Warning: X-rated
(And, I promise, it gets much, much, worse.)
Sex in the Bathroom
Over the past few days a lot has changed at the supermarket.
The check stands have been moved so the contractors they hired for the remodel can redo the floor, plus they’ve rearranged the aisles again. Bandages are no longer next to macaroni; you’ll find them on Aisle 6 across from oatmeal.
There’s this new guy in Deli. He’s about my age, not a kid, but not an old man either. His glasses make him look intelligent and I like his legs. They’re muscular and tan. I know, because he wears shorts to work. (We’re allowed to wear black, knee-length shorts from Memorial to Labor Day.) I met him on the freight elevator. I was bringing down the trash cart, after emptying all the garbage cans, when Ranger rolled in a U-boat of roasted chickens destined for the dumpster. His name is Richard, but everybody calls him Ranger. He helped me load my garbage into the compactor—the bags from the trash cans outside the store are especially heavy—and, in return, I gave him a BJ in the employee bathroom. It’s unisex, down in the basement, and the door locks.
Now the poor schmoe is in love with me. Women sense these things, and we lefties are intuitive. He’s obsessed. I feel his eyeballs on my butt whenever I walk past.
But blowing Ranger is not the big thing (no pun intended).
The big thing is: Justus is dead, and I’m not sure if I killed him.
I heard about the accident this afternoon, as soon as I arrived at work. Several versions spread through the store like wildfire. According to one account, a car hit him up on River Road, not far from where I live. Another says he suffered a heart attack while riding his bike to the supermarket. A third version claims a passing car spat a rock that hit him in the head.
Unlike me, Justus never wears a helmet.
Anyway, he’s gone.
But I don’t think it was an accident.
Cut to several weeks ago, when I was at home recovering from my so-called accident. (I call it Justus attempting to slice off my thumb.)
I live alone, thanks to my ex-husband. He wanted kids. I didn’t. He used to bug me all the time. Irreconcilable differences, but we never divorced. I guess I should call him late, not ex.
The guy was far from punctual except when it came to dying. He croaked three years ago when he was thirty-one and I was twenty-nine. We bought this condominium, then one night when he was drunk (as usual) he took a bad fall down the stairs leading from our unit to the courtyard. They call them units, not apartments, which sounds like some kind of cell, but really the place is pretty nice: two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a working fireplace. Anyway, he cracked his skull on the concrete and I inherited the mortgage. Also a used truck, my husband’s power tools, and $30,000 life insurance from his job as a plumber. That’s how I bought my Cruiser bike, smart TV, smartphone, iPad, a new laptop, I don’t remember what else—but the money’s gone. The truck guzzles gas, so most of the time I ride my bicycle.
Anyway, several weeks ago, after my so-called accident, I was hanging out on my balcony, sipping Diet Pepsi and popping Dilaudid while checking out the passing cars, when I spotted Justus on his bicycle. I tracked the bald spot on his head as he rode along the bike path, passing my condominium complex, kept watching as he cycled along the path and turned toward the supermarket.
That’s when Sadie the Sadist convinced me to start practicing.
The bandage on my left hand made climbing down from the folding chair difficult, so I had to support myself with my right hand. That’s how the whole ambidextrous thing started. After climbing down, I noticed something annoying in my shoe, took the shoe off and found a pebble. Using my right hand, I threw the pebble off the balcony. Not a bad shot. I managed to hit the wooden fence, and I felt sure, with practice and a heavier object I could hit a passing car—or bicycle.
“Sadie, you’re staring into space again.”
Terri the Terrible glances at her clipboard.
“It’s 7:45. You’re scheduled to clean the bathrooms. Make sure you sign off, and don’t forget to mop the Men’s Room.”
“Will do.”
My foot juts out; Sadie the Sadist is about to trip Terri, but I quickly pull back my sneaker (Nike, Air Pegasus—understated, classy).
Sadie the Sadist is disgusted.
Wimp.
“Shut up.”
A customer glances at me, no doubt wondering if shut up was meant for her.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
I meander toward the bathrooms.
During the day the store hires a porter, but come evening cleaning is the responsibility of Courtesy Clerks. The Men’s Room is always gross; talk about needing practice taking aim.
Before hitting the bathrooms, I detour through Pharmacy and circle the store’s perimeter, passing through Dairy, Meat, Bakery and Produce to reach Deli.
I spot Ranger by the display of roasted chickens. This time of day, they pull leftover chickens and throw them in the compactor.
The fake robot senses my approach.
“May I take your order?”
“Shut up, stupid.”
“What?” Ranger looks up from the case, pokes his glasses.
“Not you, the robot.”
Ranger smiles, and I smile back.
“You due for a break soon, Ranger?”
“After I dump these chickens.”
“Meet me in the Men’s Room in ten minutes.”
His smile gets wider. “Sure thing, Sally.”
My grin shatters.
“Sadie,” I correct him.
He appears confused.
“My name is Sadie.”
“Sadie, right.” He turns his attention to the chickens.
The bags they’re wrapped in are different colors: Yellow for Lemon Pepper, green for Sage, red for Barbeque. “Sorry.”
I say, “It’s okay.”
But it’s not.
I stand there, watching Ranger, ideas formulating.
He glances at me. “What?”
I don’t like his condescending tone of voice.
“Nothing.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
As if that excuses him.
When I was off work, due to the accident, I had a lot of time to read. Not only self-help, other things. I downloaded a few books, including Cereal (by Blakette Crotch and Josephine Kornrash), about this woman who works in a supermarket, like me. She has this thing for Raisin Bran. I think it’s a true story.
Anyway, I found it inspiring.
I bat my eyelashes at Ranger, imagining how he’d look completely naked, his skin oiled and brown, juices flowing as I roast him slowly on a spit.
“You’re a sweet girl, Sadie.”
“No I’m not.”
He places the color-coded bags on a cart, preparing to dump them. Says, “There are starving people in this world who’d kill me for these chickens.”
“In this town,” I add. “So, are we on?”
“I could go to hell.”
“For fucking me or dumping chickens?”
I walk away, feel him watching my posterior. I think of his, tight and muscular.
Pausing by a display of salami, I lean over the bin, admiring the sausages, and twerk my ass for Ranger.
I’m gratified when I hear the splat of roasted chicken falling on the floor.
A sudden craving for corn—the food I’ve been avoiding, find repulsive—steers my body into Produce. I grab an ear out of the bin—big, fat Olathe—and slip it into a pocket of my apron. The store has cameras everywhere, but at this time of day the security guy is probably half-asleep, bored out of his mind from staring at monitors. I pass through Dairy, shove a tub of imitation butter into another pocket.
Rack it up to shrink; that’s supermarket jargon for losses.
I circle back to the bathrooms, collect a spray bottle of cleaner and a box of paper towels from the cart sitting at the entryway, pull on rubber gloves, and push open the door marked Women’s.
A customer washes her hands at the newly refurbished sink, oblivious to the mess she’s making. Drips of soap smear the counter and water spills onto the floor. She glances at me and, noticing my cleaning supplies, offers a patronizing smile.
“I’ll get out of your way,” she says politely, but disdain screams from her eyes.
“No hurry, Take your time.” Under my breath, Sadie the Sadist adds, “Meanwhile, I’ll fill that sink with soap and you can lick it clean or die.”
I don’t think the woman heard me.
She waves her hand at the automatic dispenser (another recent upgrade), wipes her hands on the resulting towel, and tosses the crumpled paper at the trash can. She doesn’t notice (ignores it) when the towel lands on the floor.
I wonder what would happen if I spray this cleaning solution in her eyes. Would the whites turn red? Would the ammonia burn? Cause a milky film to form on her retina? Would she beg me to stop?
The woman leaves. I squirt the counter, wipe it. After polishing the mirror, I run my gloved fingers through my hair, mouse brown, nondescript. I wonder how I’d look if I dyed it flaming red. Red is an appropriate color for Sadie the Sadist, don’t you think? I turn sideways to the mirror, stand on tip-toes, suck in my gut. The tub of imitation butter pouches my apron, and I look like I’m about to give birth to an alien. I slip my hand into the apron’s pocket. The cob of corn feels like a giant hard-on.
Makes me think of Ranger.
I glance at the stalls. Chances are Terri the Terrible will come in here to inspect my work, so I have to clean the toilets. I pull my phone out of my pocket (we’re not supposed to carry phones, but everybody does), check the time and realize I’d better hit the Men’s Room if I want to hook up with Ranger.
Thinking about his ass makes me cream.
I fill out the chart taped to the door of the Women’s bathroom. Time: 8PM. Cleaning: visual, light, or deep. (I choose deep.) Initials. Hugging the spray bottle and box of paper towels, I head to the Men’s Room, anticipation causing pussy juice to trickle down my thighs.
I knock, and then call out, “Anybody in there?”
No answer, so I push the door open.
A guy stands at the urinal, shaking himself.
“Be right out,” he says.
I watch as he zips his fly.
Bypassing the sink, he leaves.
Do men ever wash their hands?
I set the Cleaning/Wet Floors sign outside the door.
To pass the time while I wait for Ranger, I spray down the counter, glance into the stalls. One’s not too bad, but the other looks like a ticker tape parade marched through it: streamers of shitty toilet paper trampled on the floor. I’ll leave that mess for the porter.
I glance at my phone, checking the time.
Ranger should be here by now. Dumping chickens shouldn’t take twenty minutes. I go out to the cleaning cart to get the mop and pail of water, glance toward the check stands.
No sign of him, so I text: Wair r u?!?
I watch my phone for a full minute.
No response. So, I call him.
Finally, he picks up.
“What? I’m working.”
“Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Hahaha.”
What does later mean? Before I have a chance to ask, he hangs up.
If he’s not coming, I’ll come by myself.
I grab the mop and dunk it into the pail, splashing water on my sneakers. The Men’s Room floor is covered with yellow-brown foot prints. I mop around the toilets, avoiding strands of paper, and back my way out of the door.
I had plans.
I hate it when someone screws up my plans.
The dent in my female pride deepens into a chasm—a dark abyss churning with rage.
I bend over the pail and twist the mop imagining it’s Ranger’s neck, imagining it’s every man who’s ever jerked me around. The corncob in my pocket jabs me, and wet heat rushes through my body as I formulate a new and better plan. The thought of it makes my slit gush.
Forget the Men’s Room. I need privacy.
I run back to the door marked Women, peeling off my rubber gloves. All the stalls are empty. Good. I duck into the first one, secure the lock. Bending over the pail meant for discarded tampons, I quickly shuck the cob of corn, dig my fingers into the tub of margarine and butter up. I’m dripping with anticipation. The cob slides right in.
Who doesn’t love creamed corn?
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