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The Family Guy

Annabelle Baptista

    Ralf’s calloused palms carved open twenty boxes of bio chips, unpacking as fast as he could, twisting his hips to place them on the shelves above his head. After eight cups of Folger’s crystals, he was speeding, ignoring paper cuts and dancing to the beat of the elevator musak under electric wall sconces and tiki torches in the area of the store called the Island. It was the party section divided between chips and nuts and an isle over from the wine and micro brews. He’d built up three tiers of zucchini, banana and carrot veggie chips, unpacked in under two hours. He paused only momentarily to pull his jeans over his hips, his studded belt jingling. He sucked on the stud in his tongue, flicking it against the back of his front teeth. Noticing a crooked sign, he stretched two tingling fingers to change a price shield behind a plastic cover on the top shelf. If his supervisor, Mr. Dreckfus had seen him he’d have gone ballistic. Read him the OSHA worker safety regulations, and then given him a drama club hug, stabbing him in the chest with his pocket pen and remind him that McJob lives matter. However, the work went faster without harnesses and 3-foot stools. The Bio, as it was called by the graveyard staff, was a 24-hour green grocer which served the Chicago metrosexual biosphere with chemically free friendly-food alternatives. Ambient jazz riffs played between loops of sale’s specials. Their customers felt good knowing the store, and by extension, themselves were not promoting death, giving chicken’s free range, freeing dolphins, buying fair trade products from developing nations, as well as giving the homeless and junkies a chance to get back on their feet or at least to their knees. Paula came around the corner, her fro-hawk held by a metal comb into a bear trap that pulled the hair so tightly away from her face, that she had no hair at her edges of her face only pimples. Her make up seemed to have been through a nuclear melt down; blue-orange eyeshadow caked on her lids, red mushroom clouds exploded on her cheeks and coal clumped in the corners of her eyes. She placed her hand over her mouth and spoke through her fingers in a voice as soft as a kitten. “I can’t take anymore. Fuck food.”
    “Whatever, sister.” Ralf said feeling liberated by the tall stacks of chips.

    “Clean up on aisle ten.”
    Ralf looked in the direction of the announcement.
    “You go. I’m on break,” Paula said plodding toward the break room door her thighs rubbing loudly against one another.
    Ralf pushed the empty cart filled with boxes back into the supply room. Dizzy Paula, forever lingering about as if she were a job inspector. This place operates more like a half-way house than a grocery store.
    Ralf gritted his teeth and soldiered over to ten, hoping it wasn’t tomato sauce or ketchup, both were a bitch to clean up, stained everything, and smelled like blood. Shit, he thought, stepping over the serpentine splatter of a broken bottle of organic syrup. Its shards sticking up like broken teeth.
    As if a body had fallen beneath the floorboards leaving mucus and paper bones. Ralf closed his eyes and concentrated again on being in the store, in front of a mess that needed to be cleaned up.
    “Say sorry, to the nice man.” A thin-lipped woman, held a six-year-old copper-top boy by the arm. He held his chin high, glaring at her. He definitely was not sorry.
    “You’re going to get it, when we get home,” She said, slapping the kid on the side of the head, as if it were a paddleball. The boy rubbed the spot on his head then glared at her.
    “It’s okay.” Ralf said waving his hand – he threw a towel over the heap.
    The woman shook the kid. Oh man, A real ball-breaker. Ralf’s features froze. He glared at her with a hardened gaze.
    “I said it’s okay. Do you want him to grow up to be like me?” Ralf rubbed the shaved part of his head.
    The woman’s head shook as if she didn’t believe what she’d heard, her eyes were the size of quarters and she looked at him, for the first time.
    “Just teasing,” Ralf said, and pulled the mop across the floor.
    He could see her processing his life and how it had collided with hers.
    “Have a happy Thanksgiving,” Ralf said.
    She swiveled around and walked away with the kid’s arm hiked in the air. Ralf could tell she was going to speak to the manager.
    “Shit.” He’d only had the job three months. Three months clean.
    He threw more industrial detergent over the towel that covered the dark gelatinous muck, creating a noxious cocktail which burned like crystal meth. He let the toxicity clear his head.
    The intercom announced bulger burgers 4 for 2.69 on aisle four as Ralf stepped outside. He was surprised to see Paula sitting on the bench near the dumpster in a gigantic wool coat.
    He wanted to go hang out in the break room, but since the syrup accident Mr. Dreckfus, the night manager, was surfing up and down the aisles like a land shark. He needed to stay out of his way, just thirty minutes more.

    “What are you going to do for Thanksgiving?”
    “Not get high,” He rubbed the back of his head.
    She was wheezing as if she were drying out. She breathed like it was the hardest thing she had to do all day.
    “I’m going to watch The Family Guy, the last season. Get some pizza, so that’s my thanksgiving,” She said then sneezed and shook herself.
    “What are you lovers talking about?”
    “Go do some fucking work, Tommy, don’t come out acting like an asshole,” Ralf said.
    “No foul, buddy. I’m just asking what’s up,” Tommy said closing the door behind him as he stepped out back in front of the dumpster. He wore a rolled ski mask and jammed his hand in a parka. It was cold as hell, but no snow. Ralf was glad about that.
    “I just came outside for a break from that musak shit that they play. It’s torture,” Tommy said, then turned his attention to Paula.
    “ You know you could lose weight if you had Crohn’s disease. I weighed two-hundred pounds, but now I way one hundred and thirty and I go shit every hour. But the weight loss was a blessing.”
    “It’s not that I don’t care, I’ve tried everything.” Paula said sniffling.
    “Look, I’ve got 15 minutes until the end of my shift. Don’t make one another feel like shit for at least 15 minutes! Let’s try that,” Ralf said.
    “I think that means we have to be quiet,” Paula said slumping against the store wall to pull gum off the bottom of her tennis shoe.
    “Bingo.” Ralf inhaled his Camel.
    “I’ve got something nice to say. What are you going to do for Thanksgiving?” Tommy asked.
    Tommy reminded him of the kid in the halfway house whose big mouth had got him killed. There were three of them. They had beat the shit out of the kid, then kicked the shit out of him. A pile of broken flesh covered in sweat and blood stained. His white milky eyes staring through Ralf was seared into his mind once he got sober. Ralf squeezed his arms around himself and tried to erase the picture.
    “You can come to my house for Thanksgiving,” Paula said, we can get some pizzas from the store and heat them up, and watch the Family guy.”
    “I’ve got to use the toilet. I’m not great at keeping food down, at least not in my body,” Tommy said.
    “I should find an AA meeting. Holidays are the worse for alcoholics and drug addicts,” Ralf said repeating what the counselors and warned him of as he left the evening AA meeting before the start of his shift. He looked at his phone, but he didn’t make a move to leave although his shift was over.
    “Maybe we can hang out together.” Paula said, wheezing from the struggle to breath, causing the buttons of her blouse to strain at the threads ready to pop.
    “I’m going home,” Tommy said and kicked the dumpster which caused the lid to shut.
    “You want to be alone?” Paula said.
    “You win the lottery every time Tommy. I’m beginning to doubt your shitty hand. I watched someone about your age get the shit kicked out of him and he died on the spot. He couldn’t act casual about it. Take it in stride. He was ripped to pieces, so stop acting screwed all the time.” Ralf stood, threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it.

    “Okay, Paula, I have two questions and your answers are crucial. Does your toilet flush? And do you have a window in your bathroom?” Tommy asked, rolling his eyes at Ralf.
    “Yeah, I do. We’ll have a regular day. We’ll act like normal people.” Paula said her face lit up by the exit sign.
    “Ok. I get a tomato pizza with mozzarella I don’t want a flaming asshole today, Tommy said.
    Ralf held the door open for Paula, then Tommy and said, “You hit the nail on the head. Not one of us is going to be a flaming asshole, today.”

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