Gracie Abrams is eking out a solitary existence, fighting day-in, day-out against the drain of working customer service and nursing two newborn kittens in her off time. Out on her own ever since her sister moved in with her boyfriend, the burden of...
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"You're actually going out tonight, Gracie?" My coworker, Elena, stared at me with big eyes as she passed me a navy blue tote already filled with three flimsy plastic bags stretched taut on their hooks.
With the disappearance of summer came the disappearing act of a good chunk of our employees. School-time was the worst. Nobody wanted to work day-time hours at a grocery store. It was a bare-bones schedule until the holidays, where a huge hiring took place, and strangers showed up to work for a month and a half before disappearing again. Confusion, mistakes, lack of training. Then it was over.
Most days, I started out on my usual Lane 16, but more and more often, I ended my shift in the Meijer Pickup room. It was a whole new level of exhaustion. Pickup was one of the most physical jobs one could have in a grocery store—besides being a Utility worker.
"Yeah," I replied to my stunned colleague. The Pickup crew had gotten used to me staying, like, forty-five minutes late every day to help them finish out their numbers. I always felt bad turning them down, even though my body rankled at the thought of staying one moment longer than my scheduled shift. But, now that I had Kakashi, I felt even flimsier offering excuses. I didn't have the kittens to run home to, in tragic need of bottle-feeding.
"Where you going?" Elena continued, the infectious energy buzzing up her small frame. She handed me my sixth tote, filling my metal cart to capacity. Her fingernails were painted a chipped black, and endless, colorful rubber bands covered her wrists. Elena was the type to always have a fashion sense, even in a dreaded Meijer uniform. Her short hair was always done up in cute ways. Today, it was twin braided buns, making her a gothic Princess Leia.
Unearthing my phone from my back pocket, I checked the time. 3:25. Great. Long enough for a 60-item ambient wave. Relaxing a little, I shrugged at today's Pickup Coordinator. A few totes were scattered about the room, but most of those picking up their orders had yet to arrive. When everyone showed up all at once or one right after the other, then the room turned into a veritable jungle of totes stacked taller than any human.
"A—a bar," I said, feeling like a little girl admitting to sneaking into a club with a fake-ID. Everyone knew Gracie Abrams did not drink alcohol, nor did she go out after work. Her bubble was the family who forced themselves on her, and her coworkers—while at work. Key words.
"OOohhhh," Elena squealed, fanning at her cheeks. In the accent of a woman with immigrant parents who didn't speak a lot of English, her words turned buttery smooth, arching one right into the next, as if she was speaking Spanish and not English. "We've got a rebel. Dayum. Good on you, girl. Who you going with?"
"My..." I pushed the cart toward the room's slim exit, careful of the clicks on the wheels resonating unnecessarily loud, "...my roommate."
"Wait," Elena said, brows furrowing over her chocolatey eyes, "your roommate's a guy, right? No way. Are you for real? Do you have a man, Gracie?"
