Taking Stock Read Online Free PDF Page A

this really irritates me.
    “What, you mean Spend Easy?”
    “Maybe. I think it could be good.”
    “What would the conflict be?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “The characters need to want something. What would they want? Food?”
    “I don’t really know.”
    I replace a bag of dog treats and stop fronting. “Can I take my break now?”
    “Sure, man.”
    Paul leads me into the warehouse, where a punch clock hangs on the wall near the entrance, flanked by two racks filled with punch cards. He searches them.
    “Looks like you don’t have one of these yet. Oh well. Just come back in 15.”
    “Fine.” I start to leave.
    “Hey—Sheldon, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can you recommend some good writing books?”
    “Listen, Paul, writing fiction is nothing like blogging.”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “It takes years of practice. Writing every day. You need stamina, especially when it comes to novels. Trust me—I wrote for years. I even won a short story competition. But I never got through a novel.”
    “All right, then. I’ll see you in 15.”
    I start to leave, but hesitate on my way out the red warehouse doors. “ On Writing is good,” I say. “By Stephen King.”
    “Thanks.”
    I haven’t eaten today, but even my ravenous hunger is given pause by the sheer variety that now confronts me. I walk aimlessly along the freezers until the TV dinners catch my attention. I mouth their names. “Salisbury Steak.” Intriguing. “Chicken Parmagiana.” Captivating. “Roast Duck with Orange Sauce.” I think I’m getting aroused.
    I grab the Roast Duck and take it to the cash registers. Lane One’s lineup is kind of long, so I go to Lane Two. The cashier has short, dark hair and glasses. Her nametag says “Lesley-Jo.”
    “Hi,” I say. I have a thing for girls with glasses. My brain is devoid of things to say.
    “Hey. You the new Grocery boy?”
    “Yep. Sheldon.”
    “I’m Lesley-Jo.” She scans the dinner: beep. “That’s $3.89, Sheldon.”
    I pay her. “Bon appétit,” she says.
    I turn around and find Eric staring down at me. His eyes are narrowed.
    “What’s that?” he says.
    “It’s a microwavable dinner.”
    “What’s in it?”
    Slowly, I turn the package till the duck’s gleaming breast is in view.
    He points at the picture. “You’re supposed to be a vegetarian.”
    “Um, I am.”
    “This is meat.”
    “It’s not mine. It’s—it’s for Gilbert.”
    “Well, let’s go give it to him, then.”
    We walk past the aisles. Eric’s damp hand rests on my shoulder again, and I feel like I’m being escorted to the gallows. We find Gilbert in Aisle Five, sitting on his cart, restocking boxes of popcorn. He notices us before we reach him.
    Eric holds up the Roast Duck. “Is this yours?”
    Without moving his head, Gilbert glances at the dinner, at Eric, and at me. He’s expressionless, and his darting eyes are almost too quick to follow. He stands up and plucks the dinner from Eric’s hands. “Yep.”
    Eric blinks. “He bought this for you? Why?”
    “I told him it’s tradition for the rookie to buy lunch for whoever trains him in.”
    “I haven’t heard of that before.”
    “That’s because I made it up.”
    Eric studies Gilbert’s face a moment longer. Then he looks at me. “For a second I thought you might be a liar, vegan.”
    “Damn, rookie,” Gilbert says once Eric’s out of earshot. “You make friends quick.” He puts another box of popcorn on the shelf.
    “How did you know what was going on?”
    “He looked pissed, and you looked worried. I figured you lied to him about something.”
    “What’s his deal?”
    “He got back from Afghanistan two years ago, and he’s worked here ever since. That’s his deal.”
    “What will he do if he catches me eating meat?”
    He scratches his scruff-shadowed cheek. “Have you fired, probably.”
    “Great.”
    “It could be worse.”
    “How?”
    He takes the Roast Duck from his cart and walks toward the warehouse.