Chapter 4
Kaylee
I'm not normally an easily irritated person. Even if I'm unhappy, I can fake it with the best of them, but this whole day has been absolute torture.
Instead of Mr. Gillis getting Derrick to start on the cereal display when he arrived two hours ahead of my shift, he had him working on something in the back, leaving it all for me to do, along with my other stocking and cashier duties. This is the bad part of being good at what I do, and it doesn't hurt that Derrick hates building displays and he's Mr. Gillis’s grandson. But nepotism isn't a subject I'm going to bring up until I've officially had enough of this place and have another job lined up.
When I hear the small bell at the front of the store, I know it has to be the man who wasn't paying attention and knocked over the cereal display. Derrick checked out the rambunctious little boy and his mom before leaving for the evening.
I pull in a deep annoyed breath and make my way to the front of the store, cringing when I see the two shopping carts full, one with groceries and the other with enough toilet paper to see a family of ten through a five-year war.
I count the packs in his cart as I approach, knowing it means that I'll have to restock that item before leaving for the day. Mr. Gillis will lose his mind if he comes in tomorrow and there's a void on the shelf.
Instead of speaking, I pull the bell and the small sign directing customers to ring it when ready and place them under the register.
Every item in this store has a price tag on it that has to be entered into the register. Mr. Gillis isn't exactly a very forward- thinking business owner, and he's even less prone to take advice from someone wanting to make their job easier. All that conversation does is trigger his "when I was young..." rant.
Ask me how I know.
When he starts loading his groceries on the conveyor belt in the most OCD way I've ever seen, I take a look at my watch. It's only ten minutes until closing, but I know I'll be running around like a chicken with its head cut off until my time to clock out at nine.
I hate working the closing shift. It puts me getting out of here close to dark, and this isn't the nicest neighborhood. There's always a risk that we'll get robbed, which has happened twice already this year, and bound to happen again before the end of the year as we draw closer to Christmas. Honestly, we're an easy target, and criminals know the rules Mr. Gillis trained us for. Just hand over the money and we'll deal with it the next day. I swear I wouldn't be surprised to find out that former employees were robbing this place. It always happens at night, and that makes me leery every time I close the store down.
Rachel was supposed to be working tonight, but her daughter is sick, leaving me to work a double shift. Heaven forbid Derrick stay an hour later than scheduled. The messed-up part is that I'll probably come in tomorrow and Mr. Gillis will ask me to go home because this shift and the one I worked yesterday on my day off gets me dangerously close to forty hours. The man would rather stand up front and check out customers on his bum foot than let anyone earn some overtime.
I flip the button on the conveyor belt, breathing a sigh of relief when it actually starts to move. The belt is probably as old as the register, and, like Derrick, it doesn't always work.
I pick each item up, look at the price, and key it in because, heaven forbid, the prices stay consistently the same. I've been caught more than once having to re-ring things because Mr. Gillis has raised or lowered the prices to fit his mood for the day.
"Kaylee, I once again want to apologize for the cereal box mess back there," the man says when he's done placing all of his items with the exception of the toilet tissue on the conveyor belt.
I hate that our names are on the aprons we wear as part of our uniform.
I'll give the guy credit. He doesn't open his mouth to blame the child as many would do.
I dip my head in acceptance and continue to ring up his items.
He doesn't poke or prod or say shit like "you should smile more" and I think that makes him a smart man. With the mood I'm in today, it's likely I'd scratch his eyes out.
I'm just trying to make it through this last transaction, praying no one else comes in, before I can lock the front door at his back after he's gone.
"This is the closest grocery store to my house," he says after a long beat of silence.
I continue to ring up his groceries. What in the world does he expect me to say?
I can't tell if he's making small talk or if he's going to ask me over after I get off work. Either way, I'm not interested, despite how ruggedly handsome the man happens to be. That's the thing. There are a lot of good-looking men in Vegas. It's sort of like a requirement for success around here. Either be rich or look good. That's what opens doors in a town like this.
"I'm new in town," he continues.
I'm not we're, despite the fact that he's buying enough food for a small cult.
He has to be buying for more than one person, and from the looks of all the junk food, I'd say at least a couple of kids. I don't know many adults who willingly eat potato chips, fruit snacks,and microwavable pizza pockets by the bucketful.
Despite the quick easy stuff, he also has a variety of fresh meat and vegetables, too. I imagine these items are for him because I can't picture Mr. Fit and Healthy eating all the crappy food.
A quick glance at his left hand and the absence of a wedding ring doesn't mean anything. There are a lot of non-traditional families who shop here. Maybe he has a significant other and doesn't wear a ring. Maybe he's single and has multiple personalities. None of it matters.
"I have eleven packs," he says when I point to the shopping cart full of bathroom tissue.
"I need to see the price on the front," I say, holding my hand out until he pulls one from the cart and hands it to me.
I key in the price eleven times because the relic of a register doesn't have a multi-item function.
"Would you like to buy some Halloween candy?" I ask, pointing to the pumpkin-shaped bucket.
I feel like a fool every time I ask a customer to purchase add-on items, knowing full well they'd grab them when shopping if they needed it, but it's required.
"Sure," he says with a smile that honestly looks too good on his handsome face. "I'll take them all."
My lips form a flat line as I reach for the bucket, knowing it's just one more thing I'll have to restock before leaving for the night.
I ring up the candy and bag them, praying the man doesn't tell me he doesn't have the money when I look at the price. If he can't pay, I'll have to restock all of these items.
"One thousand forty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents," I say.
He doesn't hesitate to pull his wallet from his back pocket, flipping it open and pulling out a stack of cash.
I can't help but glare as he counts out eleven one-hundred-dollar bills before handing them over to me. Dumbfounded that someone would carry that much cash on them, I can't help but stare down at the money in my hands.
"They're real," he says with a laugh when I'm delayed in pulling out my anti-theft marker.
"It's store policy," I mutter as I draw a line on each one.
They all test negative for counterfeit, but as I tuck them under the register tray and gather his change, I can't help but wonder if counterfeit technology has moved beyond the capabilities of the pens we have available to us. I'll literally cry if the deposit to the bank comes back and this money isn't real.
"Have a great evening and thank you for shopping at Main Street Grocery," I tell him with very little enthusiasm as I hand him his change.
"Thank you, Kaylee," he says, his eyes locked on mine for a few seconds longer than would be considered appropriate.
I pull in a deep breath, but he doesn't budge.
"Are you alone here?"
I freeze, wondering if he's concerned or trying to figure out how easy of a victim it would make me.
"Have a good night, sir," I say with more than a little annoyance in my tone, doing my best to stand a little taller, but the man has easily more than a foot on me.
He frowns as if he's just now realizing how his question sounded, but he doesn't backpedal and assure me he isn't a creep looking for someone to hurt.
I take a breath of relief when he dips his head one last time, tucks his receipt and change into the front pocket of his jeans, and grabs the handles of his shopping carts.
With one hand pushing one cart and the other dragging one behind him, he leaves the store.
A quick glance at the clock says it's two minutes past closing, and I don't hesitate to rush behind him and lock the front door just as it falls shut behind him.
The gun in my purse in the back of the store does me no good here, but at the same time, the glass separating me from the outside world makes me feel a little better. Despite the rush to get home, I still have a few more tasks to complete before I can leave for the night.