Conceivable -- but not likely.
Most of them looked dirty and purposeless, and he suspected that they had no place to go.
Juniper had a homeless problem.
It was a weird thought. Homelessness was usually a big-city disease. Small towns had transients passing through, but they were essentially closed societies, where any change or deviation from the norm was noticed instantly.
They were not anonymous enough to provide a place for America's marginalized.
There were no streets for street people to live on.
Yet here they were.
Bill reached the highway, stopped for a moment -- though there was no light or stop sign at the intersection -- then turned right toward The Store.
His muscles tensed, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He hadn't gone to The Store since the election, and even driving this small section of the highway made him feel as though he was entering an enemy camp during wartime.
Intellectually, he knew that it was merely a discount retailer, the place where his daughters and half the town worked, and that the wide, modern aisles would be filled with ordinary men, women, and children doing their ordinary everyday shopping. But he had so demonized The Store in his mind that, emotionally, he felt like he was preparing to enter hell.
It couldn't be helped, though.
He needed printer ribbon.
He'd finished the manual.
The actual deadline was day after tomorrow, and he would be transmitting his work via modem to Automated Interface, but he liked to print out a hard copy of his manuals first and then proof them. He seemed to do a better job of copyediting if he worked off printed pages instead of a screen.
He pulled into the parking lot and was lucky enough to find a space near The Store's entrance. He'd known this was coming, and he should've bought ribbons last week when they'd driven down to Phoenix, but he hadn't thought about it and now he was stuck. The Store was the only place in town that sold printer ribbons.
Bill got out of the Jeep, locked the door. He felt a knot of dread in his stomach as he walked up the parking lot aisle toward the building. Neither Sam nor Shannon was working this morning, and for that he was glad. He stared at the windowless expanse of wall before him and could not help thinking that The Store saw him, that it knew he was coming -- and that it had something planned for him. He did not want his daughters to see that.
He walked inside, ignored the smirking director who offered him assistance, and headed directly toward the aisle containing computer, printer, and typewriter accessories. He glanced around the other rows as he walked. What had happened to all of the myriad choices The Store had offered? Where had all the products gone? The shelves were still filled with plenty of items, he noticed, but there was no variety. There were no nationally known names, no recognizable packaging.
There was only The Store brand.
For all items.
His feeling of dread intensified as he walked down the aisle where the printer ribbons were supposed to be.
Were _supposed_ to be.
Instead, the shelves were packed with small boxes and plastic bottles. He looked carefully at the products facing him: Sneezing Powder, Itching Powder, Magic Toadstool Dust.
Comic book products.
Masturbation Lotion. Hot Love Oil. Breast-enlargement Gel. Penis lengthening Creme.
He frowned. What the hell was all this?
"We're reorganizing."
He looked up to see the smirking director he'd bypassed on his way in.
"You'd know that if you'd accepted the help I offered you."
Was there belligerence in the director's voice? Was there a threat implied in his space-invading stance?
"You're looking for printer ribbon, right?"
How could he know that? Bill felt chilled, but he kept his face unreadable, met the young man's eyes. "No," he lied.
The director seemed surprised, caught off guard. "Then what are you looking for?"
"Oh, nothing." Bill smiled at him. "I'm just browsing."
Before the director could respond, Bill moved away. He did not know whether the young man was following him, but he would not give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him check. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, and when he reached the extra-wide middle aisle that dissected The Store and ran from the Automotive to the Lingerie departments, he hung a right and began walking purposefully toward the opposite end of the building.
In the center of The Store, where the two transverse aisles met, a booth had been set up, a flimsy, temporary counter with an overhead sign that reminded him of Lucy's psychiatrist stand in the old _Peanuts_ cartoon strip.
JOIN STORE CLUB, the sign announced.
Two people he recognized, Luke McCann and Chuck Quint, were standing before the booth, and Bill slowed down as he approached them.
"Store Club?" Chuck asked the salesman manning the booth.
The salesman nodded. "If you become a member, you will be able to purchase goods at cost, without paying any sales tax. There are also numerous other benefits." His voice lowered. "Improved health, greater life expectancy, increased sex drive . . ."
Bill moved away, not wanting to hear any more.
He took the opportunity to glance surreptitiously behind him. The director was nowhere to be seen, and he relaxed, looking around, trying to figure out where they'd moved the printer supplies. A freestanding sign on the edge of the aisle touted EXCELLENT DEALS! NEW AUTOS AT FLEET PRICES! Beneath a picture of a red Saturn taking a mountain curve, the text said that The Store would be selling cars-to-order through a new catalogue, agreements with all of the major automakers allowing the vehicles to be sold at outrageously low prices and delivered directly to the buyers' houses.
There goes Chas Finney's Ford dealership, Bill thought.
He looked on the back of the sign, saw an offer for The Store's Discount Travel Bureau.
There went Elizabeth Richard's travel agency.
There was still no sign of printer supplies, but from a row halfway down the center aisle emerged a boy holding what looked like a mouse pad, and Bill immediately headed in that direction.
The row did indeed contain shelves and stacks of computer and typewriter accessories. He walked to the end of the section and scanned the packages of printer ribbons hanging from pegs on a recessed display. All were the generic Store brand, but there was an accompanying book attached by wire to the center of the display, and he cross-referenced his printer to find the ribbon that would be compatible.
"Do you have any naked-children videos?"
Bill looked up, shocked.
"Videos of children playing outdoors and having fun in the sun?"
The voice was coming from the next row over, and he quickly moved to the end of the row and peeked around the corner to see who the speaker was.
Reverend Smithee, the Baptist minister, was standing next to a Store clerk.
Smiling, the clerk shook his head and clucked disapprovingly. "Reverend.
I'm surprised at you."
Smithee reddened but refused to back off. "I was told you did."
"Is that what you like?"
"No. I just --"
"Those videos are illegal, you know."
The reverend's face grew redder. "They shouldn't be. Everybody's naked under their clothes. It's natural. I've never understood why you can show people being killed, but you can't show a body without clothes. Killing's much worse."
"We have snuff videos, too," the clerk said.
Smithee licked his lips. "Snuff videos? Where?"
The clerk's smile broadened. "Right this way, Reverend."
"You're not . . . going to report me?"
"Our aim is to meet our customers' needs and keep them happy." The clerk walked forward, the reverend following. He smiled knowingly at Bill as they passed by, and Bill could not help thinking that The Store had _wanted_ him to hear the exchange, that it had _wanted_ him to see Reverend Smithee in this light, that it had arranged it all.