Samson

Four

I go home that evening and whisper to Randall that someone at work actually spoke to me. Someone walked over to me and opened their mouth and talked to me and they weren't just politely answering a question! Randall remains motionless, but I sense he's trying to give me a quizzical look. 

"It was the guy who works at Joja in the afternoons... He seems kinda cool. I think his name is Ben or Sam or something short like that. I should have asked. Why didn't I ask?" I groan into my pillow. "Have you ever had the feeling that you have all these things to say, you know what questions you should ask and what jokes you could make, but it's like your tongue doesn't work anymore and you can't get your mouth to move right and you can't remember how to just talk?"
Randall doesn't even blink. 

"I think I'm out of practice having real conversations."
I think he's a little hurt by that.

Tuesday is long and unforgiving, my feet feel swollen and my head aches. The glow of my little run in with Ben/Sam has faded and I actually feel quite pathetic about it now. Why was it such a big deal to me? So some guy said one dumb little thing to me? Get a grip... A tiny little part of myself though is looking forward with a little hope to Wednesday afternoon, his next shift. Mainly out of curiosity, I tell myself. It's basically anthropology- what is this guys deal?

All morning Wednesday I catch myself looking to the door every time I hear them slide open, even though I know he's not coming in until lunchtime. I eat my lunch in the staffroom and try and read a book, my eyes darting to the clock above the door every ten seconds. When I leave I'm dismayed to see someone's knocked over a display of Powdered Wine, the boxes scattered across the floor. I kneel down and start gathering them up again when I hear the whoosh of the doors, I look up and there he is, head tipped back while he finishes off a can of JojaCola.

 Something touches my hand and I practically jump out of my skin, picturing some kind of Joja branded rat, but I'm just as surprised to see that it's Shane, also on his hands and knees, helping me pick up the loose boxes. 

The object of my attention sees us and starts to head over and my spirits lift instantly, only to come crashing right back down when Morris spots us and yells "Don't even think about it, Sam!"
So that's his name. Sam. 

"I don't think that's a job all three of you need to be doing! There's a spill up near the freezers. Get the mop." Morris glares at us and then disappears back into his office.
"I'll finish this," Shane says. "You can get back to the registers."
"Thanks," I hand him the last box in my hand and he just grunts in return.
By the time I get to the registers Sam has disappeared with the mop.

Beep. Beep. Beep. I'm scanning Pam's groceries through, she's a regular and I dread serving her most of the time. Sometimes she's nice and kinda funny, joking with me and laughing at herself but some days she can be quite mean. Today you can almost see the dark cloud hanging over her head. I can smell the faint scent of beer and cigarettes and she's staring me down in a way that's making me very nervous. I fumble with her canned scrambled eggs, dropping them on the floor. 

"Are you a moron?!" She yells as I pick the can up off the floor. She snatches it out of my hand. "Look, it's dented now, and it's the last can! I'm not paying full price for this!"

"It's not that bad," I try and take the can back so I can show her but she holds it away from me. I think she might actually be pressing her thumb into it, making the dent worse. "What's in the can isn't damaged."

"I'm not paying full price," she says slowly, like I can't understand her. "So give me a discount. Now." 

"I'd have to get my managers permission to do that."