“Okay, there’s some big whoop of a critic who lives out on Big Sister.”
“You’re looking at him-in living black and white. I’m Mitch Berger.”
“Sure, Rutty’s mentioned you. You used to go with the resident trooper.”
“Still do.”
“Hey, whatever. Only, you’ll have to buy something else if you want to keep talking to me. If I don’t move you through fast enough they’ll stick me in back with the warehouse apes.” Justine nodded to the rack next to her register. “How about the new Britney CD? Or perhaps Jessica Simpson’s more your style.”
“No, and hell no.” Mitch reached for a Milky Way bar.
“Well, you have some musical taste,” she allowed, ringing it up. “But that still doesn’t qualify you to read my novel. I’ll need to hear a lot more from you.”
“I don’t mind,” said Mitch, thinking that Rut hadn’t exaggerated about her mouth either. Justine Kershaw came equipped with loads of attitude.
“Tell you what, I have a break coming up in thirteen minutes. Not that I’m counting. I can meet you out front on the bench.”
“That’s fine. I’ll browse until then.”
“Knock yourself out. Only, wait…” She shoved his receipts into his hand. “Hold onto these for dear life or the security guards will nail you. They’re on monthly quotas. They don’t bust enough people, they don’t get promoted.”
The snack bar fumes continued to follow him until he got all the way to the shoe department, where they were finally overwhelmed by the smell of synthetic leather. Next to the shoe department there were television sets. Beyond those jewelry, bedding, brassieres. You could find pretty much anything at the big box store, Mitch realized as he munched his Milky Way. You could even buy a Mossberg 500 Pump Action shotgun while you were getting a prescription filled at the adjacent pharmacy.
As a rule, he preferred to give his business to individual local merchants. In fact, a lot of people had objected bitterly when the chain store empire had announced its intention to build an outlet in Dorset. A vigorous opposition drive had been mounted. It failed, although opponents did convince the corporate planners to build the proposed outlet on a vacant tract of land behind the A amp;P, where it could not actually be seen by passersby on the street. Only a discreet, unlit sign marked its presence.
One lap around this grim discount netherworld was plenty for Mitch. He couldn’t get back out to the parking lot fast enough. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he located the bench over next to the garden center, which was enclosed behind a neighborly twelvefoot fence topped with razor wire.
Justine was seated there in a scuffed leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and fending off the advances of a young security guard, who was hovering about her looking exceedingly puffed up.
“This is Trevor,” she said, smiling hugely as Mitch approached. “Trevor’s making sure I don’t steal this bench. And now he’s saying goodbye. Say byebye, Trevor.”
Trevor eyed Mitch up and down before he started back toward the front doors, strutting just a bit in case Justine was watching him.
She wasn’t. Her brown eyes were on Mitch as he sat next to her on the curved metal bench. Justine was not a calm person. She bristled with fidgety intensity as she studied him. “Buy something?” she asked mockingly.
“I didn’t, no,” he said, shifting around on the bench, which managed to be both ugly and uncomfortable.
“It’s fairly hilarious how all of you rich people look down your noses at this place but can’t stay away.”
“I’m not rich.”
“Whatever,” she said, as he continued to shift around. “Not real accommodating, is it?”
“It’s not. And I have ample padding.”
“That’s intentional. They don’t want us lingering out here, plotting to overthrow the empire.”
Trevor had not gone back inside. He was parked outside of the front doors, scrutinizing people as they left the store.
“Do you have big shoplifting problems here?” Mitch asked, watching him.
“Yeah, although half is actually employee pilfering. Which is, like, totally understandable. We all hate the place. Check this out-we get bonus points if we turn each other in. You amass enough points, you get a whole fiftycent raise.” Justine took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. “You know how they’re always telling us we won the Cold War? Look around you, cupcake. We didn’t beat them. We are them.”
“If you feel this way why don’t you do something better with yourself?”
“There is nothing better.” Justine shook another cigarette from her pack and lit it. “Besides, I’m in the belly of the beast here. The dehumanization, the grinding, hopeless despair-that just makes me stronger. It’s kind of an alternative sensibility. You probably can’t understand it.”
“You’re right, I can’t. With me, grinding despair is not an empowerment thing. It’s more of a misery thing.”
“My girls need me here, okay?” she explained, dragging on her cigarette. “Twothirds of our employees are women-but only onethird of us are in management. And men are paid more to do the same exact job we do. That is, like, so not even fair. I’m organizing our cashiers, okay? And I’m in touch with women at a whole bunch of our other New England stores. If we don’t get equal pay, we’re hiring a lawyer and suing their asses.”
“You’re a regular Norma Rae, aren’t you?”
“Who the hell’s she?”
“That’s okay. Don’t mind me.”
“They treat us like criminals. If you treat people like criminals, they act like criminals. Believe me, I know. I have one for a father and two-count ’em two-for brothers.”
“Are you happy to have them home again?”
“I’m not happy about anything that has to do with those dickheads,” Justine answered bitterly. “Or with that mean old man. You know what he thinks I should be doing? Devoting my life to cooking and cleaning for him. I told him, ‘I’m not your maid, you squirrely old bastard.’ And I got a place up by the lake with Allison Mapes. We’ve been best buds for, like, ever.”
“Is that the Allison who waits tables at McGee’s? Sure, I know her.” Mitch was partial to the fried oysters and spiral fries at McGee’s Diner. And Allison, a scrappy fireplug of a blonde, took exceptionally good care of him. “She’s my favorite waitress.”
“Hey, I’ll be sure to tell her you said so. It’ll make her year.”
A middleaged woman pulled up now in a Ford Explorer and dropped off a pair of sullen young women. They waved lazily to Justine as they scuffed inside.
Justine waved back, then turned to Mitch and said, “I haven’t let anyone read my novel. Why should I let you?”
“Somebody has to-if you want it to get published.”
“Who says I want that?”
Seated here with this feisty, inyourface young firecracker Mitch found himself feeling remarkably middleaged and stuffy. Which he was not used to. Generally, he was younger and measurably weirder than most of the people he came into contact with. “We all want an audience. Otherwise, we’re just muttering to ourselves.”
“I could care less what other people think. Besides, I doubt it’s commercial or anything. It’s way disturbing. Older people won’t even believe it. Because it’s not about their world-it’s about mine.” Justine stuck out her soft pink lower lip, studying him critically. “How can I be sure you know what you’re talking about?”
“Why would you assume I don’t?”
“Well, for starters, very few people do. Especially guys.”
“Have a lot of experience, do you?”
“With guys who are stupid? Duh, yeah.”
“I can only give you my own opinion. Feel free to ignore it.”
“So, what, you’d be doing this as a favor to Rut?”
“And because it’s the best part of my job. Reviewing the latest Rob Schneider movie, that’s work. Lending a hand to new talent, that’s fun. But, listen, if you’re afraid of the rejection…”
She let out a yelp of outrage. “Oh, no, you didn’t!”
“Oh, yes, I did.”
“I’m not afraid of rejection!”
