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Disengaged
by William de Rham
It stormed last week: snow, frigid wind. The TV told everyone to stay home. I drove to PriceBeaters.
Spot-lit, the store sat in the empty parking lot like a big, white box. On spring mornings, as my Thelma drove us past on our way to golf—so pretty in her lemon dress and that floppy straw hat—I’d look out the window and think: they should put a giant, yellow bow on top.
Thelma died early last summer. Disengaged, I don’t play golf anymore.
But I still need the necessaries. I went to Price-Beaters because Thelma’s membership card said she was paid up through March.
At the entrance—under the heated overhang of a roof as massive as the deck of an aircraft carrier—where they keep the soda machines and the long shopping cart trains—stood an old woman in a PriceBeaters cap, waiting to check outgoing merchandise against receipts. Her skin glistened white, like the belly of a dead fish. Stringy salt-and-pepper hair drooped onto slumped shoulders while thick, pink-framed glasses made moon-like saucers of her eyes. She dragged on a cigarette; then exhaled. I shrank, afraid her warm, fuggy smoke would foul me, but the wind ripped it from her mouth into the night.
I tried separating a cart from a train. It wouldn’t budge. I tried another. No joy, as my squadron mates used to say. Pushing, pulling, I made enough noise to raise the dead. The woman paid no mind.
No joy there either, I thought peevishly just before the shout:
“Hey! Iris! What’d I tell you about smoking?”
Iris whipped her hand behind her. The cigarette caught a blue jean seam. Tell-tale sparks showered her hot-pink Crocs.
Manager Mike—according to his name tag—loomed in the entrance, lean and squared-away in khakis, tie, and perma-press shirt. No lines marred his face. Every blond hair lay perfectly in place.
“You trying to get fired? A month before you retire? You know company policy. No smokers allowed, period. Fired instead of retired? No pension. Pretty dumb, Iris!”
Head low, Iris said nothing. But Mike enjoyed himself.
“Lucky there’s no one here to see you. Lucky I’m such a nice guy—this time. Next time, who knows? Can’t risk my career. Now, put that—”
“Hey Buddy,” I called, wrestling the cart. “Give an old guy a hand.”
I didn’t need help. I wanted him to give Iris a break; stop embarrassing the three of us.
Mike swiveled his head, irritated. He started for me. The cart came free.
“You got it!” he waved, turning back. “Jeez, Iris, ain’t you put that out—”
“How about showing me the toilet paper?” I interrupted over my cart’s rasping wheels.
“Sorry, Mister. Busy. Besides, we don’t do that here. Completely self-serve. To cut overhead, bring you the lowest possible price.”
“You’re not busy, not tonight. Besides, isn’t your motto ‘Where the customer’s always right’?”
“Changed it, just yesterday.”
I pointed to the banner still over the entrance.
“Oh...all right,” he sighed. “Come on, if you’re coming. And you, Iris, get back to work!”
I followed, basking in that good feeling you get when you do something nice for someone, especially a stranger. Halfway through the store, the feeling leached away.
Price-Beaters was just as bright inside as out. Banks of fluorescents hung from the high, high ceiling. Garish, white light blared off the cement floor, the white cinderblock walls, and my bald head. But it didn’t warm me, not amidst all that product. I could barely take it all in: televisions, computers, kitchen appliances, racks of clothing, furniture. Such quantity and variety; I wondered how anyone could ever choose. Thelma always had her list.
We stopped at a phalanx of shelving stretching all the way to the end of the store.
“Three aisles over, take a right. Can’t miss it.” Mike waved me off and disappeared.
I stood; head tilted back, agape at the mountain of merchandise climbing to the ceiling. Packaged goods filled the lower shelves. Above them, beyond where customers could reach, boxes of inventory canted crazily on top of and against each other. I marveled that one, or all, didn’t fall; and again, at the abundance. Had the whole world labored just to fill this one store? Then I thought of all the stock in all the Wal-Marts, Targets, Sam’s Clubs and Costcos Thelma and I had passed on beloved trips to wonders like Niagara Falls, The Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone. My chest felt heavy, like I was at the bottom of the sea.
Gusts of wind slammed the building. I skittered down the aisles, past diapers we’d never needed, head ducked for fear of falling cartons, grabbing toilet paper, canned corn, bran flakes, Skippy, razor blades. My hands shone as white and lifeless as Iris’s skin, as if something had feasted upon me. I hurried for check-out.
“To ensure the lowest possible price, all PriceBeaters cashiers are automated,” read a sign.
I’d never worked such a machine, and wasn’t sure I could. My head swiveled, searching for Mike or Iris to help. There was no one, just the computer’s bright, housewifely voice telling me to scan my membership card. Only it was Thelma’s card, with her name and picture. Did the automated cashier have a built-in camera? Would it compare my face to Thelma’s? See that I wasn’t a member and reject the transaction, or call Mike? Breathing raggedly, I displayed the card to the bar code reader and cringed against the klaxon alarm I just knew was coming.
“Thank you,” she soothed, accepting the card. My respiration steadied as she taught me how to scan my purchases and pay. Within minutes, I had everything back in the cart.
“Thank you for shopping at PriceBeaters, home of the lowest possible price!” she cheered, as if I’d just won a prize. “Please keep your receipt out for inspection.”
Drained, I turned for the exit. Iris was back. My heart quickened, eager for her thanks, maybe even her praise for keeping out the receipt.
“Hullo, Iris!”
She didn’t even give me a goggle-eyed look; just checked the slip and handed it back.
“Thankyshoppinpricebeats, homeadalowestpossibprice,” she mumbled to the floor.
Then I was outside, pushing my cart into the wind and snow, now certain re-engagement would be hard.
About The Author
Born and raised in New York City, William de Rham is a graduate of Georgetown University and the University of California, Hastings College of the Law. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in RiverSedge, Broken Bridge Review, Puckerbrush Review, Ascent Aspirations, Boston Literary Magazine and the EditRED anthology Late-Night River Lights, as well as other publications. He lives in Maine.