"The Stockboy"
by Michael Dell

Green beans were on sale. Three cans for a dollar. He hated green beans. The ones in the can tasted weird. And every time he bought fresh ones he'd always forget to cook them, paying $1.76 for the privilege of transporting them to his house and discarding them in his own garbage. Green beans. They were normally fifty cents a can. It said so on the sign. But for the next two days they'd be three for a dollar.

He studied the row of canned vegetables. There were three different brands of chickpeas. That didn't include the garbanzo beans. Potatoes. Beets. Corn. Soon he'd know what they all cost.

An elderly woman pushing a buggy with a squeaky wheel brushed behind him. He pretended to be busy analyzing the nutritional content of spinach. The squeaking ceased a few feet to his right. There were two grams of protein per serving. She was comparing the vast array of yams. They were aligned in an autumnal collage of orange and yellow stickers on a shelf slightly above her head. Dreading she might ask for assistance, or even try to make eye contact, he took advantage of her momentary distraction to slip quietly from the aisle.

He had been doing his grocery shopping at this very location for his entire existence. The establishment had changed hands and names often, but the environment itself, from the layout of the store to the products offered, was pretty much the same as when he was a kid sitting in the front of his mother's shopping cart, hoping to score a free chocolate chip cookie from a generous bakery employee. He still came at least once a week to replenish his supply of rice and vegetables. Always fresh. Never from the can.

This trip was different. He knew that going in. He had barged through the automatic doors on a mission, storming past the produce section and valiantly marching towards his inevitable fate. And it was by the canned foods that this fiery resolve waned. There had to be another solution. Options remained hidden as he wandered adrift in a profusion of consumer products. There wasn't much time left. It was five till three. This had to be done. He had no choice. It was his responsibility.

The manager's office was at the end of a hall, whose opening was tucked between the store's miniature post office and its customer service desk. He knew where he had to go, but feeling the woman's gaze as he approached made him ask the unnecessary question.

"Can you tell me where the manager's office is?"

"It's right down that hall, second door on the right."

"Thank you."

The door was where she said it would be. The word "MANAGER" was stenciled in black paint. He knocked three times. There was no answer. He knocked again before trying the doorknob. The room was empty. It was just as he thought the office of a grocery store manager would look. Space was limited. An old metal desk, cluttered with papers and forms of varying colors, dominated the area. The fake wood paneling of the walls held the usual calendars and free promotional posters proclaiming the benefits of workplace safety. Two beaten, vinyl-cracked chairs sat opposite the desk. There were two file cabinets, a plant, and a coffee maker. The ceiling's fluorescent light made everything seem even more artificial. The plant may have been plastic.

He pulled the door shut and waited outside in the hall. Maybe he'd get a reprieve after all. No. He'd have to wait. Hands behind his back, he leaned against the wall and spread his stance in preparation for an extended test of endurance. His head lowered and he lost himself in the pattern of the aged floor tiles, his fingers nervously tapping a signal of distress against his newest cage.

He stood tall when he heard the footsteps.

"Vincent?"

"Yes."

"Nice to meet you." The man extended his right hand in friendship; his left was holding a black coffee mug. "Howard Dutrow."

Vincent returned the handshake with a polite smile and a nod of recognition.

"Come on in and have a seat," offered Mr. Dutrow, breezing into the office with the accustomed ease gathered only through years of practiced monotony. "Should I call you Vincent? Or do you like Vince?"

"I actually prefer Vincent."

"Then Vincent it is," agreed Mr. Dutrow, motioning again for Vincent to have a seat as he took one final sip of coffee and rounded his desk. Both men claimed their respective chairs. "I'm sorry I was a little late. I appreciate you waiting."

"It's okay, don't worry about it."

"We always like to meet with new employees before bringing them aboard, just so we can get an idea of the kind of person they are, what they like to do, stuff like that. We're like one big family here at Foodland."

Vincent wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh at that last line or not. He bit the inside of his lip.

"If you can just give me a minute," petitioned Mr. Dutrow, "I know I had your application here somewhere."

Vincent watched in silence as the man rummaged through the papers on his desk, stacking some into neat piles and disregarding the welfare of others entirely. He was almost spastic in his movements, as if his muscles had been trained to accomplish tasks in short bursts of attentiveness. Vincent guessed Mr. Dutrow had to be in his late 30s or early 40s. He had the build of a healthy, fit specimen, although his face was showing evidence of the oncoming slack of middle age. He still possessed a full head of hair, which was brushed back and held in place in such a way as to add slightly to his overall height. His white short- sleeved shirt was neatly pressed and his red tie, comprised of a material not easily discernible, was knotted with all the splendor of a perfect Windsor. A gold watch adorned the wrist of his left arm. Vincent imagined it having been presented to Mr. Dutrow at an informal ceremony in recognition of his many years of loyal service. The thought of a similar gift befalling him stirred in Vincent the fear of a thousand lonely deaths.

"Here we go," celebrated Mr. Dutrow. "I knew it was here somewhere." He gave the application a quick read to recall any forgotten details. The paper bowed awkwardly in his twitchy hands. "It says here you're 26?"

"Yes," answered Vincent.

"And you're not married?"

"No." Vincent's chest swelled with defiance.

"You live on Cedar Street. Is that right over here by Schaler's Bakery?"

"Yes, I live like two minutes from here." Vincent was finding it difficult to breath.

"That's good." Mr. Dutrow continued to read. "So you're a writer?"

"Supposedly." The office seemed positively claustrophobic. Vincent casually pulled at his collar, hoping to lessen his discomfort without drawing attention, feeling remarkably foolish for wearing a shirt and tie to a job interview at a grocery store.

"That's interesting." Mr. Dutrow put down the application and focused his attention on Vincent. "What kind of stuff do you write?"

"Well," began Vincent, agonized. It always pained him to speak of his writing. "Like it said on there, I used to write for a sports web site for five years before quitting to focus on writing novels."

"What kind of sports did you cover?"

"Hockey mostly. But I also did some boxing and a little football."

"Really?" A sense of calm seemed to sweep over Mr. Dutrow. He leaned back in his chair. "Gee, I'm a boxing fan myself. What do you think about Hopkins?"

"He's very good."

"Everyone was saying Trinidad would handle him, but I didn't believe it for a second. Hopkins is tough. He's a real prizefighter. My brother-in-law actually has a friend who used to train in the same gym as Hopkins back in Philadelphia. He said he's a great guy."

"Yeah, that's what I hear," confirmed Vincent, the friendly banter doing little to quell his discomfort.

"That Hopkins is a real fighter." Mr. Dutrow, a grin still animating his face from the memory of winning $50 on the Hopkins-Trinidad fight, went back to reading Vincent's application.

"You like to read a lot?" asked Mr. Dutrow, having apparently reached the 'Hobbies' section.

"Yes."

"I sure wish I read more myself. I always mean to, but never seem to get around to it. My wife's the reader in our family. She's always in the middle of one book or another. It's that darn Oprah and her book club, am I right?" laughed Mr. Dutrow.

Vincent cringed. "I wouldn't know. I stick to the classics."

Before Mr. Dutrow could mine the literary field any further, a woman in a gray skirt and white blouse entered the office. She was surprised to see Vincent and did little to mask her embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Howard. I didn't know you were busy."

Mr. Dutrow snapped from his chair. "No, no, that's okay, Janet. Come on in. Is anything wrong? Do you need anything?"

"No, it's okay." She smiled at Vincent. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll come back later."

"Okay," surrendered Mr. Dutrow. "As long as you're sure..."

"I'll come back later." The door shut. Janet was gone.

Mr. Dutrow remained standing, almost as if he was debating whether to engage pursuit or stay where he was in hopes the door would reveal her once more. He remembered Vincent. He sat back down and began straightening his desk again. "That was Janet. You'll be seeing her around from time to time. She supplies us with the greeting cards we sell. So..." Mr. Dutrow's eyes lingered on the door. "Where were we?" Vincent was hoping he wouldn't remember. "Your writing." No such luck. "You quit the sportswriter job to write books?"

"Yes."

"About sports?"

"No." It was clear Mr. Dutrow's curiosity wasn't going to be satisfied with a one-word answer. "I don't know, they're about life, I guess. And love. And death."

"I see," said Mr. Dutrow, his brow wrinkled in genuine interest. "Have you had any luck getting published?"

Vincent hesitated.

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry," realized Mr. Dutrow a beat too late. "I guess if you had you wouldn't be here, would you?"

"Probably not," smiled Vincent. It was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks.

"A writer, though, that's really something. Just super. I hope it works out for you."

"Thanks" was Vincent's reflexive reply to the oft-heard remark.

"You know, I used to paint a bit in college. I used to be pretty good, too. Then I..." The swinging of the office door interrupted Mr. Dutrow's confession. He was beginning to stand up until he discovered it wasn't Janet. He was visibly disappointed.

"Howard, can you c'mere a minute?"

"How many times have I asked you to knock before coming in?" The lack of an apology rendered the question rhetorical. Mr. Dutrow did introductions. "Vincent this is Jerry. Jerry, Vincent."

"Hey," nodded Jerry. Vincent echoed the greeting. "Anyway, do you think you can c'mere a second?"

"I'm kind of busy," voiced an irritated Mr. Dutrow. "What's the problem?"

"I got this old guy with about 40 bucks worth of stuff."

"Well, can't you handle it?" Mr. Dutrow's shoulders slumped at the prospect of having to reprimand a shoplifter.

"He won't talk to me. He wants to speak to the manager."

Mr. Dutrow considered his various routes of escape. "How old did you say he is?"

"He won't say. But he's gotta be like 75, 76."

"Aw, geez. Just tell him not to do it again and let him go."

"He won't budge. He says he refuses to move until he speaks with the manager."

"Where's he at now?"

"The meat department. I caught him stuffing a pack of lamb chops down his pants. Sid's watching him."

"He's not making a big scene is he?"

"I wouldn't say big..."

"Aw, geez." Mr. Dutrow reluctantly got to his feet. "I'm sorry, Vincent."

"It's okay, I understand."

"I'll be right back. Feel free to help yourself to some coffee or..." Mr. Dutrow wanted to say something else but could only issue forth another assurance that he'd be right back before following Jerry from the room.

They left the door open. Sounds of shoppers began to reach Vincent's ears. The intrusive clatter strangled his remaining courage. His altruistic sense of honor was overtaken by the debilitating reality of the situation. The black vertical recesses in the wood paneling began to take on the appearance of prison bars. Nightmarish scenarios of employment began marauding through his mind. It had been nearly six years since he held a job that required his leaving the house. The prospect of being around strangers each day was not a pleasant one. They'd be looking at him. Asking him questions that would demand responses. They'd force him to partake in inane conversations about the weather, local sports teams, or the frustrating condition of the break room. He began to sweat. He'd have to follow their orders. He'd have to dress as they dressed. Talk as they talked. Soon he'd begin thinking like them, worrying about such things as days off or the amount of tax pilfered from paychecks.

Blood surged. His pulse stretched the flesh of his frail wrists. He loosened his tie. Suddenly, everything was laid out before him. This would be his life. His dreams had crumbled under the weight of failed intentions.

He frantically bolted from his chair and down the hall. To hell with it! He couldn't live like them. He'd never be able to live like them. He was pulling the noose free from his neck when he turned into the store, almost colliding with a young woman pushing a stroller. Vincent couldn't move. He struggled to speak. "I'm sorry..."

The young woman smiled pleasantly and continued with her shopping. Vincent was absorbed in the movements of the mother and child. He followed them with his eyes until they disappeared from view. Their absence freed his limbs. He cautiously edged his way towards the exit only to be intercepted by a small girl skipping after her mother. Vincent spun and fled in the opposite direction, his frenzied flight finally coming to a halt before a display of baby food. Rows and rows of tiny jars seized his flailing conscience. The cherubic faces on the labels innocently stared back at him. They were void of expectation. They demanded nothing.

When Mr. Dutrow returned to his office, he found Vincent patiently sitting in his chair, hands folded, eager to begin his new career as stockboy.