The Nothing That Is by Kyle Winkler

Author:Kyle Winkler [Winkler, Kyle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798722044952
Published: 2021-05-11T07:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

I did not go back to work. I drove to the office supply store on the other side of town. And before that, I got drive-thru burgers and fries and ate in my car. I hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours. Maybe more. I was so hungry that I drove through and got three more burgers and two fries. When I ate those, I licked the bag inside out of the remaining salt. I contemplated chewing on the paper bag when I caught myself. I wadded the bag and tossed it in the back. I had another uninvited vision of myself slurping down the bright smoke. But I knew it was inside me already.

I wept.

At the office supply store, I had to dodge the croaky-voiced college kid who kept asking me if I needed any help. I was a regular there, getting crap for the office: printer paper, timecards, pencils. I instinctively checked the far wall for signs of the Galactic Storeroom Man. He decided office supplies were boring, too, I guess, and skipped this place. I found the answering machines and was reading the back of the box, when I heard the crackle of static. Then the manager’s voice came over the loudspeaker announcing a sale on pocket calculators. The static disappeared.

“There you are!” the sales associate said. He was winded from looking for me. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Not really. Found it.”

The college kid frowned. Literally suffering with disappointment.

“I’ll tell you about that model,” he said.

“Please, don’t. I already read the box. This’ll do.”

“Are you sure, that one’s got so many bells and whistles now that—”

“Hey,” I read his nametag, “Sean? Leave me alone.”

Sean the Sales Associate scowled and moved past me to ask another victim how they wanted their shopping ruined by his presence.

Waiting in the checkout line, I heard the static of the speaker again. But no one was talking. Some idiot had elbowed the TALK button and was letting the white noise take over. The registers were unmanned, down to a single solitary one and the line was preposterously long for an office supply store at lunchtime. But everyone else was like my sorry ass, having to do their decrepit boss’s duties during their own single, dwindling private hour. Every customer looked like they had gastrointestinal problems.

When I finally reached the front of the line, the curly-haired cashier gal was relieved by her manager, and yup, Sean the Master Associate took the keys. Before I was able to set the new answering machine down, the Manager—a frumpy, middle-aged masturbator with hair oil leaking into his polo collar—leaned into Sean’s ear and (loud enough for me to glean) said that if he didn’t straighten out the dot matrix printer display before closing, he’d lose his weekend hours and no lunch breaks.

My knuckles whitened. I felt my gut froth with nuclear rage. I wanted to chew this manager’s nose off and spit it into the register drawer. The static in the overhead speaker crackled. Sean’s face tightened then went loose with a well-worn practice.

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