Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
CINDEL
Ashort walk from the diner and I’m at my neighborhood Star Mart.
This supermarket chain can be found throughout Boston and New England.
Working here, it’s easy to pick up extra hours, but you're just a number, so if you don’t show up for a shift, you're blacklisted. Meaning, they won’t schedule you again because you fucked up.
I prefer stocking the shelves over working the checkout lanes, less human interaction results in less drama all around, and my coworkers are nice enough.
I’ve worked here longer than I have worked at The Black Sheep, but I’ve yet to forge any lasting friendships.
Management is tolerable at best, as long as I don’t have to deal with Craig.
The Star Crew calls him Creepy Craig behind his back, because he’s just downright weird.
I mean, who the fuck brings a can of tuna to work each shift, then proceeds to coat their crackers without any mayo or seasoning?
Psychopaths, that’s who! I mean, at least change it up a little…
a turkey sandwich is a safe bet… or really anything that doesn’t make the whole backroom smell like cheap fish.
The nickname stuck for me, right around my ninety-day review.
Craig sat in a folding chair, right beside me, the entire shift.
He said it was to “grade” my work ethic.
From stocking, to bagging, and even mopping, Creepy Craig was right there beside me.
He insisted it was company policy but, from what I heard, no one else had to face such scrutiny.
No one wants to be watched that closely; it’s uncomfortable.
Lucky for me, Craig hasn’t shared too many of the same shifts as me after that. So, I keep showing up at work.
Today’s schedule is posted in the backroom; I’m on register three.
Grabbing one of the required green aprons from the hook on the wall, I push my head through the top and leave the laces to hang at my sides.
Next, I shove my purse into a drawer at the bottom of the filing cabinet and make my way to the front.
The words ‘Star Crew’ lie across my chest in big white block letters. I was embarrassed to wear it at first, but when I saw everyone else had to endure the same sin against fashion, I grew used to the idea.
Joining the floor, I saw Mairead. She’s one of the newer girls who started this month.
Her name is pronounced like “parade” but with an “m” instead of a “p” and she is sweet as can be.
Red curly hair and a genuine laugh that warms my very soul.
Mairead is just easy to like. Seeing her on the register beside me gives me hope that perhaps my shift will go by quicker than usual.
“Hey Cindel.” She gives a small wave as I approach.
“Hey Mairead. It’s nice they put us together for once.” I tie my apron into a bow behind my back.
“I know, right?!” She agrees, opening a compact to check her face, while slightly crouching behind the register.
“Hey… I never had a chance to get your number. I barely saw you last time we worked together.” She pulls a phone from the front pocket of her apron and reaches across my lane to hand it to me. “Here.”
I enter my contact info and hand it back, with an exaggerated bend over the conveyor belt. She looks down at the new contact; her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she tucks it back into her apron, just as a customer with an overflowing carriage pulls into her lane.
I log into my register with my employee number, but before I can turn on the numbered light, I notice something. A small box with a piece of paper attached sits just below the cash drawer. Sometimes my coworkers will store a can of pop there, but that’s about it.
I pick up the small black box, and see my name is on the tag.
Clippings of mismatched letters are arranged on the manila paper.
I look around to see if anyone is watching me.
Mairead, still busy with her customer’s large transaction but, no one else in sight.
Slowly, I lift the top of the box off to find purple, sparkly tissue paper within.
Unwrapping its contents, I finally set eyes on the item within. What the—
“Are you open?”
My eyes jump up at the voice that caught me off guard.
Tired, deep-set eyes stare back at me. An older gentleman in suspenders, juggling a carton of eggs and two bunches of bananas, waits patiently for me to respond.
I nod, since apparently, I am unable to form words.
I ball up the note with the mismatched letters forming my name and toss it into the pail.
Then I pushed the lid onto the small box and tucked it back where I found it.
I’m on autopilot, unable to think. I scan the customer’s items without even uttering “hello”. I find myself unable to function.
The man lifts an eyebrow in question, and I realize he’s waiting for the total.
“Oh. Sorry. That will be… four dollars and sixty-two cents, please.”
He digs into his pocket, pulling out a leather coin pouch.
“Turn on your light!”
I spin around to find Craig hovering, mere inches behind me. “Light,” he repeats.
I nod, still not firing on all cylinders, reach forward and flip the switch for my lane light on. The customer begins counting his change on the conveyor belt with pennies, nickels, and a few quarters.
“Smile. We want our guests to feel welcome here at Star Mart,” Craig says through a phony customer service smile. He’s never pleasant unless someone who doesn’t work here is watching. His face is too close to mine. How does his breath already reek of tuna? My afternoon shift has just started!
Eventually, Craig shuffles off to creep someone else out, and I’m able to return to my job. Sorting the money into the register, I place the man’s items into a paper bag, then flip my light off, again.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to Mairead, who is now thumbing through one of the magazines from the rack in her lane.
“Got it,” she replies with a thumbs up.
I sweep the confounded box with purple insides into my front apron and quickly make my way to the facilities.
Once I’m inside the women’s bathroom, I check underneath each stall, making sure I’m alone.
Turning the lock, I rest my back against the closed door.
My breaths are shaky and I’m questioning what I’m doing here in the first place.
I attempt to slow my breathing, in through my nose till my lungs ache from the sheer amount of oxygen in them, before blowing out a smooth, unrushed stream.
I repeat this process three times, despite the unpleasant scent of bleach.
The lighting in here has never been kind, but I look more like one of those female leads in a slasher movie who barely escaped alive.
Really, Cindel? Get a hold of yourself. I splash some cool water onto my hot, flushed skin.
Then pull out a few paper towels from the dispenser to dab the drips from my reddened face.
It’s probably just a coincidence, I tell myself.
Reaching into the pocket of my apron, I retrieve the black box.
Holding it in my hand, I slowly remove the lid, as if something is going to jump out at me.
I set the lid on the edge of the sink and allow a finger to slide in past the tissue paper, until I can feel what’s inside I close my eyes and pull out the small device.
I count down, “3…2…1…” before I force open my eyes.
An earbud sits in my hand, and there, on the stem is the same purple star I drew just this morning. How?! This can’t be the same one. It’s in my bedroom… on the charger.
Is this a joke? Oh my god! Did someone break into our apartment? My mind races through possible scenarios and explanations on how this thing has sprouted legs. Is someone watching me? Following me?
I feel… unwell. I push into one of the stalls, under the impression that I’m about to lose my sticky flapjacks when I hear something. It could be distant, or perhaps close, but very soft. Do my aids need to be recalibrated?
I stare at the impossible item in my hand, suddenly realizing that the source of sound is its tiny speaker. I hold it closer to my ear.
“Stop!” the tiny device commands. The once ill feeling turns into dread.
Should I drop this damned thing into the toilet and flush it?
It definitely can’t find its way back to me then.
But this doesn’t explain how it showed up at my job, instead of staying put where I left it. This whole situation is nuts.
The earbud is still making noise. Despite myself, I remove the dome from my ear, letting the receiver wire dangle while I slip the curious tech into my ear. Maybe I’ve finally cracked?
I hold my breath, both nervous about what I may hear and tired of the unpleasant bathroom smell.
I… I can hear it. I can hear it? The only way that could happen is if the device was calibrated for my ears, meaning someone would have to manually input an audiogram result, based on me.
And yet, I can hear the music loud and clear.
Without meaning to, I take a deep breath in, feeling like I might once again lose my stomach contents because I can taste Lysol in my mouth.
Pixies - “Where is my Mind?” Plays through the disturbing device. What am I doing?! Take it out of your ear and drop it!
I used to like this song, but I have a feeling I won’t want to hear it again after today. Flush it down the toilet. Flush it! My inner voice of reasoning repeats.
The song continues playing as I internally battle between rational thought and my uncanny ability to be recklessly curious. What good has being inquisitive ever done for me? Where is your mind, Cindel?!