The Cart Wrangler

Ryan only wanted the summer job so he could make enough money to buy the new No Doubt CD. Everyone during the school break was floored by "Spiderwebs" and the pixie mid-driff punk-sprite Gwen Stefani. It was a Friday which was when the newest CDs were released at Circuit City. He'd be there.

At the big chained retail store he worked, which one could consider the ghetto, the Black female cashier, Darla, would eye Ryan. He tried to lay low until one day she offered to suck him off and let him put his cock in her ass. Apparently she wanted to remain a virgin. Ryan wasn't into the Black girl but was flattered. Which led to very very uncomfortable days after. He would pass her and smile. She'd smile back but the twinkle in her eye was gone. Fickle teen girls move on. Rejection was harsh.
Still, Ryan found comfort in crushing cardboard boxes in the machine room. It was cathartic to him to listen to the popping sounds of paper being folder. Then folded again, until he became a pressed cube. And then dumped into some massive dark shoot. Which is when he'd throw in the next boxes. Just humming "Spiderwebs" to himself.
"RYAN!"
Ryan turned to face Mr. Grant. He was a thick middle aged man who had the ruddy complexion of a night boozer. His eyes glassy, and his tie crooked. Middle management to the likes of Ryan's teen kind never mixed. Simply put, the guy just didn't like seeing young people with hopes and dreams. To Mr. Grant, Ryan was the embodiment of privileged middle class society. Mr. Grant was a foster kid raised by nuns. They couldn't give a shit if you had aspirations. Of course, the sisters were drunk off their asses most of the time anyway. As a teen, there were times, Mr. Grant would feel one of the older sweatier ones rub up against him. He could smell the booze and feel his shoulder get a little wet. The sisters may be brides of God but they sure took their sexual frustrations out on any boy who had no parent to snitch to.

"RYAN!"
"Yes Mr. Grant!"
"The fucking carts outside...it's half hour to closing. Bring them in already."
"Yes sir!" Ryan didn't want to argue, afterall, he just wanted to take his paycheck, cash it and head straight to Circuit City before they closed.
Ryan threw the 2x4 he'd use to gather up the boxes into the crusher and darted from his spot. Mr. Grant sneered, probably remembering when he had pep in his step.

Ryan almost reached the door when his arm was caught on something. It was Darla. He shot back his arm, reflexively.
"Hey!"
Darla didn't seem bothered. In fact, she seemed annoyed "Look, this White lady needs help taking her shit to her car."
"And?"
"And there 'aint no one else here."
"I gotta push the carts back. Mr. Grant told me --"
"Fuck that cracker! Joanna has seniority. The customer always comes first."
"Shit" Ryan thought, he was hoping Darla was asleep during that part in the orientation.
"Jesus...whatever."

Ryan saw the old lady. Old was a relative term. She was in her 50's maybe. To a 16 year old, she seemed much older but brightened as Ryan approached. Ryan smoothed out his apron. Professionalism was his co-pilot.
"Hello, young man" the crone spoke.
"Um...yeah, they said you needed help."
The woman pointed to a sack of potting soil in her cart. One more cart to return.
"Cool. We ready to go?" Ryan could feel his phony smile jump off his face.
"Yes, dearie." Gotta be 60 years old, Ryan thought.
The two exited the automatic doors. The warm breeze of the impending summer hit Ryan. He hated the smell of hot asphalt. It was balmy and humidity was gross.
"You young boys work real hard at these stores" Ryan didn't have the energy to lay down the truth, that he was the jackass of all jackasses jacking off. "I seen a few of you boys. Pushing carts...in this weather. I'm going to write you all a great review. What's your name?"
He thought better to give her a phony name "Ryan."
"Ryan, I'll remember you"
Fortunately, she didn't park too far. She drove a beat up station wagon. She keyed the hatch open. Ryan gently laid the sack in. He didnt want to risk breaking the bag and having the next hour cleaning her car. Gwen STEFANI!!!
"There ya' go, ma'am" He smiled awkwardly, because he wanted to bury her in that potting soil. But a CD awaited.
The woman pulled out a crisp five dollar bill and pointed it at him.
From day one, the management had beaten into the stockboys brains...they cannot accept tips, under any circumstances. The policy was retarded, Ryan always thought, but a rule is a rule. And his record collection wasn't going to stop at the "Tragic Kingdom."
"I'm sorry. We can't accept tips, really nice of you but I can't." She smiled at this "Who's going to know?" She stuffed the bill into his apron. "I really can't ma'am, it's against store policy and I'm happy to help you." He held out the bill. She laughed and turned away.
 "Ma'am I really can't--"
"I'm an old Jewish lady, it's okay..."
"Thank you, but I can't --"
She snapped alive. Her hand shot out and snatched Ryan's arm. It was so fast, he couldn't process that this seemingly frail woman had the strength.
"Wha--?" her nail dug into his wrist.
She leaned in, tracks of tears had been forming which Ryan had no taken notice of, her voice turned hoarse "A nigger shot my son to death and left him to die in a gutter."
Ryan's brain could not process it. She stared deeper at him as if she had been her son. She nearly aged another 10 years. Ryan attempted to pull away but her grip got tighter. "Now take the fucking money."
Slowly she released Ryan's arm. A red mark formed where she had grabbed him. She hurried into her car and sped off.
Ryan stood, looking at the five in his hand.

Back inside the store, the cool air felt like an oasis. Ryan was shaken but remained focused on what had happened. He wanted to take a breath before having to wrangle the rest of the carts from the lot. There were a lot. And some assholes tossed them to the far end of the lot. He just needed some air.
"Mr. Grant wants to see you..." Darla stood behind him, arms folded. Yeah, she was still upset he turned down her advances. Women never forget. Ryan stiffened. Shit...what now? He thought.

Mr. Grant's office was buried behind the damaged goods that were to be returned to distribution center. It always smelled like bleach.
He was already behind his cheap desk when Ryan entered. This being the first time he'd not noticed the closed circuit monitors before.
"Siddown" he commanded.
Ryan planted himself in a folding chair.
"You knew the rules...pal. That lady gave you a tip and here it is on t.v."
Ryan took a deep breath.
"Nothing to say? We tell all our guys you DO NOT take tips. Did you not understand?"
The tone was patronizing. Ryan wanted to dot his eye right then and there. But...he knew the guy was stuck in life but he had plans.
"No sir."
"What did that lady give you?" Mr. Grant clucked his tongue. Sounded as if he had something stuck in between. The vents somehow seemed louder. Other than that, silence.
"Let me answer that for you, she gave you money. As in...a tip." Oooo did that tone burn him. He wanted to tell him to take the money and shove it. Instead, a blank look. Maybe a twitch. He nearly bit down on his cheek.
"Take it out and lay it on the desk here" Mr. Grant's index finger came down hard on the cheap desk.
Ryan stared for a bit longer. It's not that he felt he earned the money. Only that he knew the old guy was gonna pocket it for smokes or booze later. He reached into the pocket and layed the money onto the desk.
Mr. Grant and Ryan stared at it for a while. It was long.
"Now what are we going to do about this?" the smug tone just ripped into Ryan. He simply shrugged.
"You know policy. You know you broke it." Ryan remained quiet. Mr. Grant pointed at the money, enjoying this.
"That's a lot of money." CDs were thirteen bucks. He could've gotten a Fangoria magazine too.
"When I was a kid..five bucks was--"
"-She told me a nigger had shot her son and left him to die in a gutter."
The words spewed out all at once.
Vomited each syllable Actually.
Ryan wasn't sure if it were what he said or that he interrupted Mr. Grant that caused him to not speak. Damn the vent. Neither moved. Was it the racial slur that hit Mr. Grant, or was it the dead son. The silence offered nothing. It seemed as if Mr. Grant had blinked. Finally.
It was about three minutes, felt like hours.
Mr. Grant placed his palm on the bill and slowly pushed it back towards Ryan.
"See you tomorrow. And you better have your apron cleaned."
Ryan took the crumpled bill and shoved it into his jean pocket. Mr. Grant turned back to a file cabinet and started sifting through paperwork.
"What about the carts?"
 Mr. Grant muttered, pretending as if he didn't hear him. The conversation had ended.
No other word was spoken.
Ryan walked out into the warm late afternoon air. Apron slung over his shoulder. He sucked in humid air. It tasted like sweet nectar to him.
He had a hot date with Gwen.