Back to Day 4

Happy Independence Day. Nothing says freedom like dragging your hungover ass to a low-wage job at a crappy convenience store while your apartment still has no power and your sketchy roommate is probably committing felonies. God bless America.

Woke up at noon with a headache that felt like someone was using my skull for batting practice. Hicks was already gone. So was Dooley and Rat’s cooler, the empty whiskey bottle, and about half the beer. Also gone: my dignity, my morals, and apparently my ability to make good life choices. But I still had the cheese curls ground into my carpet, so not a total loss.

Had to be at QuickEMart by 2. Took another cold shower because the hot water heater still thinks it’s on vacation. Pretty sure I’ve been taking cold showers so long that my virginity is growing back. Darwin would be proud. Or horrified. Probably horrified.

Got to work and the place was slammed. Turns out when the power goes out for days, people panic-buy like it’s the apocalypse. Ice, batteries, beef jerky, toilet paper, bread, Red Bull — flying off the shelves. You’d think we were preparing for nuclear winter instead of just waiting for the electric company to stop jerking off and flip a switch.

Raj was working too, looking like he’d been dragged behind a truck. His eyes had bags under the bags. “Man, I haven’t slept in three days,” he said. “Six people in a one-bedroom with no AC. My cousin won’t stop farting. It’s like chemical warfare.”

I almost told him about my situation — the stolen goods, the sketchy dudes, the growing sense that I’m an accessory to multiple crimes — but then I remembered I’m a coward who avoids confrontation like it’s my job. So instead I said, “That sucks, man” and went back to stocking shelves.

Around 3 pm, old Mr. Patel came in. He’s a regular, always buys beef jerky and Red Bull even though he’s like seventy and probably shouldn’t be drinking that much caffeine. Dude’s gonna have a heart attack while watching Jeopardy one day. Today he looked worse than usual — hands shaking, eyes red.

“Are you okay?” I asked, which is more emotional labor than QuickEMart pays me for.

“Someone broke into my garage last night. Stole my generator. All my tools. I’m seventy-three years old. I saved for two years to buy that generator.”

That weird stomach flip thing happened again. The guilt thing. Or maybe that furry burrito from a couple of days ago. Hard to tell. “Did you call the cops?”

“Yes. They took a report. Said they’d ‘investigate.'” He grabbed his jerky and Red Bull with shaking hands. “What kind of person steals from an old man?”

I wanted to say “probably the same kind of person who makes inside jokes about ‘GC’ while eating expensive steaks” but my survival instincts kicked in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patel. That’s awful.”

He paid and left. I stood there feeling like a piece of shit. Then a teenager tried to steal a bag of Doritos by shoving it down his pants, and I had to chase him out of the store, so I didn’t have time to feel bad anymore. Emotions are for people with job security.

The afternoon shift dragged. Every customer had a story — power still out, break-ins, generators stolen, food spoiled. The whole neighborhood was falling apart, and I was ringing up their overpriced emergency supplies while knowing exactly who was behind at least some of it.

Around 6 pm, this woman came in crying. Like, full-on sobbing in the chip aisle. I’m not equipped to deal with crying women. My emotional toolkit consists of avoidance, sarcasm, and pretending I don’t speak English. But she was blocking the Pringles, and some guy wanted them, so I had to intervene.

“Ma’am? Are you… okay?”

Stupid question. She was clearly not okay. But what else do you say? “Ma’am, please cry elsewhere, you’re scaring the customers?”

“Someone broke into my house,” she said between sobs. “They stole my mother’s jewelry. She died last year. It was all I had left of her. And they took my daughter’s insulin from the fridge. Who steals insulin?”

I had no answer. Literally no words. Just stood there like a mannequin in a blue QuickEMart shirt with my name stenciled on it. She wiped her eyes, grabbed a bottle of wine, and left without paying. I didn’t stop her. Seemed like the least I could do.

My manager, when I told him, was pissed. “You let her walk out with merchandise?”

“She was crying about stolen insulin.”

“So? That’s not our problem. Corporate doesn’t give a shit about her insulin. They care about loss prevention.”

Corporate. Right. The same corporate that has power at headquarters while we’re all sweating our asses off in the dark. I thought about telling my manager to go fuck himself but remembered I’m two months behind on rent and kind of need this job. So I said, “Yes, sir” and went back to stocking shelves.

Break came at 8. I sat outside on the curb, checked my phone. News alert: “Multiple break-ins reported across county during power outage. Police investigating.” I scrolled through the article. The Windors were mentioned — “Elderly couple assaulted in their home when they confronted an intruder. Both hospitalized.”

My stomach dropped. The Windors. The police tape. The silent generator. The hot dogs.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

I remembered Hicks making jokes about hot dogs. About “GC” — Generator Couple? The Windors had a generator. They were elderly. They were…

I put my phone away. Didn’t want to know. Couldn’t know. If I didn’t know for sure, then I wasn’t really involved, right? That’s how plausible deniability works. I saw it on Law & Order once.

Went back inside. Two cops were at the counter talking to my manager. My heart started doing this thing where it beats too fast and too hard, like it’s trying to escape my chest. They were asking about “suspicious activity” in the area. My manager pointed at me.

“He’s been here during most of the incidents. Good kid. Works hard.”

The cops looked at me. I tried to look innocent, which is hard when you’re sweating through your shirt and your hands are shaking. “Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone acting suspicious?”

“No sir. Just been working.”

“You live in the Meadowbrook complex, right?”

How the fuck did they know that? “Uh, yeah.”

“That’s one of the areas hit hardest. You haven’t seen anything?”

“I work a lot. When I’m home, it’s dark. Power’s out.”

They looked at each other. One of them handed me a card. “If you see or hear anything, call this number. We’re taking these break-ins seriously. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

Too late, I thought. Someone already did. But I just nodded and pocketed the card.

They left. I stood there for a full minute, staring at nothing, wondering how I got here. Four days ago I was just a lazy asshole playing Xbox. Now I’m an accessory to assault and robbery. Character development is a bitch.

Closed at 1 am. Counted out my register, made the deposit, and walked home. Didn’t even bother staying close to the streetlights. If someone was going to mug me, what would they take? My QuickEMart name tag? My crappy ass phone? The cops’ business card that I should probably call but won’t?

Passed the Windors’ house. Police tape still up. Lights off. Generator silent. I kept walking, trying not to think about elderly people in the hospital because some asshole wanted to steal their generator and their hot dogs.

Got home around 2. Still no power. Climbed the stairs in the dark, fumbling with my keys. Let myself in.

Hicks was on the couch. In the dark. Just sitting there with a flashlight pointed at a Victoria’s Secret catalog. He looked up when I came in, and for a second his eyes were wrong. Not angry or scared, just… empty. Like nobody was home upstairs.

“What are you doing?”

“Huh?” His eyes focused. “Oh. Hey man. Want some potato salad?”

Every alarm bell in my head went off. “What?”

“There’s a container on the counter. Still good.”

I walked to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was an opened container sitting on my counter. It felt cold. “Was this refrigerated?”

Hicks smiled. That same empty smile. “Yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

No answer. Just a chuckle.

“Hicks. Where’d you get refrigerated potato salad when we don’t have power?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes. Yes it fucking matters. It matters a lot. But I didn’t say that. Because saying it would make it real. And if it was real, I’d have to do something about it. And doing something requires effort and courage, neither of which I have in abundance.

So instead I said, “I’m tired. Going to bed.”

“Sweet dreams,” Hicks said, still staring at his magazine.

I went to my room, closed the door, and sat on my bed in the dark. The cops’ card was in my pocket. My phone was fully charged from work. The potato salad sat on my counter. And somewhere, two elderly people were in the hospital because they had the audacity to own a generator during a blackout.

I should call the cops. I should kick Hicks out. I should do literally anything except sit here like a useless sack of shit.

But I didn’t. I just lay down, closed my eyes, and hoped tomorrow would be better.

On to day 6