Salmonella

Chapter 4

🫧Four🫧

Wake up, eat. Sail to the shop, put on smock, get to work. Go out, eat. Return to the shop, put on smock, get to work. Go home, eat. Sleep. Repeat.

"Omigod, I told you they'd like it! Yes, omigod! Yesss. 'Kay. Okay. Yeah. Uh huh. Of courseee. 'Kayyy, see you, honnn."

I roll my eyes. Sometimes it feels like my job is just to watch my manager kiss customers' asses every day. He waves to the customer as she exits the store, then pops his head back in to berate me.

"Oi! SMOCK!" He claps his hands repeatedly in my face. "Smoooock, Bentik. Smoooock."

Wake up, eat. Sail to the shop, put on smock, get to work. Go out, eat. Return to the shop, put on smock, get to work. Go home, eat. Sleep. Repeat.

"Okay! Okay!" I dodge his hands, bending to reach my bag that's sunk to the floor. "I'll get the smock! I'm just putting my bag away first. I just got here!"

He gasps, snatching up the bag I've just placed on the front desk. "Uh, in my corner? I don't think so!"

"Atlas!" I try to grab at my bag, but with his height on me, he holds it out of my reach, stretching his long-ass limbs to plop it back by the basement door. "There. All done," says my manager Atlas Índigo, 20, in his bitchy, matter-of-fact voice. Then he cocks an eyebrow at me. "What did you call me?"

"Índigo, sorry." I bow my head in apology.

"Mmh." He narrows his eyes at me inscrutably, like he's about to say something but thinks better of it. "Okay, get to work."

I obey and put on my apron—a stupid precaution if you ask me, because we almost never handle paint outside the can so the chances of it getting on us is zero. I guess it's just our version of a uniform, since it's the only clothes we have with our logo on it.

I swim down the aisles of paint to check that everything is with its assigned color. When my coworkers return with the new stock from the truck, I'm grateful they weren't here to witness Asslas scolding me again. I don't need to deal with more of their teasing.

My work shifts are the longest on Wavedays, so I'm stuck here well into the evening. After Asslas leaves for his vocal lesson at 2. After my first coworker clocks out at 4. After the other gets me to cover for him and clocks out at 5.

I'm still here.

"Thank you, come again!" I call for the hundredth time since I started working at Kelp Paints several months ago. I first swam up to it before the store had officially opened. I was out playing hooky that day because living off of Mom and my sisters was making my feelings of worthlessness eat away at me. I had to find a job. I spent most of those days just wandering aimlessly.

I wouldn't have looked up if I hadn't thought I reached the ice clam parlor. It was totally the wrong building, but a happy mistake, perhaps. They were in the process of renovating the ground floor of some small residential building and turning it into a store. The only completed part of the store so far was a bright red 'Kelp Paints' sign in the window—no 'Help Wanted' signs or anything, but I swam in anyway.

Wood stacks, hammers and drills filled one corner; the rest of the dingy interior was just empty space. There, speaking to some handymen by the wall, was a guy in a chic turtleneck crop top, a huge fancy coat hung low on his shoulders. Definitely not the type of merson I'd want to interact with if I could help it. He noticed me right away and started to usher me out, saying they were busy and the store wouldn't be open for a while. I abandoned all my social anxiety for a fleeting moment to inquire about job openings, figuring it couldn't hurt to try. I'd never see the dude again anyway. But to my surprise, he took my contact info. Seemingly out of pity. I really wasn't expecting him to stay true to his word, yet I got a call some weeks later asking me to come in.