49.
Walmart, Saturday night.
The parking lot was almost full of beat-up rusted cars, and I had to park on the far edge of the lot, almost at the tiny Starbucks that was plopped between the Walmart and the Sizzler. I walked back across the parking lot, passing knots of FLP men smoking joints, and I found Sally standing outside the big front doors, smoking a cigarette. A few feet to her left stood an old FLP man with a big sign that read STOP ABORTION NOW, with a picture of a hacked-up fetus, or maybe a bloody squirrel. Sally was ignoring the old man—though he was watching her closely.
“You took long enough,” Sally said when she saw me.
“I went upstairs to look around,” I said. “Then I stayed to hear Ted read a poem. He’s a creep.”
“He’s a fucking sexist misogynist pervert,” Sally said.
“That too.”
Sally crushed her cigarette out against a smoking post and left the butt in a sandbox. The old man waved his sign at us.
“Don’t do it!” he yelled. “Don’t you dare!”
“I’ll dare if I want to,” I said.
Inside the store—well, it was Walmart on Saturday night. In Weirton. The store was full of FLPs and PPs, even fuller than on a weekday—except now, under the harsh glarey Walmart lighting, they weren’t funny-looking but loathsome-looking and tragic, sick ill white people who were skeleton-skinny or wobbly obese, with lank dull hair and missing teeth and blurred tattoos and leg braces and dazed drugged-up opioid looks on their faces.
“You know, I’ve never been here at night,” I said to Sally. I usually went to Walmart on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons when I got out of class.
“Weirton is different after dark,” Sally said. “It’s even sadder than daytime.”
Sally pulled out a shopping cart, and, after a moment, I grabbed one, too. I thought I might as well get some supplies.
“How come you didn’t want us to be seen leaving together?” I asked.
Sally looked over her shoulder at me. “Because people will talk,” she said. “Especially Courtney and Nancy.”
“So? Who cares? What difference does it make what they say?”
Sally shook her head and pushed her cart forward. “Might want to check your privilege, Professor. It makes a difference to me—I’m a woman and an employee. I don’t want to fuck up my stupid job.”
Sally sounded pissed.
I didn’t really want to argue with her—but, whatever. I said, “Yeah, but you run the whole department, right?”
Sally snorted in—derision, I guess. She stopped her cart at a display of paper towels and tumbled an eight-roll package into her cart.
“You think that—why? Because I tell you people when the grades are due?” Sally didn’t look at me. She began pushing her car further back into the store. “Because I take notes at all the meetings?”
“Sure—you know everything that goes on.”
Sally said, “You’re delusional if you think that.”
Sally stopped and turned away from me, inspecting a mountain of toilet paper. I was suddenly—exhausted. Worn out. Overwhelmed. I wanted to go home to Fuzzhead.
“Okay,” I said. Sighed. “So I’m privileged and delusional. So fucking what?”
Sally grinned at me. “You’re fragile and pouty, too.”
I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Sally leaned across my cart. She hissed, whispered, “Devon, right?”
Walmart, Saturday night.
The parking lot was almost full of beat-up rusted cars, and I had to park on the far edge of the lot, almost at the tiny Starbucks that was plopped between the Walmart and the Sizzler. I walked back across the parking lot, passing knots of FLP men smoking joints, and I found Sally standing outside the big front doors, smoking a cigarette. A few feet to her left stood an old FLP man with a big sign that read STOP ABORTION NOW, with a picture of a hacked-up fetus, or maybe a bloody squirrel. Sally was ignoring the old man—though he was watching her closely.
“You took long enough,” Sally said when she saw me.
“I went upstairs to look around,” I said. “Then I stayed to hear Ted read a poem. He’s a creep.”
“He’s a fucking sexist misogynist pervert,” Sally said.
“That too.”
Sally crushed her cigarette out against a smoking post and left the butt in a sandbox. The old man waved his sign at us.
“Don’t do it!” he yelled. “Don’t you dare!”
“I’ll dare if I want to,” I said.
Inside the store—well, it was Walmart on Saturday night. In Weirton. The store was full of FLPs and PPs, even fuller than on a weekday—except now, under the harsh glarey Walmart lighting, they weren’t funny-looking but loathsome-looking and tragic, sick ill white people who were skeleton-skinny or wobbly obese, with lank dull hair and missing teeth and blurred tattoos and leg braces and dazed drugged-up opioid looks on their faces.
“You know, I’ve never been here at night,” I said to Sally. I usually went to Walmart on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons when I got out of class.
“Weirton is different after dark,” Sally said. “It’s even sadder than daytime.”
Sally pulled out a shopping cart, and, after a moment, I grabbed one, too. I thought I might as well get some supplies.
“How come you didn’t want us to be seen leaving together?” I asked.
Sally looked over her shoulder at me. “Because people will talk,” she said. “Especially Courtney and Nancy.”
“So? Who cares? What difference does it make what they say?”
Sally shook her head and pushed her cart forward. “Might want to check your privilege, Professor. It makes a difference to me—I’m a woman and an employee. I don’t want to fuck up my stupid job.”
Sally sounded pissed.
I didn’t really want to argue with her—but, whatever. I said, “Yeah, but you run the whole department, right?”
Sally snorted in—derision, I guess. She stopped her cart at a display of paper towels and tumbled an eight-roll package into her cart.
“You think that—why? Because I tell you people when the grades are due?” Sally didn’t look at me. She began pushing her car further back into the store. “Because I take notes at all the meetings?”
“Sure—you know everything that goes on.”
Sally said, “You’re delusional if you think that.”
Sally stopped and turned away from me, inspecting a mountain of toilet paper. I was suddenly—exhausted. Worn out. Overwhelmed. I wanted to go home to Fuzzhead.
“Okay,” I said. Sighed. “So I’m privileged and delusional. So fucking what?”
Sally grinned at me. “You’re fragile and pouty, too.”
I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Sally leaned across my cart. She hissed, whispered, “Devon, right?”