For Those Who Don't Believe in Love Songs

Chapter 12 - 7:40 to Oakland

August 24, 1995

The shopping cart dug into Martha's back. Fluorescent lights stung her swollen eyes. Exhaust wafting through sliding doors sickened her empty stomach. Pointless shoppers blurred past in search of plastic.

Her walkie-talkie crackled and said, "Martha?"

She looked down at it, clipped on her pant waist. She would have to answer it – or not... Her supervisor would call her again, and again, and again. Eventually, he would engage her face to face. Eventually, he would fire her and demand she leave. Would he physically try to remove her? No, even without questions of proper procedure and legality, he was too gutless. Would he ask other employees to remove her? Call the police? What would happen if she just didn't move?

It crackled again. "Miss Beckett, helllloooo?"

She held her fantasy of inert resistance a moment longer, then gave in and unclipped the walkie-talkie. "Yes?"

"You understand we're paying you to work, right?"

"Yes."

"Do I need to explain the responsibilities of a 'greeter' to you?"

"No."

"You see, a 'greeter's' job is to greet the guests as they enter. I know I don't have a fancy college degree but-"

She turned to face Raymond, standing fifty feet away at the checkout stands. She gave him a sarcastic smile and thumbs up, then hollered, "Got it!"

He glared, unamused. He was a stout man in his mid-twenties with a thin mustache and goatee. On her first day, Martha had made the mistake of telling him she had a boyfriend who was leaving for college – the same college she'd be attending in a year. The power he presumed from rank and age had vanished. A lack of higher education made him feel inferior, which made him defensive, which made him an asshole – this according to Martha's definitive psychoanalysis.

Maintaining his glare, he raised his walkie-talkie. "Greeters are also responsible for carts discarded outside the entrance."

Martha didn't answer but turned to comply. She stepped past the security sensors and through the automatic doors. There were five, maybe six carts scattered around the entrance. She slowly made her way to the first. She felt ill – like she needed to rest, like she needed medicine, a doctor, a hospital, the operating table, like she was in mortal danger. It was psychosomatic and overblown, but the insight didn't make it any easier. The insight wouldn't make him stay.

She moved the first cart to the second and mustered enough force to push them into a locked position. Somehow, the moon landing flashed in her mind – astronauts bouncing effortlessly across the surface. Was she paying back the debt from their reprieve? The thought was so ridiculous it almost made her smile.

It was unfortunate – utter bullshit – that she had to work today, of all days. She panicked when the schedule was posted a week and a half prior. She was determined to call in sick or simply quit, but James talked her out of it. They would have the drive to the airport and the walk to his gate. But as she maneuvered the chain of three carts into four then five, she regretted the decision. It wasn't fair. Of course James would preach patience. His concept of time was defunct.

"Do you need me to send someone out to help you?" Raymond heckled through the walkie-talkie. "Are the carts too heavy for you?"

Martha didn't bother to answer as she pushed them through the sliding doors. She dropped her eyes and saw the security sensor's digital counter click from 348 to 349 then brought them back to steer the chain into place. Raymond eyed her from the checkout then turned and left to harass the back of the store.