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  “Hi.” Brianna’s eyes dropped to McKenzie’s basket. She reached and grabbed the box with surprising speed. “Super-Easy Sun-Kissed Blonde. Should’ve guessed it was fake.”

  “Grow up. Some of us actually get dressed in the morning.” McKenzie’s eyes rolled over the outrageously happy pandas on Brianna’s pants. “Give me the box.”

  Brianna stepped back, clutching the Super-Easy dye. “Come and get it,” she said and left the aisle, leaving a fake-stunned McKenzie behind.

  I followed Brianna to the hair dye aisle, where she stood clutching the box of dye, crying. I walked up to her slowly, not sure what a Sunday chauffeur was supposed to do in this type of situation. But then I did what felt right. I put the basket down and wrapped my arms around her. She sobbed, the edge of the box cutting through my shirt, biting into my skin. But I didn’t care. We stood there, together, hearing the two of them whisper in the next aisle.

  Then Brianna took a deep breath and pulled away. She wiped her eyes and turned to the row of dye boxes. She looked until she found one called Aubergine (hideous and purple). She gently lifted the seal, pulled out the little dye container, and swapped it with the one from McKenzie’s box. They looked identical. I watched in amazement as she closed the seal of Sun-Kissed Blonde, smiled, and left for the other aisle. I grabbed my basket and followed.

  “I’m sorry. I was being a brat.” Brianna handed McKenzie the box and walked away, laughing as she handed the ten-items-or-less lady her paper.

  “You forgot shampoo.” I watched her pay the three-forty-two.

  “Who cares,” Brianna said with a smile, the same smile that made me drive her wherever she wanted to go. “Come on. I’ll buy you a raspberry slushy.”

  Concrete Jungle

  By Alan Griffiths

  It was early December and the mood of the country was as gloomy as a pea soup fog. The economy was in deep recession and the government had slashed the VAT rate to tempt consumers back onto the High Street. Meanwhile South London’s thieves and lowlifes were gearing up for a seasonal shoplifting spree.

  Luckily for me, retailers were preparing for the hoodlum onslaught. I’d applied for a security position with Megamart UK at the Clapham Junction store.

  “Megamart UK is a wholly owned subsidiary of the American conglomerate Megamart.” George Woodman, the branch manager, then gave me chapter and verse on Megamart’s history, from foundation in 1962 to its becoming the largest grocery retailer in the United States.

  The last year had left me bruised and battered emotionally. With my debts mounting and a motley crew chasing me for payment, I’d resolved to get out of the private investigator game for good.

  “You are now an employee of the world’s largest public corporation.” George cleared his throat. “Mr. Valentine—”

  My reverie was broken. I gave George my best Colgate smile. “It’s just Valentine.”

  George gave me an old-fashioned look. “I’ll leave you with Mr. Gibbs, our head of security.”

  George was large and balding with a slug-like moustache under a bulbous nose. Ron Gibbs was thin and pasty faced, Laurel to Woodman’s Hardy.

  Gibbs’ face turned as sour as last week’s milk. “Follow me,” he said in a nasal tone as he minced toward the office door. “We’ll get you kitted out in a uniform.”

  The store was open twenty-four/seven, and Gibbs took delight in assigning me to the night shift. A down-and-out, feeding a half bottle of cheap scotch to the front-of-store life-size Santa dummy gave me a taste of things to come. I soon learned that the Megamart UK lunatic customer base was pilfering junkies, alkies, and winos.

  Christmas Eve and the store closed at 6 PM. The staff wearily made their way home to eat and drink and sleep their way through the next thirty-six hours. Double-bubble wages had persuaded me to forgo the celebrations and work security though the holiday.

  I took a break from the monotony in the early hours of Christmas morning. The sky was clear, illuminated by a full moon and dotted with bright stars, the air crisp and full of Yuletide promise. I snapped my Zippo, fired up a cigarette, and sucked hard. Feeling the need to stretch my legs, I turned up the collar of my jacket and walked to the rear of the store.

  An unmarked Ford Transit was parked in the far corner of the loading bay. Knowing it shouldn’t be there, I crouched low and crept closer. A small, wiry man wearing dark clothing and a ski mask carried a large cardboard box toward the van. Another man, wearing a Megamart UK baseball cap pulled low, came out of the security box. The artificial light illuminated Ron Gibbs’ weasel face.

  I stood up and said, “A spot of overtime, is it?”

  Gibbs acted like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He began to babble and stutter. That was when the gorilla sauntered out from behind the blind side of the Transit. He had a fighter’s build, light-heavy I guessed, and a confident swagger. He moved closer, eyeballing me, and I recognized him as one of Pork Pie’s goons.

  Pork Pie was a ferocious gangster and my nemesis. His shadow seemed to cross my path wherever I turned.

  “Val!” The first man put down the flat screen television and pulled off his woolen balaclava. “Nice uniform.”

  I recognized the shit-eating grin. I’d known Freddie Ferguson since my schooldays. He was a villain with a rap sheet that repeated like a stylus stuck in a vinyl groove.

  “Slippery,” I said, astonished. “What the fuck?”

  Slippery chuckled. “We’re stocking up on a few last-minute presents.”

  I pointed to the sweaty-faced Gibbs. “What’s the connection with this snake?”

  “The gee-gees,” Slippery beamed, eating more shit. “He’s working off his gambling debts.” Slippery put his hand on Gibbs’ shoulder and squeezed. “This is Pork Pie’s man on the inside.”

  “Aw for chrissake, Slippery,” I said. “I can’t turn a blind eye.”

  “C’mon, Val.” Slippery winked. “You’re no grass.”

  “But Slip—” As I spoke the goon feigned a movement, dropped his shoulder, and threw a right-left combination like a pro. An unorthodox southpaw jab busted my nose. A blur of a left cross loosened teeth and dumped me on my arse.

  “Sorry about that, Val, but we’ve got to make it look good.” Slippery hunkered down. “There’ll be a nice drink in it for you.” Then he added, “Happy Christmas, my old son.”

  I spat blood onto the cold concrete. Dazed and with my face beginning to swell like a helium party balloon, I considered my future. I was quitting Megamart UK.

  But not before I’d squeezed Ron Gibbs like a tube of Smart Price toothpaste.

  Loss

  By Patricia Abbott

  When John’s mother died, the bungalow outside Detroit was sold, sending him off to live in the basement room in a shabby boarding house. “It’s dry,” the landlady said, sniffing encouragingly. “No mold or radon.” When he picked up a mousetrap from the closet floor, she shrugged. “Just a precaution.” After telling him how to use the microwave, when to put out his trash, and where to find his mail, she climbed the stairs, shutting the door behind her. He had to turn on a lamp on the sunniest day. Not two days went by before he heard the solid clamp of the trap.

  He landed a minimum wage job on the Loss Prevention detail at the Dearborn Megamart. The two classes he’d taken in Criminal Justice at the Community College impressed HR but not his boss, who told him, “Don’t try any fancy stuff in my store.”

  Two weeks into his mission (which was how John came to think of it), he spotted a large man half-asleep in the husband chair off Ladies’ Wear. He was about to radio for advice when a screech cut through the din.

  “Hey, Daddy, what d’ya think?” A bitty girl, maybe sixteen, with reddish corkscrews dashed up to the dozing guy, her twiggy legs skidding to an unsteady halt. She twirled like a bauble on a Christmas tree. “Gonna wear this to the party tonight. Whaddya think?”

  Her father’s eyes fluttered open. “Real nice, baby. Lookin’ good.”

  She mo
deled her hot pink skirt some more, showing off parts of her better left covered. John closed his gaping mouth when he heard another girl, hidden by a clothes rack, giggling behind him. Bitty held some huge sparkling hoops up to her ears. “Ain’t these sick!” Her pal burst into view then, squealing, “Girl, you look like an Eight Mile ho.” The friend doubled over with laughter, her lime-green jogging suit rippling with her mirth.

  “Don’t neither.” Bitty glanced at her father, sensing potential displeasure. “Go back to sleep now, Daddy. You looking kinda peaky.” Bitty ran the back of her dewy hand down Daddy’s cheek and he quivered like a stroked rabbit. A muscle in John’s cheek twitched too.

  As Daddy’s eyes closed, the girls ducked out of sight. John thought about giving the old man a tap on the shoulder, certain the Store wouldn’t approve of him sleeping in their chair. And John’s inclination toward sending Daddy on his way grew ten-fold when the sleeping bear’s snores increased in volume. Holiday shoppers tittered, jabbing each other in the ribs.

  “Maintain decorum,” he’d been advised by his red-faced supervisor. “You need to keep on your toes.”

  The two girls popped up an aisle away. Bitty had pulled on a silver tank top, adding more splash to her ensemble. Eight inches of midriff pooched enough to make a man think. She sashayed back and forth, performing for her friend, giving interested passersby an over-sized wink.

  She was up to something. Was she headed for the door? John couldn’t tell, so he swung over an aisle, magically landing his hand—which seemed to move involuntarily—on Bitty’s upper arm. Her legs flapped wildly, like someone just hanged, as he swooped her up without even trying.

  A collective gasp, punctuated by an angry shout or two, exploded from nearby shoppers. Daddy’s snore became a roar as he erupted from his doze, located his daughter, and tore after them, knocking over the husband chair, a lady exiting sportswear, and a rack of clearance items. He galumphed through the merchandise, the sound of Santa Claus Is Coming to Town blaring from the speakers.

  Bitty struggled loose from John’s grip. Damn, she could run—skinny legs pedaling despite that tiny tight skirt, darting and dodging her way through the door, past the carts, into the lot. John took off after her, ignoring the heavy footsteps behind him.

  Thinking quickly, John grabbed a shopping cart, shoving it hard in her direction. Bitty went down like a duck over water. A second later, a huge arm encircled John’s neck, nearly squeezing the life out of him. Daddy didn’t let go until one of the courtesy vans circling the lot pulled up. Bitty disappeared, wearing those stolen clothes, with Daddy right behind her.

  Management called John’s handling of the situation a non-rehirable offense. Customers cannot be pursued across parking lots. “People have gotten seriously injured by moving vehicles,” the store manager said pompously. John cleared out his locker. Doesn’t someone have to buy something to be a customer? he wondered.

  In his dank room that night, with the scuffle of tiny feet inches away, he dreamed of Bitty at the party: lighting up the dance floor in a dizzying swirl, earrings flashing, bare midriff pooching, in that glittery outfit that cost him his job.

  Tenderloin

  By Laura Benedict

  “There’s two packs of rib-eyes in the back,” he says. He shelves two yellow-stickered packages of stewing beef, stacking them so they’re perfectly aligned. “I marked them down, but I didn’t bring them out yet.”

  Did he wink at her, or has she imagined it? If he put the steaks aside especially for her, she should thank him. But maybe he just meant more marked-down meat is on its way out.

  She stammers something that might be “oh” and wants to shrink away from the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

  Something changes between them, a subtle shift of balance, like dancers in a pas-de-deux.

  He’s only twenty-five, for God’s sake. At most.

  Does he know how she saves her trip to the meat aisle for last, so she doesn’t encounter him again as she shops? She worries he might think she’s searching him out on purpose.

  “This way,” he says.

  He doesn’t leave time for her to demur but guides his meat cart with the lightest of touches toward the swinging doors of “the back.”

  Vertiginous cheekbones, brown, intelligent eyes. Despite the homely Megamart vest, he’s better than average looking for Alton, Oklahoma. Back in L.A., she would have looked right through him. But she’s here, divorced, and living on a ranch she can’t sell, shunned by her ex-husband’s relatives, the only people she knows in this godforsaken place.

  She opens her purse, searching for her compact. At forty-five, she still finds her nose and chin get shiny in the summer heat. He returns before she can find it, which is no surprise. The inside of her purse is chaos. She rarely gets to her cell phone before it stops ringing. Her lack of organizational skills was one of her ex’s complaints.

  “Sell-by date’s not until tomorrow,” he says.

  “That’s nice of you.” Her mouth has gone dry.

  She feels the balance shift again.

  She should have gone—walked away that very second.

  “You saved them for me?”

  Her focus drifts to his lips, which are large for his face. Lips that imply moral laxness. Why hasn’t she noticed before?

  Fifteen minutes.

  Unloading her groceries onto the belt, she smiles. A nervous, inward smile. She balances a box of granola bars on top of a box of tampons, piles cartons of yogurt on the bubbled shell containing an inexpensive paring knife. Oranges and grapefruits tumble playfully out of their bags. She doesn’t remember the reusable sacks she’s brought until the checker is finished.

  Sweet Jesus, what is she doing?

  She shuts the trunk on the groceries. In the driver’s seat, she checks her makeup. Her forehead looks a bit raw from the peel she had three days earlier, but the overall effect—still-bright amber eyes undefiled by dark circles (she’s religious about sleep); a neck that’s far from ropy despite her slenderness; full, defined lips—is still damned impressive.

  His Mustang sits at a show-off angle in a corner of the lot. She parks beside it. He’s smiling.

  Of course he’s smiling! Such an adventure!

  She sets her purse on the floor, behind the Mustang’s shifter. The heat pouring from the vents smells of vanilla air freshener and pot. This surprises her. He looks clean-cut.

  “Do you want to go somewhere?” she says.

  She takes off her sunglasses, feeling gleefully impulsive, like a fifteen-year-old who has sneaked out to meet her boyfriend. She pictures him in the hot tub her husband installed but refused to use after he caught the cleaning girl and her fiancé in it.

  He doesn’t answer but leans forward to kiss her.

  The weak stubble of his beard irritates the skin around her mouth, but their kiss is slick and wet. Endless.

  The rear of her boyfriend’s car, sunlight through the window making her back sweat. Fierce, delicious need.

  He pulls away, then comes back to graze her neck with his teeth. Resting a hand behind her head, he forces her face into his lap. Her shoulders tense. Resist. It’s not the act, not the purplish physical therenessof his cock that repulses her. She’s a big girl. He smells unwashed, and she knows she will never cook with vanilla again.

  No, not him. Not here.

  Stumbling from the car in mute disgust, she leaves her purse behind.

  Where are her keys? Too late!

  The Mustang thwacks into gear. While the car is moving, he tosses the bag to rest, open, at her feet. She isn’t hurt. Only angry. (She doesn’t realize her cash is missing until later, when she’s opened a bottle of wine and called her best friend in L.A.)

  She puts on lipstick, trembling a little. In the entrance to the store she hesitates. No, she doesn’t need another cart. She nods to the greeter—an elderly woman with smeared eyeglasses.

  Passing through the produce aisle, she doesn’t look right or left. Just ahead,
to the blessedly empty meat department. She picks up a single package of meat as though casually considering it, then proceeds to inspect all the packages: ground turkey, pork chops, stewing beef. T-bones and tenderloin, chicken and ham. When she’s cut a neat slit into every package, she walks away, gripping the paring knife’s blade so tightly in her palm that she leaves behind several drops of blood on the floor, between a crate of squash and a table stacked high with boxes of chocolate cupcakes.

  Freak Shift

  By Garnett Elliott

  At 2:06 AM the stocking pallets choke the narrow aisles. Cleaning crews run automated brushes over a thousand scuff marks, erasing the day’s traffic. And the freaks lurch in From Places Unknown.

  Woof (his nickname) opens box after box of Generous Fit, Naturally Soft Cotton Tees. He watches the freaks as they do their furtive shopping, thinks how he took graveyard shift to get away from everybody and now he’s surrounded by these weird-ass people, their problems.

  He does a lot of thinking versus actual talking.

  “Hey Woof, hey dog,” says Banger Angelo, strutting up to tap him on the shoulder. “Got a whole truckload of American Spirits needs to go behind the case.”

  Woof nods.

  “You want to bark for me, man? We could work out a code, maybe one bark for ‘yes’ and two for ‘no.’ How about that?”

  Woof smiles like its goddamned funny, his having Tourette’s. But inside he seethes.

  And after Angelo leaves he doesn’t go to the stockroom as ordered. He heads to the grocery aisles instead, thinking he’ll walk around until some of the fury seeps away.

  The food section’s thick with freakage. He passes a bald guy of indeterminate age, hands jammed into the pockets of his ketchup-red sweatpants though he’s wearing a mustard-yellow shirt. And in Produce, he sees a big homeless dude with electrician’s tape patching the holes in his jeans. The guy’s eating hothouse tomatoes right out of the carton, washing them first with a bottle of Evian. Woof reminds himself this kind of thing isn’t his problem. He’s not Security.