Westmarket

Broken Shopping Cart

8:30 am--Wednesday, October 2.

Dan yawned as he answered the phone behind the counter, his instant, company trained response framed around his boredom. "Westmarket. It's like being at home, without the hassle." He slouched over the counter, bracing himself with his elbows. "Yeah, I hate the morning shift too. This place is dead." He yawned again, and stretched his arms out, the phone held tight in the crook of his neck, enough to smart his shoulder. "What's going on with you?"

Evan popped out from behind a stack of diapers and waved at his co-worker and friend. "Not much," he said into the phone, giving Dan a strange, double sided conversation. Dan hung up the phone and Evan hesitated, clearly thinking about calling him back, only to realize he could just as easily wander from his post in the baby section to visit his best bud. As usual, Evan was a mess. The blue Westmarket apron they were all forced to wear couldn't hide his wild shock of curly, dirty blonde hair, nor the ratty condition of his NIN t-shirt. To further add insult, he wore his ripped up sneakers, the ones where you could see his big toe poking out with every step. The apron was draped over his gut in a tight fold, making Evan look pregnant himself. He scratched at the stubble beneath his chin with dirty fingernails and gave Dan a backwards nod as he approached.

"There's a sale on ass wipes," he said.

Dan sighed and contemplated the peace of the store, enjoying it while at the same time feeling compelled to complain. "It's not fair that we had to start half an hour early. Everyone else got a complimentary doughnut This sucks."

"Not really," Evan said, scratching at his round stomach. "We're not the suckers standing out in the rain, chanting the Westmarket song and eating stale crap. Those donuts weren't worth it, man. I know for a fact, they were supposed to go in the bin a week ago. You'd need to soak those powdery little rocks for an hour in your morning java to tenderize them." He tapped the side of his head, indicating he actually was thinking. "As for the java...Dude, that's microwaved leftover Colombian decaff from last night."

"No it isn't," Dan said, making a face.

"It's true man, they got a real waste not want not freak on in that diner." Evan leaned against the counter opposite Dan, his shoulders bent back as he braced himself. "I think we ought to count ourselves lucky we don't have to listen to some motivational bowel mover. How does someone get hired for being some blowhard who kisses his own ass? I don't get it."

Good question, Dan thought. Jared Strome, the current Westmarket front man and guru had managed to commandeer most of the store, and save for Dan, Evan and the store manager Gerry Foucalt, they were bereft of sales personnel. A life sized poster of the jerk was on display near the entrance, where it had resided all week. Every day Dan walked past it, giving it a punch in the jaw for good measure. The hatred he had for the guy wasn't unreasonable, Dan thought. As a representative of Westmarket, he was an easy mark for all the frustration and angst its employees felt at earning slave wages for long hours with unquestioned inertia. Strome was the spearhead of the Westmarket Chant, the stupid song they had to sing every morning, every employee who didn't have a screw loose embarrassed by the effort. He could hear his co-workers outside, destroying all shred of their dignity as they sang:

'We love you Westmarket, you are so smart,

With your happy smiles, and shopping carts.'

Evan tapped his fingers on the counter, adding his own version, complete with guitar riff. "Piss on you Westmarket, you fucking fart. You're like a hooker, without a heart." He belched and punched a fist at his chest in mock salute.

Still, Dan had to admit it wasn't so bad, especially since it was a weekday and it was raining and thus there were hardly any people in the store. If it stayed this way he hoped they had the company meeting all day long, let them sing their hearts out, the suckers. Him and Evan, they were going to have a blast, flipping through the latest DVDs and playing a few rounds of Call To Duty when Foucalt wasn't looking. Minimum wage, minimum effort. And so it goes.