Two Ways to Work
A manager gets transferred, a regular meets a girl, and a tightly-held secret about commuting.
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1.
At the store this week I learned that one of my favorite managers is being transferred to one of the slightly-more-northern stores. He will be holding a newer and slightly elevated position. His name is Rodney and he has described this career move as “a growth opportunity” and “a big step on my journey” and “twenty-eight miles from my fucking house.”
Yesterday I was shelving dips in the cooler when another manager, Phil, came and stacked cheese in the cooler right beside me and we stood like that, shelving things, in silence.
Phil is large with a shaved head and he’s always looking around at people like to catch them at something. When the store’s telephone rings he picks it up sounding wistful and loud like if Santa sold cars. You can tell if it’s an employee on the other end because Phil drops the cheer from his voice the way a dog shakes a hat.
If I’m alone with Phil the silence feels like a thing in his hand that’s getting sharper every second and so yesterday I asked, “How long is Rodney’s new commute, like ninety minutes?”
Phil heard me and blinked. Bowed his head. Gave a courteous smile through closed eyes.
Like I’d said the wrongest thing possible.
2.
Once a year the grocery staff will sit with a company laptop and fill out a review for each manager.
When Phil transferred into the store almost every staffer wrote that he was very efficient and helpful and that he would be a terrific manager were he not such a lacerating asshole.
Right away he started acting nicer. The change was sudden and unconvincing but it was humbled and full of effort.
Phil’s going through a divorce right now. I think it’s making him friendlier but maybe that’s a gentling effect of the grief. A scab of quiet. Perhaps one day a young worker will leave an empty box on the floor and he will give that young worker a ten minute lecture on integrity and then we will know: “He is healed.”
Phil is 6’4” and slimming by the day. His lunch breaks are shorter and he takes them on his feet. Speaks constantly with the manager who’s a bodybuilder If you stand across the store and watch them talk it won’t be twenty seconds before one or the other mimes a bicep curl, a shoulder press.
On three occasions I have heard Phil discussing Star Wars with the joyful abandon of drugs.
3.
There’s a young guy who comes into the store a lot who’s recovering from a long ago motorcycle accident. His name is Mark. He broke several bones and needed to get brain surgery. Had to learn how to swallow again and still has some trouble. He seems to lose sight of his volume and he slurs a little bit. Friendly to everyone but some are put off because he’s this stranger, behind them in line, big smile and a loud slurring question about what they plan to do with those marshmallows.
Over the past few weeks I’ve only seen Mark — the long hair, the backpack — with his girlfriend. She is lithe and pale and pretty. Twentysomething. Red hair. When I walk the dog at 6 a.m. I sometimes see their pajama’d two-ness out ahead of me. Chitchat carrying soft and flirty over empty roads, his beagle leading the way.
While shopping together she clings to Mark’s body. Walks sideways or angled as he drifts ahead. Kisses his neck while he feigns indecision over lettuce. “Which one’s for salad…?” One time at the register she tried to be discreet about biting his ear and sucking on it. Probably didn’t guess he was standing there, shuddering, eyeballs rolling…
4.
We’re shelving things in the cooler and I ask about Rodney’s ninety-minute commute. Phil is smiling downward into the cooler like he’s marveling at all this hummus.
“Everybody’s so dramatic about that drive.”
He explains for a couple minutes why Rodney’s commute is not such a big deal and the gist of it is this: the reason we should not pity Rodney, over a 28-mile commute, is because Phil’s commute is 30.
5.
Thursday night Mark came alone to my register with his once-long hair buzzed down to his ears. I told him he looked sharp and asked if he liked it. He shrugged. “It’s definitely less hot.” He’s got a violent stammer that hooks one eyelid but he powers through, smiling, good sport.
“How does your girlfriend like it?”
“Oh she left. She’s gone.”
“Ah.”
I took things out of his basket one at a time. Swiped them. Put them in a bag. Scanner saying OOPS. OOPS. OOPS.
“At least she got me eating healthier, though!” Mark gestures at what he’s buying. The green leafy muchness. And yeah I hadn’t noticed: everything used to be frozen. Typical of late-night shoppers. “Gotta say she gave me that, at least! Little more time, y’know? Always use a little more time.” His smile huge but his voice is strangely gentle underneath. Eyelids heavy like a certain other person.
The performance isn’t convincing but the effort’s truly there.
6.
Eventually conversation loosened. We spoke in a passing friendly way about traffic. Amiable enough that, having checked himself after that riff, he confides something else.
He says that Rodney’s going to learn something: you can drive to that new store by one of two ways: he can go I-95, or he can take the Palmetto. I-95 is longer, in terms of mileage…but the ride is smoother. Which, in his experience, matters more than saving time. Is the fact that you’re moving.
He asks if I know what he’s talking about and I tell him that I do and again I get a sense that in a different life we’d have been friends.
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I love your writing style. Absolutely love.
I love the glimpses you offer. It’s very grounding.