50.
A grotesque fat woman pushed her cart between us, the cart filled with rolls of toilet paper and a dozen or so loaves of white bread. A little boy of six or seven was stumbling along behind her. The woman said, “If you keep talking like a girl, I’m gonna slap the shit out of you.”
When the fat woman passed, I asked Sally, “And…?”
Sally pushed her cart up the aisle a bit. Ahead of us, the fat woman took a swipe at the little boy, but he dodged back out of her way.
Sally asked, “You know what an asshole Fred Van Buskirk is, right?”
I thought of Fred as I had last seen him—drunk, vulgar, stupid, surrounded by toadies. A total asshole. I said, “Sure.”
“So,” Sally said. “For about the last year and a half, Fred’s been sending me pictures of his dick.”
I nearly ran my cart into a mop display. Holy shit. Fred’s elderly dick.
“And I know it’s him because the dicks are being sent from his university email account.” Sally stepped closer to me. “And so I did what you’re supposed to do—I told Tee, I filed a complaint with HR, I filed a grievance with the union.”
I asked, “And?”
“And nothing!” Sally said. She pushed her cart a few yards up the endless aisle of paper products and then stopped again. “Fucking nothing happened. Fred said it was a joke. Then he said he was hacked. Then he said I was imagining things—he gave out about twenty different fucking stories, and everybody believed all of them, and nobody believed me.”
“The fuck,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly,” Sally said. A confused-looking old gray man with one arm shuffled by us pushing an empty cart. When he passed, Sally said, “And I know that Devon was getting dick pics, too—and I’m pretty sure she never told you about them, right?”
A grotesque fat woman pushed her cart between us, the cart filled with rolls of toilet paper and a dozen or so loaves of white bread. A little boy of six or seven was stumbling along behind her. The woman said, “If you keep talking like a girl, I’m gonna slap the shit out of you.”
When the fat woman passed, I asked Sally, “And…?”
Sally pushed her cart up the aisle a bit. Ahead of us, the fat woman took a swipe at the little boy, but he dodged back out of her way.
Sally asked, “You know what an asshole Fred Van Buskirk is, right?”
I thought of Fred as I had last seen him—drunk, vulgar, stupid, surrounded by toadies. A total asshole. I said, “Sure.”
“So,” Sally said. “For about the last year and a half, Fred’s been sending me pictures of his dick.”
I nearly ran my cart into a mop display. Holy shit. Fred’s elderly dick.
“And I know it’s him because the dicks are being sent from his university email account.” Sally stepped closer to me. “And so I did what you’re supposed to do—I told Tee, I filed a complaint with HR, I filed a grievance with the union.”
I asked, “And?”
“And nothing!” Sally said. She pushed her cart a few yards up the endless aisle of paper products and then stopped again. “Fucking nothing happened. Fred said it was a joke. Then he said he was hacked. Then he said I was imagining things—he gave out about twenty different fucking stories, and everybody believed all of them, and nobody believed me.”
“The fuck,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly,” Sally said. A confused-looking old gray man with one arm shuffled by us pushing an empty cart. When he passed, Sally said, “And I know that Devon was getting dick pics, too—and I’m pretty sure she never told you about them, right?”
