Fat Assassins (3 page)

I peeked out the breakroom door scanning for my boss, Minnie, who is constantly running around talking about “process improvement”. Deciding the coast was clear, I made my way to the front of the store. The customer lines stretched down the aisles, so I decided to work a register to speed the customers out the door. People spend hours browsing through the store aisles, but when they’re ready to go, they have no patience for waiting in line. 

Grabbing a cash tray, I settled in at one of the “fifteen items or less” counters. Most people think that working the express line is easier than the normal lanes, but it’s actually harder because people get in line knowing full well that they more than fifteen items and pretend they don’t know how to count. Now, this is Nitro, West Virginia and some folks probably don’t know how to count, but when your buggy is full to the brim anyone can reason that you’re over the 15 item limit. Some days it’s not worth the fight and you just ring them up. Today was going to be one of those days because nothing was going to ruin my good mood. 

“Good Evening. Did you find everything you were looking for today?” 

I scanned and bagged the boxed wine, duct tape, condoms, chocolates, and denture cream. Ignoring the psychopathic mixture of shopping contents, I turned back to the customer. 

“I’ll need to see your ID for the wine purchase.” 

Seated in a hoveround scooter, I could barely see her blue tinted beehive hair above the credit card machine. I stepped sideways to verify her identity before handing her license back. 

“Will this be all for you this afternoon, Miss Roberta?” 

“I don’t know why you need to check my ID. Do I really look like a teenager trying to sneak wine out behind the football bleachers?” 

I looked at her wrinkles, permed hair and flowery moo-moo. 

Nope. It looks like you kidnapped some poor, old man and you’re holding him in your basement.
 

She snatched her ID back and hrumphed as I carefully balanced the plastic bags on the scooter. 

“Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart!” I yelled as she sped toward the exit. 

She stuck her hand high in the air flipping me off as she drove out the exit past a napping Eugene. 

Mitsy walked up to my register laughing as vigilante grannie sped away. 

“Wow. Little early in the day for the crazies, isn’t it?”

“Haha. Yeah. The crazy parade has already started and it’s only 5! It’s gonna be a long night.”

“Speaking of long nights....how ya feeling today? You were the life of the party last night!”

“I’m feeling pretty good, not too hungover. What a party!”

“I know, right? So what happened with you and Deputy Hodde?”

I blushed, “I don’t remember a whole lot about last night. Ulyssa thinks Johnny roofie’d me.”

“Holy Cow! What a jerk? I can’t believe he was trying to hook up with you after he sang to Ulyssa!”

“No, no. He was trying to roofie her, but mixed up the beers because we were both drinking Michelob Lights.”

“Oh. Whew. Cause that would have put him in a whole other jerk category,” she said, shaking her plaid lunch bag at me. “Sam and I are taking our lunch break now. Want to join us?”

“Sure. Let me close my register and I’ll meet y’all in the back.” I grabbed a sandwich from the deli and joined them in the break room.

“Mitsy told me about Johnny drugging you! What a tool! You want me to punch him in the baby-maker? Or we could bust up that pretty truck of his? I got a bat in my trunk. We can roll over there after work.” She looked like she’d actually enjoy destroying his Toyota. 

I shook my head. “Nah. That’s alright. He was probably just trying to roofie Ulyssa and mixed up the beers.”

“Well, in that case . . . no harm no foul.”

Why did everyone, including Ulyssa, seem outraged about someone drugging me, but had no issue with Johnny trying to roofie Ulyssa?
 

“Did y’all have a good time at the party?” I asked.

They spent the rest of our lunch break recapping everything Ulyssa had told me. The only new tidbit involved me declaring that I was a crazy, sex ninja. 

On the microphone. 

To the whole bar. 

After my karaoke strip tease. 

No wonder Deputy Hodde didn’t want to drive us to the Waffle House! He probably wanted to get me home before I made any other public declarations of my feminine prowess. 

This thought followed me back to my register. 

It’s okay. People do silly things all the time when they’re intoxicated. Maybe he would ignore my crazy streak. I blame my parents. Doesn’t everyone? 

An elevator version of Bon Jovi’s greatest hits began playing over the store speakers when a message interrupted the steel guitars.

“Cleanup on aisle 44. Cleanup on aisle 44”. 

This isn’t going to be good.

 That’s code for a known shoplifter, Daisy Dilford. She’s notorious for ‘cleaning up’ the store by stealing hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise. We use aisle 44 as the code since it’s our guess at her age and there are only 40 aisles in the store. Daisy knows the rules better than anyone and once she’s off the sidewalk, there’s nothing that an associate can do to stop her. Hearing that message means all associates should be on the lookout for her trying to exit the store with stolen goods. 

My register is closest to the East side exit and I felt my blood pumping at the call to battle. I continued to checkout customers with a smile pasted on my face as I kept one eye peeled for her. She was going to make her move and when she did I would have to react fast. 

I was mid scan on a lava lamp when I saw a overflowing buggy round the corner. A tight, brown perm and beady eyes were barely visible over the mobile mother load. She was franticly searching for obstacles between her and the exit.

Her eyes locked on mine and squinted. 

It’s go time.
 

We both dropped into an attack stance and waited for the other one to blink. 

The whir of
Dead or Alive
filled my ears as I stared down my nemesis. 

She burst into a sprint pushing the cart with all her might. 

I looked from her accelerating cart toward Eugene, who offered no help as he sat perched napping on his chair. 

It is estimated that the store had lost over $3000 in stolen goods (vitamins, baby formula, diapers, clothing, etc) since Daisy started ‘shopping’ at our store. 

Not on my watch. Today that shopping spree ends. 

I pivoted from my position at the register and began to sprint towards the door. I felt a battle cry erupt from deep inside me.

“Aaaaaaarrrrrggggggghhhhhh!” 

I threw my body sideways to block the exit. 

Daisy must have been running on pure adrenaline, as she spun the buggy on two wheels side-swiping the alarm indicators on the side of the door while leaping over my outstretched grasp. Stunned inbound shoppers stared as I scrambled to my feet and gave chase. Daisy hopped on the cart, using the momentum to speed through the parking lot and blow through the stop sign. 

Damn it! 

I watched from the sidewalk as she turned and gave me a victorious wave before pushing her cart of goods up the giant hill that led back into town. As the sun glinted off the metallic cart, a thought occurred to me. We can’t prosecute her for the stolen goods because the value isn’t enough to justify legal fees. But we can call the cops about the buggy since it’s worth over three hundred dollars and clearly marked as Wal-Mart property. 

Running back to customer service, I dialed the police station and provided a detailed account of the robbery complete with summary of stolen contents, estimated getaway speed and approximate direction of escape. 

I paced nervously outside the store, waiting to accept receipt of the stolen goods. I still hadn’t come to terms with my birthday party embarrassment, so I was hoping the responding officer wasn’t Deputy Hodde. A few minutes later Daisy appeared in the distance, pushing the cart back down the hill being followed by a cop car with the lights flashing. I could hardly contain my happiness watching justice prevail. 

That’ll show you to not mess with the Shastinator!
I laughed, imagining a metallic, red-eyed version of my body breaking out in the robot.
Beezoot. Beezoot. I’ll be baaaccckk!

Daisy’s walk of shame was the perfect punishment. My face and neck got blotchy and my superiority dissipated, watching Daisy and her police escort approach the front door. 

The Shastinator transformed into Scooby-Doo and I gulped looking for somewhere to hide. 

Rut-row. Too late. 

A grinning Deputy Hodde pulled the blinking car up to curb. 

Daisy rammed the cart back up onto the sidewalk nearly crashing it into my legs.

“Here’s your damn cart! I ain’t never gonna ferget that you did this to me.” She pointed a crooked finger at me and I felt a shiver creep up my spine. 

And I would have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for you meddling managers. 

I looked at her closely to make sure she hadn’t actually said those words. Deciding that she was just a shoplifter and not a Hanna-Barbera inspired villain - I pushed her a little further. 

“Excuse me ma’am, you’ll need to return the cart inside. As you are aware, we are unable to take possession of said cart with contents outside of the store.” 

Said? Who says that?
I must have picked it up off one of the
Law & Order
episodes Ulyssa’s always watching. I’ll have to thank her for the fancy words later. 

Daisy shoved the cart hard enough it went flying through the doors on autopilot, knocking Eugene off his stool. He shook his fist at Daisy and she extended her arms gangster style and screamed “Bring it, old man! You don’t want none of this!” 

I looked at Eric hoping he would intervene before this became a safety report full of shanking and broken hips. 

He stepped out of the car and approached Daisy. 

“Daisy, you might want to apologize since Miss Shasta has agreed not to press charges. I’ll even drop you off on the way back to the station.” He winked at me and I was willing to agree to anything.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbled to me. “But I ain’t got nothing to say to that lazy, old fool! He shoulda been doing his job and stopped me!”

People say teenagers are the worst delinquents but today has taught me that senior citizens are much worse. This town seems to have it’s fair share of elderly hoodlums. 

Eric gave me a nod and wave as he helped her into the car. 

I returned to the store with a sense of justice, knowing that Daisy wouldn’t try stealing on my shift again. Plus, I won the lottery. Woohoo. I was back on top of the world. 

“We’ll take this evidence into custody for processing.” Bob appeared, grabbing the cart. He was one half of a rent-a-cop team, secretly called the tweedles, who were hired by Minnie last year to help squelch the shoplifting problem. They were completely ineffective and spent most of their time watching security videos for funny footage. They kept trying to submit the video clips to
America’s Funniest Home Videos
, but hadn’t gotten a callback yet. I’m not sure it’s entirely legal to use security videos for personal gain, but it didn’t seem to bother them.

As if summoned simply by thinking her name, Minnie screeched from deep inside the store. “Shastaaaaa! Shasta . . . I NEED to talk to YOU!”

How did a voice like that get in such a small body? 

The other associates looked at me with sympathy as I tried to locate the source of the screeching. She was standing in the toilet paper aisle pointing at a lower shelf. 

“I just CAN NOT believe that you didn’t notice this atrocity.” 

I learned a long time ago that trying to talk during one of her tirades was useless. It’s like trying to defend yourself during a bear attack. You’re better off curling up in the fetal position and pretending to be dead. So, I just plastered a false smile and blank look on my face. 

“Don’t you see?” She kept pointing at the shelves in front of us, but I couldn’t see the source of her annoyance. She leaned down to the bottom shelf, dragging me with her. 

“Dust bunnies! There are dust bunnies! These dust bunnies were not here when we came on shift, so can you tell me how they got here?” 

I’m confused. Is she asking me to explain the science of dust bunny procreation? Or is she implying that there was a dust bunny saboteur trying to topple her from power? 

She continued to mutter to herself as she escorted me to the main office. “I am tired of the poor standards you allow on your shift. I’m going to talk to Bobby Ray about this. This is the last straw young lady.” 

She knocked on the door.

“What?” he grunted, “I’m busy!”

Minnie pushed the door open as he minimized a webpage covered with half-naked women and Cyrillic writing.

“It’s me,” she said sweetly.

“Well, come on in. What can I do for ya, honey?” 

Being in the office with both of them gave me the creeps. Their sickening flirtation reinforced the rumors of fraternization. 

“It’s Shasta. AGAIN. She’s refuses to maintain store standards.”

“We can’t have that!” He spun back around to his computer, printed a document and handed it to me. “Read and sign it.”

I scanned the performance summary. 

Robert Lydel is formally counseled for inappropriate relations with local civilian, Tamera Watkins, on company property during official work hours. An associate reported Robert engaging in lewd acts in the produce storage area during the night shift after he did not respond to multiple calls. Corrective Actions: Performance Improvement Plan with three month evaluation periods.

“Um, I think you gave me the wrong paperwork,” I said, handing the paper back to him.

“Oh.” He turned it face down on the desk and printed a new one. “Here you go.”

It looked like a generic template for insubordination. I signed it so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore droning about my lack of respect and substandard work quality.