By L. Stevens
“Be careful. These bruise.” The cashier places a large ripe scarlet-orange mango in his hand; she playfully wraps her warm hands around his.
The young man reddens, clearly smitten. His boyish crush embarrasses him. They work long Saturdays together in a bright busy supermarket, she at the register, he bagging groceries and wheeling them to customers’ cars. She works fast and pushes him; he enjoys keeping pace.
Closing times find them bone-tired; deliciously dead on their feet. She is twenty-three and blond. Five years his senior, she’s bright and has a slender athletic figure; pretty in an off-beat way. He’s in his last year of high-school, with plans for college.
When she was eighteen, Glenda ran from chaos and dysfunction at home to elope with a 30-year-old Sheriff’s Deputy; now her marriage isn’t working. Floyd drinks every night. He’s critical and mean; hers is a miserable, lonely life.
But not for twelve hours each Saturday.
Through the week the young man dreams of Saturdays; of her smile and the intimacy of her subtle scent – part perfume and part her. He wonders, when their hands brush as she pushes items his way, does electricity rush through her too? At times their work together is like a tempting dance.
Toward the end of the day physical contact often increases and lingers. Exhausted, she puts an arm on his shoulder and leans on him for balance while she adjusts the shoe on an aching foot. It’s the closest thing to resting in his arms for a risky second or two; his heart jumps.
More than once he’d fantasized: If we were on a desert island somewhere… Was he kidding himself about her interest, her availability, even? He thought not.
On a cool, dark December evening he searched for the suburban rented hall—the scene of the store’s Christmas party. She’d asked him twice if he’d be there and he said he would. But now he’s not so sure it is a good idea. It’s likely he’ll meet Floyd for the first time.
Christmas music meets him at the door, and once inside he sees the couple. Short and wiry the deputy is a bantam rooster of a man; small, feisty, aggressive. His gray flannel shirt and dark jeans are at odds with his wife’s stylish red and green holiday dress.
The young man nods a smile across the dimly-lit dance floor but does not go near the two. Later, Glenda approaches him as he stands alone. Out of nowhere an inebriated Floyd appears. Without introduction he blurts out boozy sarcasm: “Just so you know. You can have her if she wants you. But make sure you give me the money.” His mean smile discloses menacing anger.
Stunned the young man looks to the horrified woman for some clue of an explanation. Where did that come from? She must have said something to her husband – what could she have told him?
The shaken young man moves away from the insanity, and leaves the place, thoughts jumbled. Was the man guessing at something? Did she want to make her husband jealous? Or maybe Floyd’s drinking buddy, Jerry in Produce, put a bug in the man’s ear. Whatever, he wants no part of it. Something’s crazy here.
On Monday he went to the store; the manager did not ask why he was quitting – a sure sign that word had gotten around. “Your hours will be totaled on Friday. I’ll have your pay ready around four. Good luck.”
Soon afterwards, the young man finds a job at another store.
One evening many years later, the experience comes to mind. “Turn to something else” his wife says. “The child doesn’t need to hear that stuff,” referring to their five-year-old granddaughter next to her in the family room.
The TV’s news tells of a jealous husband, a local Sheriff’s Deputy, who shot and killed his wife and her male co-worker and then turned the gun on himself.
“I just wonder,” she asks “What is the world coming to? Aren’t you glad we came up in simpler times?”
A cold feeling in his spine rises to his neck; his ears ring. He reflects for a long minute. ”Yeah – that’s for sure” he finally agrees.