air of apology. Instead, one of the floor associates approached the family of seven. He flashed a lousy actress’ alluring smile, and pointed at the lined carts.  The oldest boy, overweight and meek, held a little girl in his arms while the mother fussed over a purse overflowing with God knows what. Behind the two of them four hellions broke loose from the pack. They struck out at aisles with items placed in lines delicate enough to have been laid next to razor edges. I couldn’t help but imagine little Godzillas, crashing about, knocking down buildings of crayons, pencils, binders, and paper. In their hands they carried milkshakes reeking of the sugar that now lined their veins. They tossed them about like ships waiting to capsize in hurricane seas.

            I tried to forget the math book laying in wait on my couch at home, covered in notes and homework assignments that I had put off for a week. F**k.

            The radio piece in my ear clicked on and I heard Carl’s calm voice, “Lacey, she has a school shopping list”.

            He hadn’t even acted annoyed with her. Here she was, two days after the school-year started, taking out her procrastination on us. He hadn’t even tried to follow her around and help her find the supplies. I should be the floor associate. I thought. I could get her out of here.

            “I’ll shut off the door and start vacuuming as soon as I can. She’ll get the message,” I replied.

            As he turned away I heard him whisper, faking as though he thought I couldn’t hear, “…should go back to the damn reservation”.

           

*

Little shrieks pierced the subtle air of music while I faced the cameras, putting them in prime position for display. Everything was done but the vacuuming. I had planned out the night in an attempt to get closed as fast as possible and get home. It’s the math homework, I kept telling myself. That and Back to School. Nothing makes me want to quit my job more than this. I had a test the next day. It was the last math class I would ever have to take, according to my advisor. My mind ran with the idea of flunking and having to re-take the class. As I cleaned, I tried to focus on getting ready to go finish homework. However, I was plagued by an image of my 6-pack of Leinenkugels pouring themselves into glasses frosted by my freezer.

            My purple watch showed 8:52. Two minutes? That’s all? I reached for a bottle of Windex, ignoring my flaking nail polish. The windows behind me looked dirtier to me than they had when I had decided to skip them for the night earlier. A crashing came from behind me. I tried to see what was going on, but the aisles blocked the way. All I could see was the top of our step-ladder. I knew it was marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Yet here it was, bouncing as if under the affect of hydraulics. Little feet could be heard pitter-pattering on it.

            Since they were on the other side of the store I couldn’t know what Carl did or said. Another employee in the copy center piped up on the radio, “Some people shouldn’t keep having kids.” She spoke with the wisdom every mom thinks no other one possesses.

            A snicker, so unlike the candy-bar, flickered through my lips. This job did things to you. In the beginning, when these particular brown people came strolling through and ignored my cries of hello, it seemed more like they didn’t hear me. Later, their silence became a personal insult to the kindness in my voice. Categorizing them all together by their skin was far too easy.  

            The manager didn’t bother to tell her to be nice. He went on typing in his office like it never happened, the glass separating him from responsibility. Working at an office supply store during Back to School could drain you with all the pointlessness a waitress felt when her tips added up to almost nothing. The kids kept going. I listened for Carl to yell at them, but I knew he was too big of a p***y. He was probably standing there, that blank look on his sheltered face. He has been raised in a situation where when this kind of moment arose he didn’t know how to approach his feelings. Confrontation wasn’t in his mental vocabulary. Maybe the mother would tell them to get down in some language we didn’t understand.

            All at once the crashing was only a reflection ringing in my ears. I polished the window, which now seemed worthy of my time because I had to be there so much longer. Wax on, wax off. I could see them in the glass as they ran onto the furniture pad. They spun chairs, giggling in the pitch little kids did to gain attention, and ran to and fro. One child reached for another one as if to clip his skin between her uncut fingernails. The little boy gave a face every little boy could if you made him mad enough. His forehead furrowed into rows of uni-brows. He swept out of his older sister’s grasp, dodging a display of movies I had put up.

            Turning to view him face to face, I saw he had already ran past where I was looking for him. Swiveling in my non-slick shoes, I couldn’t help but stare after him. The toddler came to a halt in front of the door. When it didn’t move he jumped up and down once on bare-skinned soles, paused as it rolled open, and then booked it out into the poorly lit parking lot.

 

            Sometimes you just stand there. It’s like you’re watching a movie. You feel as if you are snug in your seat, sweaty popcorn butter slapped all over your fingers. Your eyes eat up the screen. You’re the perfect creeper, watching other people’s lives. You didn’t have to act:  help save someone, yell to them, or get out of their way. You were simply an observer. Here I was, watching a little boy run out into the street and doing nothing, as if I was separated by a screen. No one even came to see where he went. The mother didn’t even know he was gone.

 

            She doesn’t even f*****g care. My eyes traveled around the deserted area of the store I inhabited.  I’m not supposed to leave the front, some recording in my mind droned. Instead of chasing after him, I pressed the button attached to my shirt and said, “You might want to tell that lady her son just ran into the parking lot”. After I said it the guilt hit me in waves, each growing bigger as if the tide was coming in.

            Carl was probably stuttering some ill-structured sentence to her as I left my station.  When I got outside I couldn’t see him. Images conjured themselves of a car screeching in, gunning down the little boy with the pop-pop of some ill engine. My feet carried me faster, eyes searching the shadows of the building, garbage cans, and light poles for a sign of flesh. Some girl from the food joint next door was throwing heaping bags of trash into a dumpster. I called out, asking if she had seen the little guy. She rolled her eyes, saying no, and went back in to finish her job. My hand flipped up behind her to give her the finger for being so ignorant.

            I peered around, trying to make my eyes adjust to the darkness. My contacts clawed at me as I looked for him, begging to be taken out for the night. There was no place he could be hiding. It was cold, with the chill of fall-winter coming. My ears strained, listening for sneakers. Wait, he wasn’t even wearing shoes…

            “Lace, where did you go?”

            Carl’s voice broke the silence. I didn’t jump, because he is so soft spoken, but annoyance laced my temper.

            “I’m looking for the little boy.”

            “Oh, he’s in here. Didn’t you see him come back in?”

            Turning on the spot, with my fingers flicking annoyance against the inside of my thumbs, I said, “Obviously not”.

*

            Windows can only be cleaned so much. I finished them, trying to ignore pops of unknown origin coming from the computer section. I heard a voice behind me.

            “Excuse me. Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

            It was the oldest child. I looked at him as if he had just walked in from some unknown place in time. He was strange to me. I didn’t know his kind, with their reserved lots on native soil that had been doled out by the government. Their history, with trickles of pain falling down into his current people, was alien to me. His eyes were what struck me the most. I should have been surprised by his tone, but it was the glazed look on him that made me feel the stutter threatening my next sentence. His cheeks still held baby-fat dimples, his lips portraying emotions that would later be hidden by a poker face. Everything appeared soft, not yet callused. But his eyes were hardened over like the nail-polish covering I had forgotten to use the week before. I pointed to the corner of the store, “Back by the exit sign”.

            When his back disappeared behind a bookcase display I looked at the clock: 9:07. I jerked towards the doors and started turning them off. It was embarrassing to have shut them off late. Anger steamed behind my eyes. The first tingles of a stress migraine ran around my temple. It was beginning to look like a long night. If only these people had came in sooner! I could have counted the money fast enough that I would have probably been helping the manager print reports by now. Soon I would have been clocking out and turning out lights. Even sooner after that the doors would have been locked behind us, and my car would have sat there waiting to take me home.

            There was nothing else to do. Well, I could have actually cleaned the counters that night instead of telling myself the cashier tomorrow would. But that would take at least ten minutes! I would probably start and then they would come up to check out. - S**t, I thought as I remembered the vacuuming. I dragged the old piece of junk, like a rusted shovel, over to the wall and flipped turn after turn of cord onto the ground. The little kid in me tried to entertain myself by saying they looked like snakes, but it failed. I was plugging it in, ready to start up the whirlwind, when the chorus of forgotten children grew loud enough to gain my attention again. They were approaching the counter far sooner than I would have imagined. The oldest brother was there again, holding out his timid hands to try to steer the kids away from the candy display. They ducked under him with the grace that deer jump over fences. Their hands were free to balance them, as their milkshakes had disappeared. Fifteen more minutes on my closing time with putting together a mop bucket, mopping, and then dispensing of the mess. After taking my place and tapping the screen on the register, I looked at the mother pushing a car-full of supplies alone towards me.

            Her eyes looked like a crappy imitation of the son’s. The same glazed quality was there, but it wore off as I started to ring her out. I didn’t want to look at her as I repeated the same small talk, bullshit lines I had to at my job. Hi, how are you? How was your visit today? Do you have a rewards card? Would you like one?

Her shoulders were tight, holding something I couldn’t understand. Was it pride? Traces of former, stress-free beauty littered her face. Almond shaped eyes, a handsome nose, and full lips. Yet each piece of her face was plagued with wrinkle lines. Her hair, full and thick, looked wild where it could have once been tamed with a few more minutes of product. Fingernails of a beautiful shape, but left jagged and plain, let go of the cart.  Instead of trying to read the mother’s story anymore, I looked at the little girl sitting in the basket. She was the one the oldest boy had carried in. The other kids beat at the oldest brother with wild fists behind the scene, but I blocked them out.

Her face was beautiful. It was stretched in ways that went against the norm. I could see a slight misshapen quality to her limbs. They hadn’t grown right…neither had her face. She looked at me with subtle accusations. When her over-large mouth opened, I expected a slur of some far-off speech. She reminded me of others like her I had seen, always dispelling a cloud of pity into my stomach like food poisoning. She pulled her cheeks, maybe not knowing it, and cupped her mouth wide. I continued to move, but the sound that came out stopped my speech. She was like a kitten, a yowl that was gentle but held the power of gaining attention.

            The mother’s dull brown eyes left me as she turned to her daughter, her large shoulders melting as she leaned in and picked her up. I had the transaction finished, but I didn’t say anything. Cheap pencils, folders likely to fall apart, and notebooks from the clearance rack lined the bags I placed on the counter. The little girl’s eyes stared at me as her face grew tighter with anger. She knew something more than her family. It was like the black, corporate shirts we wore labeled us for what we were thinking.

            “How much is it?” the mother asked. Where she had answered my earlier questions with quick, yes or no grunts before, her tone was now far softer than I would have expected. I was used to them talking to me in little bursts stinking of reverse-discrimination. She was looking me directly in the face while she held her Special Olympics child. Her stance demanded my attention return to her, and not the burden in her arms that she loved. For a woman that had let her pack loose on my store, she commanded a lot of authority.

            “$25.98.” I said.

            For the rest of the transaction I avoided the over-intelligent eyes of the child, while also trying not to focus on the posture of the mother. I expected some large bill I would have to run a marker over to check if it was fake (as if it would be), but she instead handed me perfect change. The bills were all in the same direction:  Four fives and five ones. My hands tried to be subtle in their quickness of throwing the change in the drawer, but the loud snap of the woman’s purse as she shut it showed she knew. As I handed her the receipt, too clumsy to ask if she wanted it in one of the bags, she spoke to her son. Again, I expected another language, but she said, “Get them to the car.” When each child passed her, she swiped the candy out of their hands, placed them on the counter, and handed them a bag.

            I didn’t expect anything else and I slid past them all to force open the door, but the mother shed a smile on me, showing almost straight teeth, and said a simple, “Thank You”. Her hands lifted the girl out of the cart and she strolled out. Her back was as straight as a woman in high heels, even though her feet were cushioned by working boots.

            Then they were in the parking lot. The four little ones still scurried about like little creatures rustling up grub in the dark. I didn’t focus on them this time. Instead, I saw a mother carrying a child that would never fully be able to communicate with her. The oldest brother looked as if at any moment whatever stubborn attitude held him up would snap.

*

            It surprised me that where I had been so gung-ho about getting to my homework and closing moments before, I didn’t want to anymore. I watched after where their dingy old truck, brimming with kids in the truck bed, had turned onto the road. The vacuum was right next to me. Auto-drive placed me there, swishing back and forth, catching the piles of dust the kids had left behind. My mind kept sweeping me back with sudden jerks to the tired look of the mother. My voice attempted one of the many karaoke songs I practiced as I closed, but it kept crackling like a radio. After surrendering to my thoughts, I radioed Carl, telling him some off-hand remark about cleaning up milkshakes that were likely to have been spilled. My homework was calling to me, and that call made the decision to keep Carl there later than me easier.  My feet carried me about, but I didn’t focus on my last few tasks as I clocked out and grabbed my belongings to leave.

 

            As I slid into my car, tossing my nametag and earpiece into their spot on the backseat, I tried to imagine the girl in the copy center talking over the radio. I tried to imagine Carl saying his racist little line. I tried to see them saying those things, after having looked at the face of the little girl. I checked my make-up in the mirror and panicked. For just a moment, I thought my eyes were glazed like those of the son.

Author's Note

I wrote this story a while back. I took a lot of feedback on it and have just now con back to revise it. It's based on some real-life experiences, but the character is very separate from me. I do have a few things I want to ask for particular critique on:

Do you feel the character realizing her mistakes by seeing the special needs child is a cop-out?
Should the family be more obviously identified as Native American earlier in the story?
Is the description that mentions crayons, pencils, etc. in the beginning enough of a clue to make you think this is an office supply store?
Does the main character need to be identified as a woman before her name is spoken?
Is the swearing too distracting? Or does it add to the character?
And last, is the ending of the story too much of a "moral"?

Thank you for reading!