Page 4 of Fruitbat

My eyes roll.

This place doesn’t pay enough to afford anything above basic necessities, so we collect our ownbonusesfrom time to time. It’s not likely anyone is checking the footage. I don’t even bother being discreet anymore, no one seems to care. I haven’t been fired yet.

The owner is probably just using the place for some shady money laundering scheme. I’ve never met them, only heard it’s some youngentrepreneurwith more capital than they know what to do with. The missing goods definitely go unnoticed in finagled bookkeeping. I can’t remember the last time I was asked to record inventory, it’s been at least two years.

“Okay—It’ll give me something to do.” I scoot past Delila, into the office where I drop my bag, and clock in. The archaic machine hung on the wall sears a barely legible 10:59 onto the yellow strip of cardstock.

Right on time.

Delila pops in the door and punches her card before I even step out of the way. She smells like sour pickle—her favorite snack, according to the half-empty jars left in the office every night—and cheap fruity shampoo. Some sort of mixed-berry bullshit. Not the gag-inducing combination you’d imagine though, it reminds me of those deceptive kombucha drinks in the fridge at the back of the store. They smell okay but taste rancid.

Delila gathers up her things, slipping into a short-waisted metallic-lavender quilt jacket. Her thick corkscrew curls are swept up into a twisted nest atop her head. I envy her creamy brown skin.

A lack of experiencing daylight these past few years has left me pale as a ghost. There’s not much reason to leave my tiny studio apartment, after I get home, just past dawn. I sleep through most days. Once upon a time, I savored the night and it’s peaceful bliss, before I took this fucking gig. I figured I could write, while getting paid. That’s the dream isn’t it?So much for that.I usually end up staring at a blank screen and blinking cursor, for hours on end, before trolling internet forums the rest of my shift.

“Have a good one,” Delila says, looping the strap of her purse across her breast, and wedging it tight against her hip. “Happy Halloween.”

“Oh yeah, you too.” I’d forgotten, even though decorations have been up all over town the past week. I slept through any potential trick-or-treaters. No one was about to knock on the door of my 3rd-floor walk-up anyway.I wouldn’t answer if they did.

That fucking doorbell chimes again, as she struts out, and down the sidewalk, before the door slams.

My teeth clench and I have to close my eyes for a brief moment of meditation. I could probably just lock up, go home, then come back before the morning shift takes over, no one would even notice.

But,Fuck it. I’m already here.

I flip the tap of a tall silver thermos, in the line-up along the wall, and fill a paper cup with a dark roast brew.

Standing in the center of the store, facing the camera, I blow ripples over the black sludge, and slurp. My eyes narrow and glare up at big brother’s lens, challenging the tiny red pin-light beaming back at me.

I suppress the intrusive urge to flip my middle finger at the camera.It doesn’t deserve that.

This coffee is disgusting, it’s probably still the same batch that the morning shift brewed and has sat all day. Or worse, the same pot I brewed last night, that still hasn’t been changed.

I spit it back into the cup and turn on my heel, stomping toward the sink, at the back of the store.

The place is grossly familiar. Nothing ever changes. Shelves take months, even years to empty and just get refilled with expired junk from the moldy storage room in the basement. Some of the garbage has probably sat here longer than I’ve been an employee. The thick layers of dust prove my theory.

I round the grocery shelf into the farthest aisle but my footing doesn’t quite make contact, and slips out from under me. My right heel glides over some slick barrier coating the floor and my arms flail, reaching for the plastic barrel end-cap—which should be full of hard ciders—hoping to catch myself but it tumbles sideways, under my weight, and I pull it down with me.

My head bashes against the sharp corner of a steel shelving unit, and my breath catches, before the world blurs into a spiraling dark tunnel.

3

Si

11:11 pm

“Oh no!” I bolt forward. My legs carry me so quickly, I’m floating over the pavement, and leap onto the sidewalk across the street. A doorbell jingles as I storm through the storefront and scurry to the fallen clerk’s side.

He’s laid out on the hard floor, coated with a sheen of soapy water, from a fresh mopping.

I watched him slip, after I’d stopped to stare, flailing like an over-the-top actor from those old, silent films. It was comical until his head bounced against the metal shelf, so hard, that my own skull cracked just bearing witness to the impact.

He’s out cold.

I reach for my pocket to collect my phone, realizing I left it at home. “Dammit!” I mutter, my sneakers struggle to grip the slick polished concrete as I pull myself up and skate toward the check-out counter.

There must be a phone here?My eyes scan the wall of booze bottles and cigarettes, then dart to the cubby compartments under the cash counter.

---