Luck in the Greater West (14 page)

The boy produced the phone. He looked at it. Greer could tell his plan, whatever it was, was disintegrating. He did still have the phone, though.

—I'll tell her you're sorry. And ask her to call you, she said.

He handed over the phone.

—I just wanna tell her that — he said, and looked over Greer's shoulder.

She thought, and felt her head nearly turn, that he'd spotted Tennille.

He turned and walked quickly to the escalators, and ran up them towards the street exit. Greer then saw the royal-blue-and-white chequered band on the cops' hats that had given away their approach.

It was his first warning. You got three, before instant dismissal, he'd been informed. And even one could damage your chances of keeping your job if it came within your three months of probation. In a way it was worse than getting busted by the cops. At least with the cops he knew that he was doing something wrong. He was well aware that selling drugs was illegal. But here, in Greedos World of Grocery Bargains, he didn't know what the fuck he'd done. He was just informed by the assistant manager that, due to misconduct, he was to receive counselling.

—I have to see a counsellor? Whitey'd asked.

—No. You have to get a formal caution.

Whitey knocked on Tom Hardy's office door.

—Patrick. Come in. Close the door.

Whitey walked into the small makeshift office and shut the door. He stood still and felt very stupid.

—Patrick. Okay, mate. You've read the Shelf Replenisher's Handbook haven't you?

—The what? No — I don't think so.

—No? And why not?

—I don't know what that book is, Whitey replied, and looked at Tom Hardy for the first time since he'd come into the office.

—Well, all shelf replenishers
must
read it. It's your bible here.

—I don't have one. I wasn't given one.

—Well, you should have asked for one, Tom Hardy said, and picked up his pen — his fifteen years' service pen — and clicked three times.

—But I've never heard of this book, Whitey protested, and shifted; suddenly he needed to piss.

—Well, that's a problem. But it isn't mine, is it? My problem is that you've failed in your duties.

—Oh.

—Yes,
oh
. When we're filling the bottom shelves, do we sit slouched on the bottom of a stepladder, or do we squat neatly close to the shelf? Mr Hardy asked.

—Um, dunno.

—Dunno! Dunno! No, you don't know. Because you don't know your job, do you? You need to read your handbook.

—Okay. Sorry — so where do I get one?

—Look, Patrick, I'm giving you a second chance, don't get smart. You'll soon see the wrong side of me.

—Okay, Patrick said, and wondered if he should go now.

—So, Tom Hardy said, and clicked the pen again. Have you got a partner at home?

—Partner? A girlfriend you mean?

—Or boyfriend.

—Yeah, I've got a girlfriend, Whitey answered, and really wanted to go now.

He liked to keep any thoughts of Sonja completely to himself. His feelings about her were so personal — they got him through the day here — it felt wrong to discuss her with this guy.

—Girlfriend, hey? I thought you might be from the same side of the fence as myself, Tom Hardy said, and winked. No matter, he continued. You can get back to the cake-mix aisle now.

 

Jesus, Whitey mused as he opened a third box of Carboboosta cake mix. He thought I might be gay. He's gay. The manager's gay. I don't think I've ever been taken for gay before. Then his memory brought to the fore an old chestnut from not too long ago. Some of his sexual exploits while inside. Jesus. Maybe I'm giving off that vibe now. Maybe what I did inside shows on the outside — to those who know what to look for.

Whitey didn't have anything against gays. Didn't really know any. But he didn't want to be known as one. Or thought of as one. He wasn't one, was he? He'd done stuff with a guy. But he'd felt like shit afterwards. He thought about what he liked. Nah. He was more — if he was to be totally honest — tending towards being a paedophile. A
heterosexual
paedophile. Jesus. But, nuh. Before Sonja, he hadn't really thought about girls
that
much younger than himself. School uniforms never really did it for him before Sonja's. Jesus. He was gettin' too — what do ya call it? — self-analytical since he'd taken this job. Too much time to think about shit, without the distraction of drugs and sex with a teenager. Jesus, shut up.

—Patrick White to the back dock, grocery bulk-truck delivery, announced the PA speakers in the ceiling.

Thank fuck, Whitey sighed with relief. A distraction, of sorts. Although there's most likely a handbook on truck unloading that I'm unaware of.

He clocked himself off at the pay-office window at the end of his shift and, for the first time that week, headed straight for home. The deal here, at Greedos, was that if they still wanted you to do something right on knock-off time, you had to clock-off, and then come back and do the job. Overtime had to be pre-approved, but it never was, so the work was done pro bono, apparently.

He didn't mind the work. It was just all the rules. Even he, who'd had sparse experience in retail — in the workforce in general — could see that if he was able to do things his own way, he could get the job done just as well, if not better. Like filling the bottom shelves. By sitting on the bottom step of the stepladder with the boxes in front of him he could fill three times as fast as crouching down and having to twist the fuck out of his back to get the stuff from the box to the shelf. And if he was allowed to piss when he needed to instead of only on smoko breaks, he'd be able to keep his mind focused on the job instead of having to concentrate on ignoring the pressure pushing back up into his kidneys. Apparently he was lucky not to get a warning for pissing outside of break times.

He climbed the three steps to his flat and began looking for his keys. He had to get into a routine. One day he'd find his keys in his backpack, the next in his pants pocket, and on the third day they'd be in his jacket pocket. Today they were nowhere. It was only a matter of time. Sonja opened the door.

—You're home, he said.

—Yes, baby. How are you?

—Had a Barry Crocker.

—A — what?

—Shocker. A shocking day today.

—Why? What happened? Sonja asked, grabbing his hand and pulling him gently through the door.

—Nothin'. Don't worry.

—Oh.

—So, no library today? Whitey asked.

—No. Listen, Patrick. I've been going to see my family after school.

—Oh, he said. How are they?

—They're okay. Are you okay, I mean, with me seeing them?

—They're your family. Of course I'm okay with it. I'm just not sure why you thought I'd mind.

—So are you upset? A bit? she asked, and sat down.

—No. I mean — I'm upset about other shit. But no, not that. If you want to see them, like I said, they're your family. One thing though, Whitey said, and looked in the fridge.

—What, baby?

—What do they say about us? About me?

—They — they're a little concerned. But maybe a little less each time I've seen them.

—Oh.

—Can my brother and sister come here to visit? she asked.

—Yeah, of course they can. It's your place too, Sonja.

Whitey opened the last beer and took a long slug. He looked at Sonja. She was so cute. Innocent, yet intelligent. She had a lot of energy too, but could focus it. She would clean, read, do homework, and make love. She made him feel pretty slothish. She noticed him looking at her, and smiled. He smiled back, and drained off the beer. She glanced up at him again. He was still looking at her but not smiling.

—What's wrong, Patrick?

—Do we really love each other? he asked, and put the beer can down.

—What? What do you mean? Of course we love each other. I love you, Patrick. I definitely love you.

—Maybe we're just obsessed. You know, the sex and everything.

—Patrick. What do you mean? I thought it was good. No. I thought it was great. I love you. Don't you love me?

—I don't know. Yes, I love you but — you're young. I don't know. Don't you ever think I'm sick? I was thinking about it today. You know. Us being together. Me, living — having sex with — a schoolgirl.

—Oh.

—I mean — look, I'm sorry. I just had a shit day. I'm sorry, Patrick sighed, and held Sonja.

 

They didn't make love that night. The first time since she'd moved in. Patrick woke sometime before dawn and moulded himself into the contours of Sonja's body. It would be hard if they split up. The hardest thing he'd ever done, really. Because he realised that he'd never been paranoid about a girl. The dynamics of his relationships had never really bothered him one way or the other. But this one made him think. He did love Sonja. Why else would he feel this way? And despite all his questioning of the relationship, he didn't want to be without her.

 

Whitey got ready for work, pulled two cones, and brushed his teeth. It was the first time he'd smoked before work, but it seemed like a perfect time to start. Although, if he was going to make it a habit, he'd have to get some more heads — the bottom of the bowl
was definitely showing. He'd kept some for himself when he'd moved the rest of his saleable stash to Ronnie's place. Lately he'd been indulging at night, after Sonja had fallen asleep.

He clocked on and went to make a coffee. Seven dollars a week was deducted from his wage to use the generic brand tea and coffee in the staffroom, so it was stupid not to indulge, even if it tasted like shit. For once he wanted to start work straightaway. Being stoned was making him keen. He went down into the back dock and pulled out a pallet from the immediate-fill bay and wheeled it into the shop. It was a different world here today. Being stoned made it something new. And it was always much better in the mornings before the shop opened to the public, and all the managers got in. He positioned the pallet in the feminine hygiene aisle and ripped off the shrink-wrap. He noticed the shop's lighting for the first time. It was harsh, but the products were all easy to see. He noticed that you could hear the staff — still relatively happy before their day of serving — joking and talking loudly. And he became aware that he'd been just standing in the aisle, not doing any work.

Whitey put the maternity pads to the front of the shelf and began on the mini tampons. He got halfway through the box and had to stop. He was thinking of Sonja. He'd planted a thought in her last night. It just hit him. Letting her know that he had doubts would make her doubt. He was sure of it. They'd become so close that their moods had begun to mimic each other. Patrick White nearly panicked. He nearly dropped the pack of tampons and walked out of the shop. He didn't want to split up with her. But he didn't want to get much closer either. He'd never been with a girl this long — not living together, that was for sure. And if it was already starting to freak him out, maybe it would become
something he couldn't deal with. She'd be getting pressure from her parents too. Maybe he'd get home this afternoon and she'd be gone. His heart pumped strong waves of blood through his neck. He ran out into the back dock, pulled out his mobile and dialled her number. It rang. And rang. And got diverted to her message bank, which wasn't set up. Shit.

 

Such good pressure. One of the things she could remember about Russia was that the plumbing had no pressure. But here, even in public housing, you could get good pressure. And hot, hot water. She loved a long shower. It was hard to have one while living with her mother and father, as her mother would bang on the bathroom door after a couple of minutes —
the electricity bill
, she'd say. But since living with Patrick it was bliss. He was quick in the shower. Didn't seem to care for using it until the water ran out. She loved it. Loved that he let her do it. She loved to have the flat to herself too. She'd put the radio on, on Patrick's stereo. He liked that heavy metal stuff. She didn't mind it. Most of it was good. Very emotional. But you couldn't really dance to it. Sonja turned off the water: it was changing from lukewarm to cold. She got out of the recess and thought she heard her mobile phone. She froze, concentrated on everything beyond earshot of the leaking shower-rose. So many things sound like a mobile ring when you only hear a sliver of sound. No mobile ring.

She dried herself and regarded herself in the mirror. She had no idea what Patrick saw in her. But he seemed to like the way she looked, no matter what. But, Jesus. Maybe not. He doubts something about me. But there's no ambivalence in his touch. In the way he feels. The way he presses against me. Every night we're part of each other.

But not last night.

This was something she had to think about. The pill. She'd had two months' worth when she'd moved in with Patrick, but there were only two pills left. The doctor had prescribed it to help with her period pain. Killer pain.

She left the flat and went to pick up her sister. Her father was on the outside steps smoking a rolled cigarette.

—Hi, Dad, she said. How are you feeling today?

—Sonja. I am good today. I am going to the hospital this afternoon.

Her father was still an outpatient. And quite a dutiful one, it seemed. He'd found something in Australia to respect, her mother had told her. The healthcare professionals here were true public servants, her mother agreed.