Fruitbat

2. 2

2

Danny

10:59 pm

That repulsive doorbell chimes, announcing my arrival and triggering the twitch in my left brow, as I push open the heavy steel-framed glass door. Its hydraulic hinge expels a peeved sigh, quitting mid-close and slamming shut behind me. Same, door—same .

The sour stench of ammoniated lemon stings my sinuses and the barely audible hum of harsh fluorescent light clenches my jaw.

This place makes my skin crawl.

I’ve worked the nightmare shift in this hellhole convenience store for four years now. Are food and shelter really necessities? My dreams of making it in the literary world have yet to manifest. Fuck these inhumane shackles of capitalism.

It might help if I write a new piece this decade.

The manuscripts in my tattered messenger bag—slung across my body—with my barely functioning laptop—have been rejected by every damned publisher who’s seen them, too many times now.

“Hey, Danny!” Delila is always so fucking perky.

It’s 11 o’clock at night for fucks sake. Her bubbly personality shouldn’t erk me the way it does. I remind myself. That’s on me.

She’s probably just happy I showed up again, relieving her from this hellish duty. I don’t know her well enough to be sure, we just pass in the night, as shifts change.

“Hey.” I pander half a pained smile. Is it possible to pull a muscle in your cheek?

“I like your shirt!” She beams with far too much enthusiasm.

“Thanks,” I respond, unable to keep the disbelief out of my tone.

My shirt is black—or used to be—with some old band logo, so shattered and faded it just looks like bits of paper went through the wash, and I couldn't be bothered to peel them off. But okay.

Delila always makes some sort of complimentary remark. I look like shit, but she still puts in the effort to be kind. Good for her.

She tears open a box of chocolate bars. “I’ll leave these for you. The shelf needs restocking. ”

Great.

She slips two into her pocket, tilting a shoulder to block the security camera's view.

My eyes roll.

This place doesn’t pay enough to afford anything above basic necessities, so we collect our own bonuses from time to time. It’s not likely anyone is checking the footage. I don’t even bother being discreet anymore, no one seems to care. I haven’t been fired yet.

The owner is probably just using the place for some shady money laundering scheme. I’ve never met them, only heard it’s some young entrepreneur with more capital than they know what to do with. The missing goods definitely go unnoticed in finagled bookkeeping. I can’t remember the last time I was asked to record inventory, it’s been at least two years.

“Okay—It’ll give me something to do.” I scoot past Delila, into the office where I drop my bag, and clock in. The archaic machine hung on the wall sears a barely legible 10:59 onto the yellow strip of cardstock.

Right on time.

Delila pops in the door and punches her card before I even step out of the way. She smells like sour pickle—her favorite snack, according to the half-empty jars left in the office every night—and cheap fruity shampoo. Some sort of mixed-berry bullshit. Not the gag-inducing combination you’d imagine though, it reminds me of those deceptive kombucha drinks in the fridge at the back of the store. They smell okay but taste rancid .

Delila gathers up her things, slipping into a short-waisted metallic-lavender quilt jacket. Her thick corkscrew curls are swept up into a twisted nest atop her head. I envy her creamy brown skin.

A lack of experiencing daylight these past few years has left me pale as a ghost. There’s not much reason to leave my tiny studio apartment, after I get home, just past dawn. I sleep through most days. Once upon a time, I savored the night and it’s peaceful bliss, before I took this fucking gig. I figured I could write, while getting paid. That’s the dream isn’t it? So much for that. I usually end up staring at a blank screen and blinking cursor, for hours on end, before trolling internet forums the rest of my shift.

“Have a good one,” Delila says, looping the strap of her purse across her breast, and wedging it tight against her hip. “Happy Halloween.”

“Oh yeah, you too.” I’d forgotten, even though decorations have been up all over town the past week. I slept through any potential trick-or-treaters. No one was about to knock on the door of my 3rd-floor walk-up anyway. I wouldn’t answer if they did.

That fucking doorbell chimes again, as she struts out, and down the sidewalk, before the door slams.

My teeth clench and I have to close my eyes for a brief moment of meditation. I could probably just lock up, go home, then come back before the morning shift takes over, no one would even notice.

But, Fuck it . I’m already here .

I flip the tap of a tall silver thermos, in the line-up along the wall, and fill a paper cup with a dark roast brew.

Standing in the center of the store, facing the camera, I blow ripples over the black sludge, and slurp. My eyes narrow and glare up at big brother’s lens, challenging the tiny red pin-light beaming back at me.

I suppress the intrusive urge to flip my middle finger at the camera. It doesn’t deserve that.

This coffee is disgusting, it’s probably still the same batch that the morning shift brewed and has sat all day. Or worse, the same pot I brewed last night, that still hasn’t been changed.

I spit it back into the cup and turn on my heel, stomping toward the sink, at the back of the store.

The place is grossly familiar. Nothing ever changes. Shelves take months, even years to empty and just get refilled with expired junk from the moldy storage room in the basement. Some of the garbage has probably sat here longer than I’ve been an employee. The thick layers of dust prove my theory.

I round the grocery shelf into the farthest aisle but my footing doesn’t quite make contact, and slips out from under me. My right heel glides over some slick barrier coating the floor and my arms flail, reaching for the plastic barrel end-cap—which should be full of hard ciders—hoping to catch myself but it tumbles sideways, under my weight, and I pull it down with me.

My head bashes against the sharp corner of a steel shelving unit, and my breath catches, before the world blurs into a spiraling dark tunnel.