Anam Cara

The Champion Hits Rock Bottom

Sarah rushed in through the automatic sliding doors of the local corner grocer, tying her red apron around her waist as she hurried to clock in. The scents of fresh produce and mop water greeted her as always as she ignored the yellow "Wet Floor" sign on the checkerboard linoleum floor. The steady beeps of items being scanned at the registers fell in sync with the flickering of the fluorescent lights above for one brief moment as she passed. A handful of teens were bagging groceries, stocking shelves, and pushing carts.

She waved at Cary and Frank in the deli as she turned left to enter the employees' break room. It was blessedly empty. The TV in the corner played some trash courtroom show for no one. She straightened her apron over her white button-up shirt tucked into her black slacks. She kicked off the kitten heels and pulled out her loafers from her bag. Throwing it in her designated cubbyhole, she reached for her time card, ready to punch it and start her shift. Of all the days to be late, it had to be when Edith was on duty.

Taking a glance in a small dirty mirror, she wiped the creasing makeup under her green eyes away and ran her fingers through her long dark hair. Only a hint of the lipstick she applied this morning remained. It'd been a long day, and it was showing.

"Sarah," a shrill demand sounded behind her. "I need to have a word with you."

She turned to see Edith, today's manager on duty, standing in the doorway. Her hands rested on her hips. Her white polka-dotted blouse was covered with a navy blue cardigan with daisy buttons. Daisies that should have been poison ivy or hemlock. Her wiry gray hair in tight curls was kept short and close to her head. Glasses with a string of gold beads secured around each temple end sat on the end of her nose as she glared over the red rims.

"You are late again. That makes it–what? The fourth time this month?" the supervisor asked looking at the schedule she kept on the clipboard. Edith kept a tight rein on all the goings-on in the Winfield Family Grocers. No one so much as took a longing look at the bathroom without her knowing.

"I know. I'm so sorry. Traffic was backed up and public transportation–" she rolled her eyes as she let out an exasperated grunt. She couldn't make lights magically turn green nor get the other plebians to show a modicum of hustle when entering and exiting the vehicle. She maneuvered her way past the woman blocking the door and tried to bypass the ensuing lecture.

"Public transportation? You live two blocks away. You should have been able to walk here in under 10 minutes." Her eyes, magnified by the lenses gave her an owlish appearance especially when she cocked her head to the side as she did now. If she wasn't evil, she would have looked like any other sweet old lady.

"Yes. Had I been home, I would most definitely have walked. But I had an audition today, which I told Mark about and he said it was fine if I was a bit late," said Sarah.

Mark never said no. However, he rarely told others he had said yes, leaving employees to battle with Edith. When would she remember to get things in writing?

Sarah glanced at the cashiers mere feet away, hoping one would beckon her, saving her from the scolding she definitely deserved (if not for today then for the many other times she'd been late) but had no intention of taking to heart. All of them avoided her general vicinity, either concentrating on the customer they were checking out or becoming deeply invested in the tiled floor.

"Mark didn't tell me anything of the sort. I'm going to have to write you up for this. Again. How do you expect to make cashier if you keep this up? We only want reliable employees handling transactions. Do you want to be a bagger for the rest of your life?" The vein in Edith's forehead throbbed as she stared Sarah into submission.