The Stock Room
During my junior and senior years in high school, I worked part-time as a sales associate at a store which sold moderately priced, in-style modern furniture that was popular with home stagers and people who replace their throw pillows every 3-months. The job didn’t jive well with the Jack Kerouc, screw-the-system ethos I espoused at the time, but I needed the money. “The ratan, coconut-buttoned pillows are a great addition for outdoor furniture or a summer style,” I would say, rolling my eyes invisibly as I spoke. I relished the opportunity to step out of the spotlight of the sales floor to climb the steel shelves of the stockroom for a vase or a bedazzled votive candle holder. “Let me go check on that for you personally,” I would smile with invisible sarcasm.
One Sunday afternoon, I stepped off the polished bamboo sales floor into the ambient, flickering fluorescent light of the stock room. I was checking the stock for yet another blonde queen-size platform bed myself, despite the convenient walkie talkie microphone dangling from my ear which was designed to allow sales associates to remain on the floor while the stock associates checked the back.
To enter the stock room, I had to punch the correct sequence onto five unmarked silver buttons on the door. I looked down each aisle of ceiling high decor to see who was working. I turned the corner around the last row of tall metal shelves to the pick-up and delivery area of the store where the stock associates pulled inventory, entered it into the computers, and prepped items to put in delivery trucks or customers cars. A tall, thin associate sat reclined in his rolling chair with his feet propped up on a tall stack of boxes. He IS working today, I realized with excitement. He looked at me from over the top of his book, but his head didn’t move. His green eyes merely glanced up at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses to see who was approaching. He slowly and calmly set his book down on his lap and looked at me to leave space for me to state the reason for my presence. I was aware of the walkie talkie dangling from my ear and the distinct lack of reasoning for why I had walked all the way back to speak with him. “What are you reading?” I asked.
“The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas,” Mark replied, “I’ve read it a number of times, so it’s an easy book to pick up and put down.”
“I’ve never read it,” I admitted, “But I love period novels like that, so I’ll have to check it out. What are some of your other favorites?”
We talked about novels and poetry for about 5 minutes before a comfortable pause in the conversation indicated that it was time to share my justification for being back in the stockroom. He slowly got up out of his chair and I looked up into his eyes for a moment longingly. His body drew closer to mine as if to embrace me as he strode past me toward the metal aisles. I took a moment to breathe before I turned and followed him toward the boxes of flattened furniture.
After Mark confirmed that we did indeed have the bed my customer was looking for, he retreated back to his seat. I also needed to grab a couple throw pillows on my way back to the sales floor, which I could unfortunately do myself. As I approached the aisle filled with endless boxes of throw pillows and duvet covers, a stocky, built associate appeared. A competitive baseball player, Brian prided himself on staying in good shape. His oversized chest puffed out in front of his head like a bird displaying his feathers. His chest and shoulder muscles were oversized for his body, making his waist and legs look small, despite also being extremely strong. “Oh, hey,” he said with an arrogant smirk.
“Hi, Brian,” I replied with an exhalation of disappointment. I felt my eyes once again roll invisibly, “...just need to grab a couple throw pillows.”
I felt abrupt relief when he shrugged and walked away. He didn’t say much; he lumbered around with his chin pulled back toward his chest uttering sometimes-complete sentences.
Brian and I had dated briefly a few months after I started working at the store. He and another high school buddy from his baseball team were working there during their first year in community college. I was 16 when I first started and was intrigued by Brian’s mystery. He seemed interested in me, but it was his friend Jordan who first suggested we hang out. Jordan was thin, with bright red hair and a permanent smile on his face. “Hey! How are ya doin’?” he would ask every time you walked by him, engaging in genuine but just-a-little-too-long conversation about your day.
Brian’s mystery quickly dissolved when we became more involved. He either didn’t have much to say at all or we just didn’t have much in common to talk about. One evening, Brian came over to my house for us to watch a movie together, when a text message came through on my cell phone. I flipped open my phone to see a message from Brian that read, “Can I kiss you?” I was immediately conscious of a look of confusion and revulsion taking shape on my face.
We didn’t spend much time together after that, but in the following weeks it came to my attention that the other stock associates looked at me a little differently. Still a high school student myself, I could recognize a false rumor circulating easily and Jordan confirmed hesitantly that Brian had bragged to others about his exploits. I wouldn’t have cared much if it didn’t mean that Mark had a false conception of my involvement with Brian.
Keeping my interactions with him to a minimum was easy enough after that, given his propensity for brevity.
The day after our discussion about Alexander Dumas, Jordan, Mark and I all had our 15-minute break at the same time. I saw them smoking hand-rolled cigarettes out in the parking lot. Truthfully, I was trying to stop smoking, but it seemed like an easy excuse to be near him. I strode out into the parking lot and approached them, leaning against Mark’s navy blue dodge caravan, which had paint peeling back in strips. You could see where he had sprayed primer over the metal to prevent rust, but without much regard to the aesthetics. “Can I bum a cigarette?” I asked. He tipped his head downward and smirked to acknowledge me and began rolling me a cigarette. “Nice car,” I said, half sarcastically and half to break the silence.
“Yeah..” Mark started, “I bought it for 500 bucks when I was 17. It still runs fine.” He shrugged his shoulders before bringing the rolling paper to his mouth to lick the edges of the cigarette and handing it to me.
Jordan easily broke the silence and chatted about a spattering of surface-level topics. “Our new work schedules are kind of bullshit, huh?” he probed. “I wonder if our new General Manager will change things up,” he responded, in answer to his own question. I was grateful he was there to fill the silence and ease my nervousness.
“My break is about to end,” Mark stated. “I’ll catch you guys back in there.” He casually walked away in his uniform, a long-sleeve brown sweatshirt and brown slacks. His feet had a slight outward slant as he walked.
I was disappointed to see him go, but I took the opportunity to ask Jordan more about him. I thought I was being inconspicuous, but Jordan saw easily through my questioning and provided the information I was looking for. “He’s dating someone,” he said, “I think she’s a few years older than him and I think it’s pretty serious. She’s got a young daughter.” My eyes widened in disbelief. Mark was 22, but the idea of him dating someone just a few years older than him with a child solidified that he was too old for me. That only exacerbated my intrigue.
Over the next year, Mark and I continued with our brief interludes during breaks and unnecessary stock room checks to talk about books, poetry, philosophy, or astronomy. It was a welcome reprieve from the surface-level conversations I had daily with my peers. These arms-length conversations felt safe, but exciting.
A few months before I graduated high school, Mark admitted to me that he and his girlfriend Tanya had split up. As often happens when one is young, I matured a lot over that year. It almost felt possible that our 5 years of distance in age could be bridged by our common interests and intellectual connection. I could tell that he was reserved about our age difference. Still, I noticed his attention lingered longer in our conversations. Sometimes, he would take his breaks just outside the store rather than finding solace on the other side of the strip mall, as if to invite me to join him for a cigarette or a brief exchange.
“What’s next for you after you graduate?” he asked.
“I’m leaving for a couple months,” I shared, “and then I’m starting community college in the Fall. I’ve always loved literature and poetry…maybe I’ll be an English major.” I paused for a moment, not wanting to ask this question incorrectly. “What are your plans for the future?”
“I’m working on becoming a Firefighter,” he stated, “I just finished my Fire Academy and I’m volunteering down here at a local department. I’m just working this gig to pay the bills for now.”
A couple weeks after I graduated high school, I had already put in my notice at work. I would be traveling for the summer. I joined Mark for a break out in front of the store. “I got a job as a trainee at a local fire department,” he said, “today is actually my last day.” I congratulated him on his accomplishment, realizing that I had no way of staying in touch with him. You should ask him for his number, I thought.
We both checked the time and returned to work.
It was Friday afternoon, so the store closed early. Mark and I were both working the closing shift, which ended around 7pm. After making my way through the closing checklist, I let the floor manager know I was done. “Do they need any help finishing up in the stock room?” I asked.
“I think they’ve got it,” she replied, “why don’t you go enjoy your Friday night.”
I walked toward the door at an uncomfortably slow pace toward the large glass doors. I made my way across the mostly empty parking lot and leaned against my car, lamenting how stupid it was that I didn’t suggest we should stay in touch. Why is it so hard just to ask? I chastised myself. Just then, I saw his blue Dodge Caravan making its way across the parking lot toward me. He leaned out his window and said, “You got time for a smoke?” Giddy, I smiled at him and nodded eagerly. He put his car in park behind mine and got out to lean against my car next to me.
“Are you excited for the new job?” I asked.
“Definitely. It’s something I’ve been working toward for a long time.” he said, “So, it’s a pretty big deal for me.”
He asked me about my summer plans, how I was feeling about graduation and starting college.
“What do you have going on tonight?” he asked.
“No plans yet,” I responded with excitement. This wasn’t entirely true. I was supposed to meet some friends for another night of undefined plans that would probably end with drinking beers at someone’s house or smoking pot in a park somewhere -- always talking about nothing. This is it! He’s going to ask if I want to get dinner. I thought. “What about you?”
“Nothing really,” he said, followed by a long pause.
Ask him! I urged myself. What do you have to lose!? If he says no, you’ll never see him again.
“Are you reading any good books?” he asked. We talked briefly about books, as usual, before one final tortured silence.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” he said, before turning around and walking toward his car.
Ask! Ask! Ask! My inner monologue was screaming, while I perched there in silence.
He paused and looked back at me as he got into his car. He started the engine and lifted his hand briefly to wave before he pulled out of the parking lot. My eyes traced his route until I could no longer see his car. I stood there for a few moments before getting in my car and driving off to meet my friends.