Tales From the Morgue

TALES FROM THE MORGUE

"Well," he said, instantly forgetting my name, "I'll show you around
tonight, then you can get on your own tomorrow."

Charles stretched. He was an immense, round black man, in his
thirties, wearing large glasses, the ridiculous Circle-K uniform taut
over his massive chest and gut.

"Oh, yeah," he said, peeking at the old, little LED clock glued to the
register, "then ol' Charles here'll finally get to go on vacation. It's
been six months since ol' Charles' had more than a day off at a
time."

I smiled quickly.

"Goddamn cheap-ass Indian owners wouldn't hire a new guy. That's why
they finally hired you, to give me a break."

I nodded. "Well, glad to be of service."

"Bet you are," he said. "This ain't a hard job; actually, the hardest
thing is just keepin' awake because it's so damn easy. But there are
some things you got to know. Tricks of the trade, see?"

Charles showed me, in his oblique and deliberate way, where to find
the bags of nacho cheese, how to get the cheese in the machine, how to
heat and dispense the nacho cheese, and how to clean the machine. He
showed me where the extra soda syrup was stored and how to change the
syrup boxes. He showed me how to operate the lottery and Powerball
machines, and pointed out the calendar with the highlighted days that
the tickets could not be sold. He had a way of politely, even
engagingly, speaking without once making eye contact.

There was a pad of paper with the date that said, "If you were not
born on or before this date, you may not purchase alcohol."

"Make sure you keep up with the calendar," said Charles. "I know lots
of young kids are drinking and having a good ol' time, but we have to
follow the letter of the law. Actually, since your shift starts at
12:30, you shouldn't even technically have to deal with this shit,
should you?"

Within an hour of my training, I felt that I could watch the store and
handle any of the routine tasks. I was already quite bored and my legs
hurt. But from the placid way Charles stared at the wall, leaning
against the counter, I had a feeling I was in it for the long
haul.

"So, Charles, what do you do around here when nothing's going on?" I
asked.

He shrugged, looking for all the world as if he was attached to the
counter. "You could clean or zone the merchandise."
I walked into the aisles. Most of the items were new to me, and
browsing was about as entertaining as shopping.

"What's zoning?"

"That's when you bring all the stuff up to the front."

"What?"

Charles came out from behind the counter and reached his big paws into
the depths of a shelf. With sturdy fingers, he rearranged the boxes of
Fruity Pebbles to present a unified front to the customer, all the
boxes lined up and all the empty space toward the back of the
shelf.

"Oh, I get it."

"So I'm supposed to zone?"

Charles shrugged. "I never do. You're supposed to."

I dutifully set to the task of zoning, because I've always been the
kind of person who does what he's supposed to. After a short while,
though, I got tired of it and joined Charles leaning against the
counter. Eventually I followed his lead and began to page through one
of the more exotic girlie magazines I had seen so many times but been
too embarrassed to buy.

"There is one thing I do need to show you," he said, his voice
serious.

He stooped and reached below the register, to the shadows. There was a
small protuberance, a plastic knob that wiggled against my touch.

"The panic button, my friend. Press that and the men in blue will
arrive within ten minutes. Five if they're at the Dunkin' Donuts next
door."

We both laughed. What is there about cops that makes their connection
with doughnuts so inexplicably amusing?

Then he brought me to the stationary shelf; here were aligned skewered
plastic bags of Papermates, Bics, uneconomically-packaged packets of
paper, tiny rolls of Scotch Tape, vials of White-Out, small boxes of
staples, and pygmy-sized bottles of glue. Charles reached under the
shelf and withdrew a metal pole, no thicker than one of his stubby
fingers, and about as long as a man's forearm.

"This is my whoop-ass stick," he said, holding it firmly in his big
hands. The stick appeared light enough to attain great velocities in
the act of whooping, while being made of that intimidating, heavy,
corrugated steel shaft that they use to reinforce concrete. A
formidable and very satisfying weapon.

"Cool," I said, "I bet that comes in handy."

Charles looked at me; his eyes briefly flickered across mine. "You bet
your ass it does."

It was 1:20; less than three hours into the training shift. Five were
left. And I felt my pulse reach dangerously low levels. If this were to
continue, I would surely fall into a coma and eventually die of lack of
stimulation. Charles and I had assumed the position on the counter,
leaning back with our arms crossed and staring aimlessly among the rows
of merchandise.

"They call this the Morgue," said Charles, without prompting, his voice
sounding alone and strange against the night's silence and the hiss of
inefficient air conditioning units, "because, statistically speaking,
this is the slowest Circle-K in the entire valley. Actually, I call it
the Morgue, I don't know what the hell other motherfuckers call
it."

As if conjured by the pleading of our dire need, a wheel skidded
outside, lights flashed into the window, and a car appeared, parked in
front of the glass storefront out of the darkness. Seated inside were
two kids, a cute little teeny-bopper girl and a cute little
teeny-bopper dude. She wore a form-fitting shirt with the brand-name
"Pornstar" brazenly emblazoned upon it; he wore a plaid shirt thrown
over a wife-beater. The male kid got out, said something with a smile
to his companion, and pushed open the door. I absently noted that he
was 5'10", 2 inches taller than me. He nodded to us with that awkward
lack of confidence and social skills often present in youth and turned
towards the cold drinks. We placidly watched him select a Gatorade and
then drift through the aisles. Every once in awhile, he would steal a
glance at us, and without exception, we would catch him, and he would
look away. There was nothing to do but stare at him, anyway. One way of
looking at it was that he was the sole source of stimulation to walk
into the store for an hour, and we might as well enjoy it while we
could. On the other hand, it seemed that Charles was openly staring at
him in an almost unfriendly way, and buoyed and encouraging by Charles'
size and confidence, I joined him in staring the kid down.

Finally, the kid came to the counter and put down the Gatorade. "How's
it going, guys?" he asked, not making any eye contact.

"We're just fine, young man," said Charles almost slowly. "Will this be
all?"

"Uh, actually, could I get a pack of Trojans?"

I swear the kid was just about to the point of blushing. Actually, he
had a healthy tan; perhaps he was blushing underneath.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" asked Charles. He had the kid walking on
eggshells.

"Trojans? Could I get some Trojans?"

"Oh, sure," said Charles. The kid relaxed, the tension draining out of
him as if a dam had burst.

Charles' face was stone-cold. "Can I get some ID?"

The kid reeled in shock. I threw a glance at his girlfriend, who waited
pensively in the car.

"What? I don't need any ID!"

"Yes, you do, young Chipper Jones," said Charles. He pointed to the
calendar. "Were you born before or after this date of April 23,
2000?"

"What are you talking about, you don't need ID to get fucking condoms!"
protested the kid, his voice becoming shrill.

"That's right, I don't, but you do," said Charles placidly.

"Dude, you're full of it!"

"Apparently, you don't have ID," said Charles. He put a large finger on
the Gatorade. "Will this be all, sir?"

The kid made a gesture of contempt and strode to the exit. "Fuck this,
I'm going to 7-11!"

"Have a nice night, please come back again," said Charles to the door,
as it slowly hissed shut on a pneumatic hinge. The car outside roared
to life and screeched into the darkness.

"Little punk don't deserve to get any as it is," pronounced Charles.
"Man can't even stand up for himself, he sure don't deserve any more
than his own damn hand. Motherfucker wouldn't know what to do with it
if he had it, anyway."

"Almost had to bust out the whoopass stick on that," I said
enthusiastically.

Charles waved away the notion. "On that little punk?"

Silenced reigned for another couple of hours. I yearned for the
stripling to return so I could sell him his condoms. He never did, of
course. However, a primer-colored Camaro did pull up, and two shoddily
dressed men in sunglasses emerged, looking from side to side before
they stepped into the store.

"This should be fun," said Charles. "Okay, now, Luke (apparently, he
hadn't forgotten my name), don't do anything. Just sit here and let me
do the talking. You got that?"

"Uh, sure," I said, fear tightening my loins, although comprehension
hadn't dawned.

One man was somewhat tall, but very gaunt. He wore faded black jeans,
paint-splattered brown boots, a white T-shirt, and a plaid overshirt
(only superficially similar to the kid's outfit). His face was
incredibly lean, with sunken eyes and sunken cheeks. It was almost as
if God had only ? the normal amount of clay and had to make do. The
sunglasses he wore could have been purchased in that very store. The
other man was short and pudgy. He wore those obnoxious, colorful
workout pants, and a Diamondbacks T-shirt struggled to contain the
expanse of his hairy, pale gut. He wore a brown moustache and large,
CHIPS-style aviator sunglasses. They didn't beat around the bush, like
the kid; they came straight to the counter. Both were carrying small
paper bags.

The skinny man spoke, "You know the drill, boss. We got guns in these
bags, you fuck with us, you die, otherwise, you go home nice and
happy."

"And in one piece," said the fat one.

"You want all the money from the register? In a bag?" asked
Charles.

"Uh, yeah, that's right," said the skinny man. "And hurry up. And don't
try to get your gun or anything, cause I will shoot you dead, I swear
to God."

"Wouldn't be the first time," said the fat one. He looked as if he'd
done this before. His expression beneath the sunglasses was almost
bored. Charles, on the other hand, had reached his highest level of
animation yet. By no means was he hyper or animated; his level of
activity had merely rose to that of a normal person engaged in
conversation.

Charles seemed very busy in getting the money from the register. I was
slightly closer to the button than he, and I wondered if I should try
to take the half step and press it. I could probably just pretend like
I was shifting position, and they wouldn't be any the wiser. But, after
thinking about it, I decided I should let Charles take any action. I
was just a trainee, after all. I wondered if he had a pistol hidden
behind the counter anywhere, or maybe another whoopass stick. If
anything went down, I would hit the floor, I decided.

Finally, Charles handed over the money. The skinny man peeked into the
bag while the fat man covered us.

"This all you got?" he asked, somewhat petulantly.

Charles shrugged. "Sorry, it was a slow night."

"Well, sheeyit," said the skinny one. "Fucking twenty bucks, goddamn
waste of our time."

"Twenty fucking bucks?" echoed the fat one. "What the fuck is
that?"

"Hey," said the fat one, "why don't you print us up a bunch of
Powerball tickets. I mean a fucking bunch."

"It's after one; so I can't sell them to you," said Charles.

"What the fuck?" cried that fat one, "I gotta fucking gun and you're
telling me you it's one o'clock?"

"The machine won't print them up after one, sorry."

"Well, sheeyit!"

The tall one spat, reeking of chew. "Alright, why don't you get us two
cases of Bud, and we'll call it even."

"Budweiser?"

"That's damn right."

Charles blinked. "You want me to get it for you?"

"That's damn right, you damn man, what do you think this is, self
-service?"
"This is a motherfucking hold-up, you better damn well get it for
us!"

Charles, his hands held just above shoulder level, walked to the
refrigerators and pulled out a couple of cases of Budweiser. He dropped
them on the counter. The tall one grabbed it, and they headed out. The
tall one was about six, the short one about 5'6". They sped out of
sight in their Camaro, colored as it was like a matte-hued ghost.

We watched them hit Thomas Road and zoom away.

"Are you going to hit the alarm button?" I asked after awhile.

"Nah," said Charles. "They might come back. You never know."

I went into the aisles and returned with the whoopass stick. "Well,
I'll feel safer with this, if they do come back."

"Motherfucker, put that thing back. You're just going to hurt
yourself." I did as he told, then returned.

"Luke," he said, "you don't own this store. They pay you $8.50 an hour,
you don't need to be risking your life for these cheap Indian
motherfuckers. Trust ol' Charles, please."

"Well, what do we have to do now?" I asked.

"Call the police. But give it ten minutes. Like I said, I don't want
those fucks coming back, then the blue lights come. That's when people
get shot. Best to just chill here and then let the cops do their thing
when we're out of the scene of the crime."

Charles looked at the cheap clock. "Cool," he said, "shift's almost
over."