The last part of the form involves clicking on a series of boxes on the screen that say, “Completed.”
Leaving the breakroom, you project a feeling of relatively-high enjoyment knowing that once back at your apartment tonight, you’ll be able to snip open the blisters on your feet and hands with nailclippers — then drain the blisters and lie down — all without having to worry about contact from anyone.
In total control of your own quarantine.
Rewarding yourself for earning enough money to stay alive.
Reward through quarantine.
Snipping blisters.
The apartment is a waiting room.
It’s nice.
You rent it.
Nurse — I’ve been — distracted.
Covered in blood.
I’on’t know.
Outside the breakroom by the customer bathrooms, you openly reach into your pants to adjust your dick before going back to work so that it won’t bother you when climbing ladders and bending down and whatnot.
A co-worker comes out the women’s bathroom, tucking in her shirt.
You nod upward to each other, once.
She says, “Hey sweetie, you know if the Bulls won today?”
You scratch the back of your head and say, “No, I heard they all died in a plane crash on the way to whatever city they were going to play in.”
She leans back to get the back part of her shirt tucked in and her bellybutton is visible in front as a wide impression behind her red shirt.
Probably could fit three fingers inside her bellybutton — you think.
“Shit,” she says. “All of them died, huh. All of them. Sheesh that’s awful.”
“Yeah, even the pilot and all their pets too because I heard they brought their pets with them in the cargo area of the plane, you know, for luck.”
“Goddamn,” she says. “Un-believable.”
“Yeah it’s sad.”
Then you both take turns asking each other what time your respective shifts will be done, to signal you’d both like to end the conversation.
*
Sometimes going out into the store is unavoidable.
You try to stay in the stockrooms — to avoid customers — but not all the stockrooms are connected.
Sometimes you have to leave them.
And sometimes you meet a man in corduroy pants who wants a new vacuum.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I have a question. I’d like to see if you have this vacuum. It’s this one over here.”
He’s about your age.
His face is cleanly shaven and he has a nice haircut and all the right buttons are buttoned on his shirt.
He’s wearing a collared shirt tucked into corduroy pants, nice shoes, a tie and a belt.
You’re amazed.
You follow him to the back wall where he points to a display model of the vacuum he wants.
You scan the upc code.
“Uh uh,” you say, checking the screen. “We don’t have any more of those.”
And it’s true.
There aren’t any.
Sometimes you just answer no even if that’s not true.
You’ll type in a few buttons and say, “Uh, looks like no. We don’t have any more. I’m sorry.”
The man looks at the vacuum again, not saying anything.
“No more,” you say again, in a friendly but firmly-settled way.
“Not at all huh? Darn,” he says, making a playful face of disappointment.
“No more of those, sorry,” you say, making a similar face.
Even though it’s not your fault and you’re not sorry.
Part of your pay comes from apologizing.
You entertain a violent fantasy of you and the man together in a bathroom, where you take stabs at his head with a cheap knife, and the blade is so cheap it keeps skipping off his skull, but still cuts deep.
He’s still looking at the vacuum.
He says, “Alright well, I might just come in tomorrow or later this week to see if it’s come in yet. I live nearby.” He puts up both his hands with his fingers and thumbs out—“It’s, sooo great you guys opened this place. Really great for the neighborhood.”
You don’t tell him it wasn’t you who opened the store, that some other people did, the owners.
And you don’t tell him that the neighborhood is good for the store, otherwise the owners wouldn’t have opened it.
Because his eyebrows are perfect shapes — you think. Because he’s friendly, and really understanding. Because he handled disappointment well. Not getting a new vacuum might cripple someone else. Send them into a crippling vertigo of despair. Not him though. His corduroy pants shield him from the crippling vertigo of despair.
“I really wanted this vacuum,” he says, “so, I will, be back here for sure.”
He smiles by flexing his bottom lip, tapping his fingers on the carthandle.
“You wanted this vacuum, right here,” you say, pointing at the model.
“That one,” he says.
You check the upc code and the model again, acting like you’re using your thumb to closely read the upc.
“This one right here,” you say.
He clicks his tongue. “That one.”
You say, “Looks like a pretty good one. Like just, a good overall vacuum. I don’t know that much about it, but I mean.”
He starts biting the nail on his thumb. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve heard it’s really good. The commercials are pretty impressive.”
“Looks like it could do a good job,” you say. “At least, that’s what I’m thinking.”
“No, yeah, the guy who invented it is supposed to be like, this genius.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah supposedly,” he says, opening his eyes wide then returning them to normal wideness.
“Well he must be a genius to have invented such a great vacuum,” you say, raking your front teeth over the hair directly below your bottom lip. “Don’t you think.”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, “I mean my condo is screaming for this little number.”
“What little number,” you say.
“The vacuum,” he says.
“Oh nice. Did your last vacuum stop working. What happened.”
“No,” he says, “Just didn’t have the type of power I need right now in a vacuum, specifically. Plus it was clunky and loud.”
You sneeze.
You say, “And then you came here and we didn’t have the one you wanted — man.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Man, sorry,” you say. “I wish — wait”—you pause and type some numbers into the laser gun again— “Ah, nope. Thought I might’ve typed in the wrong number before.”
You imagine the man returning tomorrow in a slightly different combination of the same clothes he’s in now — picking up the newly stocked vacuum and buying it — driving it home in the passenger side seat of his car, seatbelt across its box — bringing it into his house — opening the box — vacuuming with a slight smile on his face — vacuuming thoroughly, without stopping for a long time.
But secretly, he’s never happy with any vacuum.
He’s never, fucking, happy.
So he blames the vacuum.
Always looking for a different kind, a kind that will work like he wants.
“Alrighty, no problem,” he says, walking away.
It’s unclear how much time has passed in silence.
You look at the display model of the vacuum the man wanted.
A salesfloor employee told you a while ago that customers can’t buy the models because the models aren’t functional.
Looking at the nonfunctioning model, you imagine yourself without any inside parts — like organs or veins or genitals.
Then you realize you can only imagine that idea by using all your inside parts.
It’s fucking weird.
You’re fake.
*