Thursday, May 28, 2015

Wrongful Termination

Yesterday, Marvin was the Supervisor over our store’s cart retrieval team. Today, however, Marvin was dead.
            It was about 2pm Thanksgiving, or if you live in the retail world, like me, Black Friday. (The goons at the GO, high up on the corporate ladder had yet to realize that Thanksgiving was still Thursday.) The store was still closed for a few more hours, but most of the team was here prepping for the big rush that would happen when the doors opened at six. A wet heavy snow was accumulating quickly outside, burying our cars and piling up on the roof, but the storm didn’t bother us.
            We all were scrambling around the store, making sure everything, and everyone, was ready. Some were setting ad. Others, making sure everything pictured in the catalogue was represented on the sales floor. Still others were hastily moving things from this backroom to that backroom, or from this register to that register.
Curtis was overheard saying into a telephone, “Howdy!” Pause. “No. Did you forget it’s Black Friday, Melissa?” Pause. “Yes, I’m aware it’s still Thursday.” Pause. “I’m not transferring it tonight! I’m not your pack mule!”
            I was following Claudia around, crossing items off a list as she made sure each item was right where it needed to be, listening to her complaining that this or that shelf wasn’t clean. I too was complaining, about that this rug or that towel was over stocked. That’s when poor Doralee had found him, Marvin, in the furniture flat, propped up in a display recliner, a plastic sack over his head. A red substance, blood, I guess, was leaking from under the bag, behind his ear, pooling on the collar of his olive green polo.
            Marvin would not be missed. Moreover, as terrible as that sounded, Marvin would not be mourned.
            At least, that’s what I thought before I heard the wailing coming from the direction of the electronics department. I wandered away from the crowd of teammates who had gathered around the body at the sound of Doralee screaming. I found Courtney, our LP, in a heap behind the register.
            She was hugging an armful of spider wraps and security cases to her chest as tears streaked her normally perfect mascara down her cheeks. She rocked back and forth gently.
            I didn’t know quite what to do. I had had no idea that she had felt this deeply for Marvin. In fact, all her words and actions toward the man seemed to point in the opposite direction. Just yesterday, she’d read him the riot act for bringing in a Deseret Industries cart with the rest.
            “Do you know what kinds of germs are probably lurking all over that thing?! It’s a liability! Plus, taking another store’s cart is stealing!” She was heard shouting.
            “It looked lonely out there. . .” Marvin had started.
            “Then you take it back to DI! You don’t bring it inside like some stray! Next thing you know we’ll have Smith’s and Kent’s carts lying around. Or even,” she shuddered, “Walmart carts! Now take this back before they notice it’s gone! Or I’ll . . .” she left the threat hanging in the air.
            Courtney was always on Marvin’s case because his work ethics were completely absent, and by not doing his job—retrieving, storing, and repairing the shopping carts—he was sure to cause some sort of accident that would end up costing the store money. It was only a matter of time. Thinking back, I was actually kind of amazed that Marvin hadn’t caused more accidents.
            I went back in the recesses of my mind. When was the last time we’d had an accident? It seemed we’d been accident free close to . . .
            “Eleven months, twenty-three days, seven hours!” Courtney wailed, taking me by surprise. “ We were almost accident free for a year! And then Marvin the Martian”  her voice was dripping with disdain, “had to go and get himself killed!”
            So that’s why she was crying. It made more sense now.
            We all called Marvin “the Martian” because he seemed to have learned his people (and hygiene) skills from another planet. He thought it was a compliment, that we were saying he was “out of this world.” That’s one of the things that annoyed everyone the most, Marvin’s giant ego. He thought that he was beautiful, but it was Mary who pointed out that he looked like a 40 year-old Miley Cyrus. He thought he was smart, but thought that the carts had feelings and could talk to him. He thought he was God’s gift to women, but he smelled like body-odor masked in about a thousand drops of essential oils. Even the customers hated him.
The managers couldn’t fire him, because HR probably wouldn’t accept “being repulsive” as a valid reason for termination. So, it looked like someone else had taken matters in their own hands and terminated Marvin themselves.
“Now we’ll never have enough money for the safety party! I was so sure we had it in the bag,” Courtney took her safety parties very seriously, and each outdid the last. “I had everything planned! I was going to hire a band!”
She dissolved into a fresh fit of sobbing.
“It’s ok, Courtney.” Bobby’s baritone voice made both of us jump about a foot. He had a habit of sneaking up on people. “Just look at him.”
He pointed at the still-warm corpse that was soiling our display furniture. Courtney slowly stood and looked. Then Bobby continued, “This obviously wasn’t an accident.”
Courtney’s tears seemed to suck back into the sockets from whence they’d fallen, and with a swipe of two fingers under each eye, her makeup was looking flawless once again.
“Ok, people!” She shouted as the three of us headed back to furniture, “We have three hours and seventeen minutes before we open the doors. Are we going to let Marvin ruin yet another Black Friday?”
No one answered. Most still were white with shock, eyes bugging out of their heads.
“No,” she continued, “We will not! Whoever killed him will come forward, and will stay locked in the detention room until the doorbusters end in the morning. Then we’ll call the police and forget about this whole mess.”
Nobody could argue with that. Even Josh, who should’ve been taking charge, was silent at the hurricane force that was Courtney with a plan. And really, there was no need to hurt our sales. But still—the thought came before I could push it away and I shivered—one of us was a killer.
I looked at the faces before me, people I’d worked with for years. More than co-workers, more than friends, some even were family. Could one of us really be capable of such a heinous crime? I knew it wasn’t me. And after the breakdown Courtney had just had, I thought it was safe to rule her out as well. But who did that leave? My eyes skittered around the circle, stopping to meet the eyes of each suspect. Could one of them really be a cold-blooded murderer?
“Shouldn’t we call the police first?” Jen asked.
“Think of the repercussions! If we call them now they’ll have to close the store until the investigation is over. Which means no Black Friday!” Courtney said.
To most of us that didn’t sound like it was necessarily a bad thing. Many of us hadn’t had a day off since the previous week, and likely would not get another until after Christmas. But still she had a point, there were sales figures to think about.
“Just until the doorbusters end,” She repeated for the still doubtful faces. Slowly, everyone began to come around to Courtney’s way of thinking. Our bottom-line was bound to be hurting. A lot of things had gone missing lately without a trace. It was likely driving Courtney mad, but every time something turned up stolen, her cameras somehow had missed it. We had to make up for all that loss. I was starting to suspect that the thief was someone within the store, though my main suspect was now apparently deceased.
Then Josh took charge, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Ok, everyone! We still have ad to set, and now we have to figure out what to do with Marvin. We can’t just leave him here, obviously,” he said. He began delegating, “Mitch, go get a flatbed. We’ll put him on the flatbed, that will make him more portable. So, who’s gonna help move him?”
A chorus of “not-it” rang out.
“C’mon, team!” Curtis said.
“I wouldn’t touch him if he were alive,” I told him, “I refuse to touch him while he’s dead.”
There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around. By the time Mitch returned with the flatbed, no one had volunteered.
“Ok, new plan.” This voice was from Sara. “What if we pick up the whole recliner? That way no one has to get Martian germs.”
“I like that idea!” Mike said.
“Good, then you get to be one of the one’s to lift him,” Sara said.
Curtis jumped on the delegation train, “Ok, Bobby, Mikey, Manda and I will lift him onto the flatbed.”
“Me?” I asked, “Why me? What about Dirk?”
“Fine. Dirk, come grab an end.”
The four men lifted the recliner, cadaver and all, and set it on Mitch’s waiting flatbed.
“Ok,” Josh said, “Now we’ll just keep him in the back.”
“Hmm-mmm. Not in my backroom, you won’t.” Kim.
“It’s not your backroom.”
Kim wheeled around, “Who said that?”
No one moved. She glared at us all. “If you put him in the backroom, he’ll just be in the way.”
It seemed that, living or dead, “in the way” was Marvin’s natural state. Kim had a point. We’d be wheeling him around every time someone wanted to buy furniture, and he’d be using up a flatbed we could be using elsewhere. After all, we only had five flatbeds for the whole store: Short Round, Orange Wheels, Shakes, Grease Spot, and Shin Biter. Marvin was currently atop Shin Biter, figured.
Someone, I think it could have been Abby, suggested that we put him out in the compound. With the previous night’s snowfall, he’d be kept nice and cold until the cops could come and collect him in the morning. So, the “pallbearers” followed as Dirk wheeled the Marvin-laden flatbed down the mall aisle. Dirk sang loudly as he steered around pallets of appliances toward the backroom doors.
“How much is that body in the rocker? The one with the really bad smell? How much is that body in the rocker? I sure hope that he’s not for sale.”
They were not in the back too long before Curtis’s voice was heard over the PA system.
“The compound is frozen shut. I don’t think we should leave him out here where he could be found by just anyone. I’m open to suggestions.”
We all looked to Kim once again, the backroom, after all, made the most logical sense.
“No, no, no!” She said, forcing most of us to take a step back at her intensity, “What happens to most things you guys put in my backroom? They just sit there, for weeks! Until I take care of it. And that’s not my job. I don’t want Marvin sitting around, literally, waiting for someone to call the police and let them know we have a corpse rotting in our store. So, no! Find somewhere else to put him, because I am not dealing with it!”
We started rattling off options that got shot down almost as soon as they were suggested. We immediately ruled out the break room and any of the offices upstairs, because we wanted to keep the murder—was that really what we were dealing with?! Man, working here could get weird—between the teammates that were currently here. Also out were optical, which we were using to store “hot” electronic items; Pharmacy, because no one wanted to suffer the wrath of Andy; the maintenance closet, because Agustin was coming in later; the cash office, the electronic backroom, the receiving office, the restrooms, all out. It seemed there was a reason to not hide Marvin in just about every corner of the store.
“Maybe we should just call the police, then,” Sam said, wisely.
“No!” Courtney shouted, “Do you want to spend the rest of the night being interrogated in some detention room—”
“The detention room!” Sandy’s shout caused most of us to jump, and it earned her a fresh glare from Courtney’s direction. But, our LP didn’t protest. “It’s the only place that makes sense.”
“Fine,” Courtney conceded, “But when I find out who killed him, and I will find out, I’m locking them in there with him!”
The guys wheeled Marvin back through the store, escorted by Courtney. And she locked him inside the detention room. She looked at each one of us in turn, “We’re in this together. No one goes to the police. I’ll disconnect the phones if I have to.”
There were nods all around.
So, now that that matter was settled, we all went back to our Black Friday preparations with a little hop to our steps. We’d all been sworn to secrecy, and I knew that no one would blab. We all hated Marvin equally, and just as sure as the cops could find the real murderer, they could also wrongly accuse any one of us, for we all had some motive or another. It was best to leave the situation in Courtney’s capable hands, she knew us better than the cops. So, as we worked, Courtney investigated. Starting with the video feed in her office.

***

Again, we found ourselves rushing to a distress call. This time it led us away from furniture, coming from the Loss Prevention office. Courtney was clearly freaking out. And she was wet.
“One minute—and then—gone! Hector. Had to be! Gone!” She repeated.
“What’s gone?” Nubia asked.
“Video, all of it. Cotton candy. Hector!” She hiccupped, a droplet of liquid dripped off the edge of her nose.
“Hector?” Josh asked.
“Cotton candy?” Claudia said at the same time.
“The cotton candy is gone!” Courtney fell into Claudia’s out-stretched arms.
“It’s ok, Courtney. We’ll get some more,” Claudia patted her friend’s usually-curled-but-now-wet head.
“If you solve this,” I had to put in my two cents, it’s what I do, “I will get you a whole garbage bag full of cotton candy.”
That seemed to calm her down enough to tell us what had happened. And it did sound like the work of Hector.
Who was Hector? One might ask. He was the resident ghost. The team was in three different minds over his existence. Some believed in him with all their hearts, and even claimed to have seen him—a lonely old man in a short-brimmed hat—while others stoically refused his existence. Most of us, however, fell in the third camp of “don’t know, don’t care.” But the rumors of Hector had been around longer than most of us had worked here, and weren’t likely to stop anytime soon.
Marvin had claimed to be a medium, that he could talk to ghosts. He said he liked to talk to Hector. We used to make jokes that the only person that would voluntarily talk to Marvin had already been put out of his misery.
We were all standing in a circle in front of the jewelry department; Courtney’s scream had been as good as saying “All available teammates to jewelry for a huddle.” Courtney told us how she’d been getting her monitors up and running, casually munching on a bag of cotton candy, when the lights started flashing, and she could hear someone scratching at her door. She had stood up to face the door, when out of nowhere her coffee mug had exploded on her from her desk, soaking her while simultaneously dissolving her sugary confection.
Josh rubbed at his temple in thought. “But Hector’s not actually real?”
His voice trailed at the end of his question when a chorus of female voices, led by Doralee, Sandy, and Beth shouted, “He’s real!”
And then everyone was talking at once about their encounters with the ghost, or lack thereof. With all the commotion, not one soul heard the soft click that was the door of the detention center unlocking from the inside.

***

            The next cry that rang through the store was my own. I’d been triple checking that all the domestics items in the ad were out on the floor when I noticed a bin conspicuously missing. It was the $29.99 comforter sets. And the dreadful domestics debacle of 2013 started playing out in my mind. This was not happening, not again!
“Claudia,” I said over the PA system, cutting over a pop song about wanting a boyfriend for Christmas, “Didn’t we put out the comforters?”
“Yes,” was her response.
I dialed 5-0, once again and said into the phone, “That’s what I was afraid of. They’re gone.” And I had less than two hours to find them.
Then, not too far from where I was in domestics, I heard someone curse from the front of the store.
“Hannah Montana!” Only one person would use such foul language. Mary. So, hers was the next voice that cut the music out to ring loudly throughout the store, “None of the registers have EPP pamphlets, and I can’t find any up here, either.”
The music turned back on, then immediately cut out again. Sandy. “Yes, they’re up there. I put them there myself. I’m headed that way.”
Sandy made her way to the front, and I figured, what the heck, I was this close already, and another set of eyes couldn’t hurt. I followed the blue arrows, taped by the crew that had left early in the afternoon, showing the way the customers should go to get to the checkouts. I was just being silly, burned-out from the nights events, knowing I still had a good eight hours ahead of me. So, it took me a few moments to realize I’d circled one gondola twice. I hadn’t been paying proper attention to the arrows, apparently. I went around once again. No, I wasn’t crazy, the arrows went in a circle around the post-it note and notebook aisles. This didn’t bode well. But it wasn’t my problem, so I announced the issue over the loud system, and went to help Sandy and Mary in their search. I gave up after a few minutes, remembering that I had my own search to conduct—I had to find those comforters or some old lady would likely try to sic a purse-dog on me.
I was deep in thought as I wound my way around the bins and bins of blankets blocking off my department from Infants and Girls. I almost ran straight into Sara, who was looking at something on the ground.
“What’s this?” She asked, picking up a lone HZZ sign, Bed-in-a-bag $29.99.
“Jinkies! A clue!” I said in my best Velma voice. Sara didn’t laugh. I guess my joke was funnier in my head. “What I mean to say,” I started over, “Is that sign proves that my comforters were out here earlier!”
That’s when the lights flickered off.
“Is the power out?” Sara asked.
“No,” I said, “The music’s still on, unfortunately.”
They were playing Michael Bublé’s Santa Baby, which probably shouldn’t exist.
The Christmas trees were still lit as well. Blinking on and off in time with the music like some sort of supernatural lights show. The light drew us all to it, like moths to a flame, and the team was once again holding an impromptu huddle.
Courtney, looking remarkably dry (was she wearing different clothes?), told us of her newest plan. “Ok, so the video can’t help us find the culprit. But I thought we could dust for prints. I don’t have any dusting powder, but,” she pulled several small tubes from her cardigan pocket, “I have glitter.”
“Get that stuff away from me!” Mike shouted, a tremor in his voice. Claudia and the rest of the GM teammates were nodding along with him. Glitter, especially at Christmas time, was the bane of those setting new planograms.
“We don’t have anyone’s prints on file,” Josh began, before Courtney interrupted.
“Ok, well fine! I don’t see any of you coming up with anything.”
“I think,” Angie ventured to say, “That we are focusing on the wrong thing. Instead of capturing the,” her voice hitched before she went on. No one like the word murderer. “I think we should be focusing on getting ready for the rush. Doors open in one hour,” she reminded us.
“And already we’ve got a dead body, missing EPPS, missing comforters,” Barb started rattling things off on her fingers.
“No lights,” Shanna continued.
“Ad’s not completely set in Apparel,” Amy said.
“The arrows at the registers go in circles,” I added.
“And the roof’s leaking in seasonal,” Liz added.
“Again?!” All three managers looked just about at their rope’s end.
A thousand more little problems came to our minds as we stood, watching the trees blinking ominously. Which fiasco should we give our attention to?
Someone finally broke the silence, “I think Hector is mad that we killed Marvin.”
Voices began to overlap in protest.
“Excuse me? We? I’m not admitting to that.”
“Hector doesn’t exist!”
“It’s not like we’d all have helped—“
“Yes he does!”
“I would have!”
“Someone’s dead! Don’t you think we’re being callous?”
“There’s that we again!”
“Shut up!”
I don’t know who yelled it, but it was effective. The silence fell upon us once more as we waited for someone to take charge. Josh sighed, knowing that he would have to be that person.
“Ok, everyone worry about their own problems. Amanda, find those comforters. Mary and Angie, you’ve got the EPPS. Courtney, see about getting the video back on line, we shouldn’t go into Black Friday blindly. Jamie, make sure everyone else is setting ad. Sandy and I will figure out how to get the lights back on. Curtis will re-tape the arrows—”
“I will?”
Josh ignored him and continued, “Everyone else will get back to what they were doing before we found Marvin. And whoever is trying to sabotage our Black Friday . . .”
“Hector!” someone coughed.
“. . . Please stop,” Josh said, “Oh, and if any of you is the murderer, if you could just admit it so we can get on with our night.”
No one spoke. No one moved.
“Go. Fight. Win,” Curtis said with little of his normal enthusiasm.
Then, as if that were our cue, we all began moving as one away from the circle. Well, except Beth, who took one step forward and then fell flat on her face.
Upon closer examination, I realized her shoelaces had been tied together. How had that happened?
“Dang, you! Hector!” She yelled as she untangled herself. Josephina helped her to her feet. And again we disbanded.

***

Courtney’s voice was once again heard over the loud speaker.
“Um . . . guys, Marvin is gone.”
A thought came to me, but someone beat me to asking it. Another voice followed Courtney, uttering the very question that had just crossed my mind.
“Did anyone check to see if he was actually dead?”
The music clicked back on. And it didn’t click off again. There was no response. No one had checked. And why would we. He looked dead, there was a red stain dripping down his neck, he smelled dead. If it looked like a duck and swam like a duck . . . Common sense said one of us should have pressed our fingers to his grimy throat, but hypochondria, fear of Martian germs, had prevented it.
Now we knew who was behind the sabotage. A great relief lifted in the atmosphere of the store, we no longer had a murderer on the loose, just Marvin, a maniac on a mission and possibly a peeved off poltergeist.

***

The next shift arrived thirty minutes later, the lights were on, the EPPS had been found inside the bin of comforters that someone, presumably Marvin, had hidden in the fixture area upstairs. The wrong arrows had been righted, and Courtney’s cameras were operational. A neon green tote had been placed under the leaky tiles. All was right with the world. The next shift consisted of mostly seasonal help and cashiers. Those that didn’t know enough about the store’s inner workings to be much help before the store opened. And then there was Matt.
“Hey, Manda, guess what?” Matt had his biggest grin on.
“What?” I asked.
“Marvin, that troublemaker one, forgot his name tag.”
“Wait?” The significance of his words sunk in, “You’ve seen Marvin?”
“Ya, and he didn’t have his nametag on.”
“Where?”
Matt pointed to a spot behind me. I swiveled and came face to face with the Martian. His collar was stained red, and I caught the unmistakable whiff of barbecue sauce. We were truly idiots.
In one smooth motion he had me in a rank embrace. My back against his chest, an armpit dangerously close to my face, and a tagging gun held to my neck.
I wasn’t sure how much damage such a weapon could actually inflict, but it looked painful enough to keep me from resisting. A mental picture flickered in my mind, me with a plastic price tag fastener sticking out of my neck like a TY beanie baby. Weren’t there some significant arteries in your neck, too? I wasn’t going to take my chances that Marvin had skipped high school biology.
“Is this the part where you launch into a monologue about why you’re trying to wreck our Black Friday?” I asked through clenched teeth, worried if I opened my mouth any wider I’d be able to taste his essence.
“Well,” Marvin said, “I’d normally enjoy that, but I’d prefer a bigger audience for that. And my plan isn’t quite complete. I’m afraid you’ve found me too soon.”
I didn’t like the implications of that statement. I opened my mouth to scream when a tag-gun wielding hand collided with the back of my neck.
Oh, I thought, I’ve never passed out before. This will make a good story.

***

I was awakened to the sound of customers cheering somewhere below me. The clambering of hundreds of pairs of feet signaled the start of the Black Friday doorbusters. I lifted my heavy head and took in my surroundings. I was locked in the electronics cage, I realized.
I turned to find Matt was here too. Still conscious, but tied up, several clearance bibs were slapped to his mouth as a make-shift gag.
I was neither gagged nor tied. Marvin must have expected me to be out a little longer.
I crawled to my fellow hostage and pulled the labels from his mouth.
“I told you Marvin was a troublemaker! I told you he was always causing trouble!” Matt said.
I hastily untied him.
“Looks like you were right.”
I looked for a way out. I didn’t know what Marvin was planning, but it couldn’t be good.
“I seen him causing trouble, Manda. He’s always stealing stuff. Hiding. I seen him go into Courtney’s office when she’s not even working that day. He didn’t think anyone saw him, but I did! I told everyone he was a troublemaker one, and no one believed me!”
“They’ll believe you now, Matt,” I reassured him, “If we ever get out of here, that is.”
My eyes scanned once more before I made the only decision that was left to me.
“We’re going to have to go up and over. Can you do that?”
Matt was nodding before I even finished asking the question. Good. I placed my hands through the links and cautiously pulled myself upward. Matt scaled the fencing with ease, and soon we were free.
I dashed down the stairs and blew through the double doors of the backroom onto the sales floor. I sprinted past the Christmas trees, Matt in toe. I had only one goal in mind.
I had to warn everyone.
I stopped before I got Toys, my body was out-racing my mind, and I wasn’t sure exactly what I needed to do. But then I saw Marvin. And he saw me.
Marvin’s face paled and he started to take off in the opposite direction.
“Stop him!” I yelled. Several customers gave me disinterested looks, as I sighed and then ran after him. I nearly slipped on a wet spot, and remembered that someone had said the roof was leaking.
Fortunately, for me I didn’t have to run very far. A distracted Marvin had clothes-lined himself on a wire bin. He bent in half and then fell into the bin, burying himself amidst dozens of rolled up throw blankets. I looked past the Martian to see what had distracted him. Josh, Courtney and a uniformed police officer were coming this way.
I must have had a curious look on my face because Courtney explained before I even had a chance to ask: “We figured if he wasn’t dead, we could call the cops now.”
Good point.
The officer pulled Marvin upright by his barbecue-sauce-stained collar.
            Matt caught up to us around this time. (He’d been stopped by a customer, and had to find someone to help him help them.)
            “Are you going to arrest him for stealing?” He asked the officer.
            “Stealing?” Courtney asked.
            “Marvin’s always sneaking around causing trouble. I seen him on the roof once. He’s been taking stuff. And he didn’t even pay for it!”
            Marvin’s mouth stood open before he composed himself enough to say, “You have no proof!”
            And that was the moment the ceiling tiles that had been leaking collapsed under the weight of the snow and . . . merchandise?
            A wet mound of clothes, electronics, Keurigs, appliances, rugs, even a Christmas tree, was now displayed in front of us. It was everything that had disappeared when Courtney’s cameras were on the blink. And Marvin was looking mighty guilty.
           
***

            We all stood at the front of the store and watched as Marvin was loaded into the back of a patrol car.
            “Does this mean we can fire him now?” Curtis asked.
            “I don’t think we have another option at this point,” Josh said.
            “Cool beans.”

***

            We ended up having the best Black Friday sales district wide. Brigham City was a small town and news had traveled fast. Even though the drama was over, people wanted to see the aftermath. Mainly the gaping hole we now had in the ceiling in front of seasonal. Our very own “water feature,” as we came to call it.
            The store seemed to brighten up after Marvin’s official termination. And Hector, if he was in fact real, had quieted down. Everything was back to normal.
            Well, almost everything.
            “I can’t take it anymore,” I overheard a voice in Josh’s office say a few days later. I knew I shouldn’t be listening in, but found I couldn’t stop myself. “Things are just to . . . crazy here. It was never like this at Walmart.”
            “Isn’t that good?” Josh’s voice.
            “Yes,” said the voice I now recognized to be Courtney, “I love it here, but this isn’t my dream.”
            “What is your dream? Not Walmart?”
            “Gosh, no! I want to move somewhere warm, where the roof doesn’t cave in every time it snows. Because it won’t snow! I’ll find and train my replacement, but I’m moving to Florida this summer.”
            Oh, no!
I made my presence known.“You can’t leave, Courtney!”
            Courtney looked determined though. And once that woman made up her mind, there was no changing it. “I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore. I don’t want to try and catch my coworkers, even the ones I can’t stand, stealing. I don’t want this anymore.”
            “You’re not the bad guy. You’re the best LP we’ve ever had!”
            She considered me before continuing, “I want to be surrounded by cotton candy and cupcakes. I want my own pink and blue candy shop, with entire walls where everything is bubblegum or watermelon flavored. And I want to be closer to family.”
            If this were a soap opera I would have said something sappy and meaningful, like that Shopko had become Courtney’s family. I would have pointed out that we all practically live together for all the hours we spend here. But I knew that it wouldn’t change her mind. So, I just nodded, and left.
           
***

            Six months later, it was time for our safety party. Since Marvin’s death was fake, and therefore was not an accident, we were now eighteen months accident free. We decided to kill two birds with one stone and use this as an excuse to celebrate Courtney’s big move.
            Jen was busying herself with decorations, while Sandy laid out the food on a long table in the break room. I was sitting on my butt, not helping, because I’d been working since nine. This was my break, darn-it! I wasn’t lifting a finger.
            Courtney walked in carrying a tray of cupcakes, wearing a pink apron.
            “You’re not supposed to be here yet!” Jen scolded, “It’s a surprise!”
            Courtney rolled her eyes. She had effectively planned her own party, nothing would surprise her.
            Well, almost nothing. The lights flickered for a few moments and then turned back on.
            “That was weird,” I said. I had a knack for pointing out the obvious.
            Courtney was just staring at her cupcakes, shock written across her face. I had to see what she was looking at.
            A letter had appeared in the frosting of each cupcake, spelling out:
I’ll miss you!
-Hector.


 The End

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Dust Off Those Cobwebs!!

Wow, it's kind of empty in here. The last time I posted was . . . when?! Goodness, old college essays? Is that the best I can do?

Alright, I'm making a commitment right here, right now. I'm going to post SOMETHING every week. On Tuesdays. Tuesdays are good, right?

Be prepared for the upcoming poems, musings, stories, and random other things that spurt out from my fingertips onto the screen.

Tomorrow begins the first Tuesday of writing. Hopefully I'll come up with something grand, with the help of my new Christmas present: Rory's Story Cubes!

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Feeling Important

Added together, my essays alone have 450 page views. How cool is that? When searching google for "a midsummer night's dream comedy or tragedy" my essay is the 4th link. And someone's tried to plagiarize me! I guess that's when you know your essays are solid.

And now I must add a word of caution to those students who are googling essay topics in search for cite-able sources. I am (mostly likely) not a cite-able source. These were essays written for classes, just like the essay you are writing. When your teacher goes and checks your bibliography and realizes that you copied some very flawed essay off of a creative writing blog, you'll look pretty silly.

So with that in mind. Feel free to read my essays, get some inspiration, and look into my sources provided on the Work Cited section of some of my essays.

Happy essay writing!!

Friday, December 9, 2011

The Investigators—Snippet

This is a snippet of what was eventually to come. I wrote it down while it was  fresh in my head. It doesn't quite connect with the rest of the story, yet.
 

Elle was busy putting out the new Christmas decorations at the bookstore where she worked when she heard someone coming up behind her.

"Let me empty my arms," she said without turning, "and I'll help you in a second."

The customer said nothing, so she continued putting the decorations around the tree. But after several moments when it became apparent that the customer was still; behind her, she turned.

"What can I help you--" She gasped as she recognized that this was not a customer. It was her ex- husband Vincent. He grabbed her hard.

"Who else is here?"

"Vince, you're hurting me!"

"I said, Are you the only one here!?!" He got right up in her face. His hot breath reeked of onions and ketchup.

Unable to speak any longer, Elle just nodded her head. Then she swallowed hard and said weakly, "I'm the only one who comes in on Sunday mornings, we're alone."

"Good." He said, and he dragged her to the back room where the lockers were.

"I want your cell. Which locker is yours?"

She pointed.

"Open it and give me everything inside." He ordered.

She fumbled with the combination and he got impatient.

"You're doing that on purpose! Open it right now or I'll open it with your face!"

She pulled down on the lock and it unlatched. She pulled the locker open slowly.

He shoved her out of the way, and began greedily looking through her belongings. He pocketed a few things: her box knife, her wallet, the unopened present from her boss. And then he tossed everything else on the ground as he dug in the back to reach her purse. He reached inside, grabbed the rest of her money, and then his hands found her cell phone. He hurled it across the room, at the wall opposite the door and it shattered against the cement wall.

With his hand still grasping her arm tightly, he bent and started throwing things back in the locker. He let her go and commanded that she pick up the pieces of the phone and put them in the locker as well. There was no way she could escape, because she'd have to walk past him to leave the room.

She gathered her once smart, but now dead, phone and carried them over to Vincent. She let them roll out of her hands and into the locker. Then Vincent slammed it and replace the lock.

"Now you're going to write your boss a note that you had to step out for a minute so he doesn't worry."

"I can't leave. Who will watch the store?"

"Who gives a--" She censored his bad language in her head as Vincent dragged her to the checkout counter.

He began rummaging through the drawers, much less aggressively than he had looked through Elle's locker, careful not to disturb the contents inside. He finally found what he was looking for and shoved a yellow legal pad and a blue pen in Elle's hand, finally releasing his death grasp on her.

"What do you want me to write?"

"That you left, something believable. That you won't come back later."

"How can I make it believable and still leave the store? I would never abandon the store. IF I ever had to leave I would find someone to come in and watch the store while I was gone."

He grabbed her once more, this time grinding his nails into her shoulder.

"Write!"
 
 
Craig walked up the sidewalk towards the bookstore where he was to meet Elle after her shift. He walked in and the bell above the door clanged a cheerful greeting.

"Merry Christmas to you to," he said to the bell, feeling on cloud nine. Totally and uncontrollably in love. But he couldn't tell her that. No, but any second now her face would peek around the corner and brighten his day even more. Young couldn't remember ever being happier in his life.

Instead of being greeted by a beatifically Elle, he found himself face to face with a very distraught May.

"Oh Craig! Elle left, I think there must be something wrong. She left a note for me, but it's . . . well here, read it."

He picked up the note and read:


Boss,
I had an emergency I had to attend to, Mrs. Young. I'll lock the door behind me so the store will be safe. I hope you don't fire me over this. Merry Christmas, Elle. PS. Young, MY phone is dead sorry you don't call me.

"Why did she call me Mrs. Young? She's worked here for four years and has always just called me May.

And my last name is Andrews." Elle's boss looked understandably confused.

"My last name is Young. This note must be for me," Craig said, tapping the note against the table.

"But it's addressed 'boss' and she asks me not to fire her."

Craig sighed.

"Maybe it's for both of us then. But I think you're right. I think she must be in trouble."

He put his finger on the word "my", which she had written, albeit subtly, in caps. Craig already knew that
Elle's phone was broken, she had told him so last night. She had also told him that she would be using her mother's phone. That must be why she had emphasized that word "my".

Without a second glance at May, Craig bolted out of the shop and onto the street.

Around him all the plants looked dead. The trees that lined the road had lost their leaves for the winter and looked cold and bare. There was no snow on the ground or in the air, as one might expect on Christmas Eve.
The only snow lay in piles, black and dirty in the curbs.

The scene reflected perfectly the disorder Craig felt inside. He pulled out his cell phone to call Elle and see if she was allright. And if she was to ask her about the cryptic note she had left. But before he hit the send key, he was prompted to look once again at the message in his hand.

He looked over the note again. Something else was bugging him. "My phone is dead . . . sorry you can't call me." But that's not what it said. It said, "you don't call me." Was it a typo or a message hidden in a message?

Sorry you don't call me.

You don't call me.

Don't call me.

Craig dropped his cell phone as the thought startled him. He picked it up from the muddy ground, feeling foolish as a few last minute shoppers gawked at him. He wiped in on his pants and then shoved it in his pocket
 
 
Elle found herself in a dark room that smelled of mold and bleach. She wasn't tied to a chair, or anything, but her hands and feet were both bound with duct tape.

She tried to use her hands to reach the phone in her bra. She'd been lectured a hundred times not to put it there, that it made her look bad when he chest vibrated and lit up at fancy restraunts. But since it embarrassed everyone but her, she continued the practice. Now it had come in handy. Maybe even could save her life. She had a spare phone in her bra and her captors had no foresight to check.

The only thing she could see going wrong was that her mother always had her phone ringer on as loud as it would go and if it went off now she'd be punished severely. That's why she had to get to it before anyone tried to call her.

She hoped that Craig wouldn't try to call when he realized she wasn't at the bookshop any more. She hoped he was smart enough to get the message "don't call me" but then again, men never picked up on hints. For being a detective, Young was especially bad at picking up her hints it seemed to Elle.

After straining and twisting her hands and arms for what felt like forever, Elle was able to reach the phone just as it began ringing. She hurried and hung up, but it was too late, she could her chairs being pulled back from a table on the wood floor above.

Not wanting the phone on her body when they came down the stairs, she removed the battery and slid both across the floor to a dark corner of the room.

"Amelia," Vincent said in a singsong voice as he came into the room, letting in only enough light to silhouette his ugly figure. "We thought we heard a noise. Was that you?"

"Yes." She lied. "I was calling you to bring me a drink of water."

"It didn't sound like you. But it did sound like someone calling."

"I don't know what you mean." Elle stammered, her voice rising in pitch.

"I could have sworn I heard the beginning notes of the Monk theme song."

At this Elle began to laugh. As dire as her situation was, she couldn't imagine Vincent watching one episode of Monk, let alone recognizing the theme song from a ringtone from another room. It made him seem so . . . human. After they had been married for a few months Elle always thought of Vincent as more beast than human being. And Monk was such an endearing show for such a horrible man to watch.

"What do you think you're laughing at?" He swore.

"You think I was watching Monk down here? You think I have an iPad hidden in my bra?"

"Well it wouldn't hurt to check." He made a move to grab at her, but before he could she hit him over the head with her bound hands.

"You will not touch me!" She screamed. And then she hit him again.

"You're not getting no water!" And with that he was back up the stairs and the room went dark again. It
seemed even darker than before.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

The Investigators—Chapter 5

This work is copyright Amanda Mayne November 2011.

Craig's slumber was cut short when Aaron called him at 9am.

"It's too early!" He half-yelled into the receiver of his cell-phone.

"I thought you've been up like 4 hours already?"

"I stayed up all night. I've only been in bed four hours."

"Oh, well I just wanted you to know that the Penshaws left a message on the machine at work. Oh and I'm sitting here without you and I'm bored!!"

"The one day you show up to work on time and I'm not there to see it. Give me two hours and I'll come over."

"Ok . . . if you're sure."

"What did the Penshaw's want?"

"They just wanted to see if you've found any leads. Should I call them back and tell them we found the girl and the kidnapper and that we're going to turn them in?"

"No!" Craig shouted, then he straightened, "I mean, not yet. I'm not sure if I quite trust the Penshaws."

"They had their little girl taken away from them, I can't imagine what that would feel like."

"I can."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Craig."

"I just have a feeling about them. I just want to make sure that we're getting the whole story before we show them all our cards. Need I remind you they haven't paid us yet. If they paid us I'd feel guilty about with-holding this kind of information. I'll call them, I'll tell them we have a lead, but that's it. I won't tell them that I know what Amelia is going by now or that we've even been to their house."

"Ok, I think you're overreacting, but you're the boss."

They disconnected the call and Craig rolled back over to continue his rest. But he couldn't fall back to sleep.

To Previous Chapter

The Investigators—Chapter 4

This work is copyright Amanda Mayne November 2011.

Dressed in official looking suits and ties, the two detectives showed up at the home of Elle and Charles Bennett.

"I didn't realize that Elle was married," Aaron commented as they wiated on the porch.

"She's not, unless she's in her 60s. But judging by that picture I'd say she's remarkable younger than that. This house has been owned by one Charles Bennett and his wife for at least 35 years."

Just then the door clicked open and a gray- haired lady greeted them.

‎"Oh my! Charles, come quick! Look it's some of them Mormons!"

Before they could say or do anything, the elderly woman closed the door in their faces. The two detectives exchanged a curious glance.

"Well, that went well," Aaron stated after an awkward moment or two standing on this woman's porch, "Now what genius?" He added, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Detective Young just shrugged and they turned to leave to go regroup and come up with a new plan. They were sure they'd have to go back to square one when the door opened again.

"Come on in, Elders!"

"We're not--" Aaron started, but Detective Young elbowed him in the side.

"Just go with it," He muttered under his breath to his less-experienced partner.

Shed led them through an entryway and into the living room. It was small but tidy and well decorated. The men took seats on the large tan leather couch and waited as Elle, sr. gathered her family.

Charles came in first. His hair had more color than his wife's, but he had a considerably smaller amount of it. The top of his head shined in the artificial lighting in the room.

He had an annoyed glare on his face and he stared down the "missionaries" with obvious disdain. Young didn't know much about Mormons, but he didn't think they'd done anything to earn this man's obvious hatred. Or maybe Charles just hated Young and Ackerley in particular. He continued to glower at them as he sank into his over-sized recliner.

Elle, sr. came back in the room with a plate of cookies.

"Growing boys need their cookies," she told them when they tried to refuse the offer. Then they each took a cookie to be polite. The motherly woman seemed satisfied with this and placed the platter on the glass- top cofee table.

Finally, the two people central to the case entered the room, hand- in- hand, both looking very much like their respective photographs.

"I'm Elle," The Elderly woman began, "and this is my husband Charles. These two beautiful ladies are my daughter and granddaughter, Elle and Julie. If you get us Elles mixed up you can just call me Janice. That's my middle name, and I've been going by it almost exclusively since my daughter moved in." She grinned at them and sat on the loveseat across from Aaron and Craig. She patted the seat beside her and Elle sat down and placed her daughter on her lap.

Janice turned to Julie, "We're going to listen to these nice men as they tell us about Jesus."

Julie didn't say anything, but stared at the men with an interest that most children didn't display when religion was brought into conversation.

"I'm--" Craig struggled to find the right word. Janice had used it earlier. It started with an "E." Oh that was it, "I'm Elder Young and this is my . . . um"

"Companion," Aaron supplied.

"Yes," Craig started again, "I'm Elder Young and this is Elder Aaron. I mean Ackerley. Elder Ackerley."

"Young, now that's a good solid Mormon name, isn't it. You're first name Brighton? Wasn't that his name? Brighton Young, founder of the Mormons?"

I thought the founder of the Mormons was Mormon? Craig wondered to himself. And what kind of name was Brighton?

Then things got silent. Everyone in the room was staring at Young, "Oh, right. We were talking about Jesus, huh? Um. who knows who Jesus was?"

Immediately Craig regretted asking the question. It sounded really stupid. Who hadn't heard of Jesus? But no one complained and after only a few moments Janice chipped in.

"Jesus was a great teacher. Some people say he was a Savior."

Young waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't appease him.

"Ok, good. Um, we," again he was lost. What religion did she think they were? The one with missionaries, right? They were just BARELY talking about this. Brighton Young. What was it?! Jehovah's Witnesses? No! "Um, we believe Jesus was a great teacher too. Elder Ackerley, tell the um," he looked at the family portrait above the piano for help. It said in big letters BENNETT. "Ackerley, tell the Bennett's about Jesus' teachings."

The look Aaron gave Craig said that we was going to tear his head off when they got back to the car, but when he turned back to face the family he was Mr. Cordiality.

"Julie," He said addressing the little girl with dark hair, "Do you know something that Jesus taught?"

Oh great, Young thought, I pass the buck to Ackerley and he passes it to the youngest person in the room. But to the surprise of everyone, Julie replied, "Jesus said to not be mean to people even if they're naughty and don't get presents from Santa."

"That's very good Julie," Ackerley cooed. Then he gave Craig another expectant look. The look said, I don't want to talk about this anymore, you're the one that was eager to pretend to be missionaries, you take over.

Criag nodded half to Aaron and half to himself and then took over. "Jesus said love everyone. Didn't he? He said we should be kind?"

There was general nodding going around.

"Who's Mormon?" The little girl asked.

Mormon! That was it! They were pretending to be Mormons. Well, pretending sounded so . . . they were undercover as Mormon missionaries.

"Mormon was a very important man in our Church. I mean without Mormon, we wouldn't be Mormons. If you know what I mean. Mormon's like the head honcho. Mormon is or was um a great teacher too."

Craig hated that his speech was riddled with "ums." Hadn't he always been the one to scold those that talked like that? "Find your words before you speak!" He would lecture. And now here we was "um um um."

"We also believe in Heaven," Ackerley said to change the subject.

"No, I," was he really about to blow their cover over that. Get in the game, Craig, he scolded himself, "I mean, of course we do. I thought he said we believe in 'Heather' and I was, like, what?"

Crap, now he was using "like" as an interjection. What was it about this investigation that was making his grammar leave him? He sounded like a teenaged girl. Or maybe it was the subject matter. Talking religion was never one of Craig's strong points. In hindsight, maybe "just going with it" was a really bad idea. He'd been thinking that Elle would be able to "confess her sins" more easily to a couple of missionaries who promised of a God who loved them, than to confess to detectives who were trying to prove she was guilty of kidnapping her daughter, potentially taking her away from the family and landing Elle in a jail cell.

"Aren't you boys a little old to be out proselyting?"

And now Janice was using words that Craig wasn't sure what they meant! Could this day get worse? Luckily, Aaron had this one.

"Most guys start proselyting when they're younger, but we kind of slacked off, and were just born again recently. That's why we're older."

"Born again?" Elle asked, with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"Like, we found our faith . . . Again." And there he was using the "like" again.

The first thing Craig did when he got home from the Bennett house was turn on his laptop. While it was booting up he took of the tie that had started to feel like a noose very early in the visit. Next the shoes were kicked under the bed, and then the jacket was placed on the back of his computer chair. If they kept this guise up, there was no way Craig was wearing that suit jacket again. Even in cold October, it was way too hot.

Finally he heard the boot up jingle that said his computer was ready for him to begin his midless browsing of the world wide web. Only tonight he wouldn't be catching up on 90s tv shows or endlessy clicking stumble to see what stick-figure comics would appear. No tonight he was going to find out more about the Mormons.

He opened a browser, then his favorite search engine. He lightly tapped his fingers agains the keys, trying to decide what to look up. Then he shrugged and typed in: Brighton Young. It seemed like a good starting point, if Brighton really was the founder of the faith.

After finding a whole lot of nothing useful and a whole lot of United Kingdom maps he rephrased his search. Mormon Brighton Young. Did you mean Brigham Young? Craig wasn't sure what he meant. But he clicked in the affirmative.

He found himself skimming an encyclopedia entry. Words like polygammy, American Moses, and Utah stood out to him. He also found that the website called Mormonism the LDS Church. He followed the footnotes to mormon.org.

He scanned the tabs before deciding to begin with the one labled "Our Faith." It seemed like a good place to start. If he was going to pretend to be a Mormon preacher he would have to know at least something about the faith. From there he found links that said things like "The Restoration", "God's Plan for Happiness", and "Joseph Smith." He did not see a link for any Youngs, Brightons, Brighams, or otherwise. He clicked on the "Joseph Smith" link.

There he rad about a time and place of "theological turmoil." A phrase that struck a cord somewhere inside Craig. He could say that he himself was in a state of theological turmoil. He had always wanted to believe in God, but he wasn't sure if he ever really had. And now he wasn't sure that he could. How could a loving God take his family away from him? They'd done nothing wrong. Don't Christians believe that you reap what you sow? Karma? You put good energy out and get good energy in return? Why then had his wife and daughter been taken so long before it was their time. They were both so young. Too young to die.

He looked back at the website. At the painted blue eyes of the man some called a prophet. He was no longer doing research. He now needed some answers. He clicked on a link labled "God's Plan of Happiness." And wondered as the page loaded, doe God care for our happiness as human beings? Does he care for MY happiness personally? Does he know that I even exist? If I don't believe in Him does he still believe in me?

The page loaded, and it looked pretty boring. He scrolled down, not really reading. There were pictures and videos and big quotes from the bible. Did Mormons read the bible? He wasn't sure.

He spent all night on mormon.org. He learned that Mormon's do in fact read the bible as well as the Book of Mormon and maybe even more books. He found out that they preferred to be called Latter-day Saints. That they believed in being with your family forever.

Somewhere along the way he bagan taking notes. PArtially for himself, and partially so he and Ackerley could be more convincing as they contiued their investigation.

Before he fell asleep--at the time he usually woke up--Craig put in an order for three copies of the book of mormon. One fore him, one for Ackerley, and one fore the Bennett family. He couldn't believe they were giving them away for free. And he hoped they'd arrive before their next "lesson." He wondered if he should get a bible as well, since he now knew that Latter-day Saints also read that, but he figured he could find used bibles anywhere. In fact, he was pretty sure that they put a used bookstore where the music store used to be a couple years back.

He was also surprised to find that they had all the LDS scriptures available online for free. The book of mormon, the bible and a couple of books called the doctrine and covenants, and the pearl of great price. He'd check those out later, for now he was going to sleep.

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