Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Four - Ezra

"So, you're telling me that you managed to let these two idiots steal all the cash from your till last night?" Bob, my manager, jabs a sausage finger against the computer screen as it plays security footage of last night's robbery.

"Yes, sir," I say, clearing my throat as I shift on the upside-down bucket. My knee bounces up and down, my fingers tapping against my thigh as my body pleads for a painkiller or some beer or, better yet, both.

The big man takes in a shaky breath as if he's just run a marathon. His pinstriped button shirt is pulled tight against his torso and sweat spots begin to seep through his armpits. His office, which is really more of a closet, smells of BO and stale beer. I'm convinced Bob spends his days drinking in this office because I can't fathom why else he would keep himself locked away in here eight hours a day. With a glance at the smudged and dusty computer, nausea swells inside my stomach as I wonder what else he spends his day doing.

"What do you have to say for yourself, boy?" Bob presses, elbows on the surface of his desk, fingertips pressed against each other to form what I imagine – based on the look in his eyes – he believes is a very intimidating triangle.

I smirk and stifle a laugh. He glares so intently that his impossibly small eyes are lost behind his untrimmed eyebrows. Overhead, the florescent light flickers and casts an uneven glow across his features that makes him appear all the more comical.

"I'm sorry," I say. Even though I'm not. "I was just trying to help somebody I thought was a customer and the other guy must've snuck in when I wasn't looking."

He slaps the palm of his hand against the desk and the force knocks over a cup, scattering a handful of pens across the surface. "What have I told you a thousand times?"

"Never leave the register."

He smirks. "That's right. Never. Leave. The register. And what did you do?"

Through gritted teeth, I answer, "I left the register."

"Now, why – when I explicitly told you not to – did you go and do the very thing I told you not to do?"

"Like I said. A customer needed help."

"I don't care if your mama's bleeding out in the middle of the store!" he shouts. "You never. Leave. The register!"

Bob's comment about my mother fills me with such anger that I can't hold back anymore. "Well, maybe if I wasn't running the floor alone every night, I woulda had someone to help me!" I regret the outburst immediately.

The look in Bob's eyes makes me sick as I remember that I need this job and I'm fully prepared to throw up right here and now, but I manage to swallow it.

With a smile – the kind that says "I own you" – Bob stands to his feet. For a brief second I'm afraid his pencil legs are too small to hold the weight of his torso and I picture him toppling to the floor of his own office like a botched game of Jenga. Instead, he just says, "Funny you should bring that up. Our new employee starts today. And you're going to train him."

I start to protest, but snap my lips shut. Compared to the alternative, this punishment is gracious.

"Now, get to work, boy."

On my feet, I turn to leave when Bob says, "Oh, and by the way, I'll be taking the loss out of your paycheck."

Too angry to even look at him, I set my jaw and burst from his office onto the sales floor. The door slams against the wall behind me. In the chair outside Bob's office, a wiry little man looks up at me with wide eyes.

"You the new guy?"

"Yeah," he squeaks, his bottom lip bulging with tobacco.

"I'm Ezra," I say, my tone clipped. "I'll be showing you the ropes. Come on." So, I give him the grand tour of the pit that is this place, dreaming of a Bob-less future.