 |
| Illustration by Randy Allende |
Busy, chubby hands in the grimy mirror filled the bell peppers in the pattern of semaphore lights, and the cooling mist spraying my skin reminded me they were mine. Each movement released an acrid stench from my armpits, which, I hoped, would act as a customer repellent. My last shower was a hazy memory lost in mental fog. A week? A month?
In the background, mixing with the hum of the freezer, Christmas carols droned, hollow and distant, amplifying the familiar sinking feeling. Knowledge didn’t diminish its power, though. On the contrary, awareness made it worse. Everyone was fighting the afternoon demon, I knew from their pale, immobile faces, from their dead eyes, but they didn’t dwell on it, they were able to repress it, make it invisible. To me, it appeared like a constant roadblock on the way to a murky normalcy.
A kid walked by with his family, pushing a small cart that said “Customer in Training.” The parents grabbed a bag of green grapes and showed the little one how the scale worked. When they were done, the kid kept playfully pushing on the metal plate, watching the needle move up and down with round, curious eyes. I cringed. Wasn’t child's play just work practice? And what was work if not preparation for old age, boredom, and death? Child’s play was just training for rigor mortis.
Andriy stepped through the double doors from the back and walked toward me with his assured, steady stride and soft smile. His perfect posture--ramrod straight, squared shoulders, head held high--always made me feel self-conscious. I’d had a hump and slumped shoulders for as long as I could remember. Even being bipedal didn’t come naturally to me.
“How’s it going, Edgar?”
I was flattered he knew my name, gave him an automatic smile, and mumbled a lie, “Not bad.”
“Closing tonight?”
“Yeah…. I hear you’re a big manager now.” I gave myself an inward pat on the back for recalling that morsel of information.
“Yeah, it’s to get permanent residence before my work permit expires. I don’t want to go back to Ukraine, fuck that place.”
Andriy had come to our store as a refugee after Russia’s invasion in 2022. He started out working in deli, where we got to know each other while I went there to price cut-fruit and salads. For some reason, our produce section never had a retail scale, so I was always running back and forth.
I hit my forehead with my palm and shook my head. “Oh man, I don’t even understand why they expect you to work. Capitalist pigs! It’s as if my neighbor’s house is on fire, but I only let them inside my own place if they do chores for me.”
To my surprise, Andriy didn’t share my outrage and replied stoically, “That’s ok, I don’t mind working as long as my work is appreciated. Back in Lviv, I had my own restaurant, but employees were stealing and being lazy fucks. It didn’t go well. But here is better, people do honest work.”
My gaze fell on his blue shirt, crisp and neatly tucked into his black pants. The shade matched the piercing blue of his eyes. “How come you don’t wear the gray manager’s shirt? And how come you made manager so fast, you have no seniority?”
Andriy gave a sly smile, showing his even whites. “First of all, I don’t like gray. Secondly, I just went up to Darren, the district manager, and told him I want to be in charge.”
I nodded and smiled broadly to cover my confusion. This guy really wanted to work in this sordid, soul-sucking place? I retreated to safer conversational ground, “I feel you, man. If becoming a supervisor is what it takes, so be it. I’d definitely do my best to keep away from that meat-grinder as well.” I laughed too hard, sounding like a hyena. Brutal images from Goregrish flashed through my mind: Ukrainian soldiers having their balls cut off, Russians blown apart by drones as they smoked their cigarettes under the bare, black branches of skeletal trees, bodies crushed beneath tank tracks, merging with the scorched earth. Anxious not to offend or sound weird, I came up with something neutral “The Ukrainians make good use of drones. Their resistance is very inspiring. Fuck Putin! That guy is nuts.”
Andriy waved his hand and adjusted his looped man bun nervously. I usually hated man-buns but it looked slick on him, like a samurai warrior. “There’s a lot of corruption in Ukraine,” Andriy said, “I’m too smart to die in that stupid war. I will stay here in Canada, there’s many opportunities here. I’ll have my own business, maybe a restaurant or something like that.”
“Damn, I’d work for your restaurant,” I ventured. “If you ever need a dishwasher or a janitor. I don’t know much about cooking, but I’ll do my best.” That statement surprised even me. I was like one of those joyous puppies who piss themselves when getting some attention. But Andriy was looking straight at me, the tops of his shoes were pointed directly at me. He wanted to have a genuine conversation, not just spit a few words my way for purposes of civility.
He smiled his princely, charming smile. “Well, thank you.” Then a shadow darkened his features, dimming the brightness of his blue eyes. “I keep having these fucking nightmares that the recruiters would reach me even here in Canada and force me to join the stupid army. Some of my friends are there--it’s a meatgrinder. I have a friend who machine-gunned two dozen Russians on the streets of Bakhmut. They kept coming down the same street, over and over again, in the same formation like mindless sheep. Trying the same thing and expecting different results. Madness, right? Anyway, my friend needed therapy after the first day. PTSD or something like that.”
I nodded, rubbing my scruffy beard, “I know the Russians don’t care much for their soldiers. I read somewhere that at Stalingrad they’d give them a few bullets and tell them to use the weapons of their fallen comrades as they become available. Imagine, taking on a Panzer division with a handful of bullets in your pocket.” I doubled over, braying donkey-like laughter.
“Yeah, Ukrainian commanders are not much better, trust me,” Andriy said with a resigned tone.
Wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, my gaze fell on a raggedy hobo cutting through produce toward meat. A gray, stained blanket hung from his shoulders like a battered cape. A balaclava sat on his head, pulled up like a tuque, as if he were unsure whether he was going to rob the place or not. A bit hunched over, his shoulder muscles were so jacked they reached his ears. An aggressive miasma of rotted fish and bitter urine wafted over the apple and citrus tables, assaulting my nostrils. His battered Sorel boots shuffled against the floor, soles wet with snow, their laces undone. From somewhere inside his makeshift cape, upbeat music blared--Eminem’s “Slim Shady--a counterpoint to the soul-sucking carols.
“Look at this guy,” I pointed to Andriy, “no fucks given.”
Andriy looked over his shoulder, and his face twisted in disgust. He reached for his radio, pressed a button, and said, “Jason, there’s a suspicious guy in the meat.”
“Ok, I’m on it,” Jason the security guy, replied.
“Let me know if you need help,” Andriy added. “He looks big.”
“Sure will,” Jason said.
Attention back on me, Andriy asked, “Why are there homeless people here in Canada? This is such a rich country.”
My heart beat faster, and my breath quickened as words crowded my mouth, choking me. This was one of my favorite topics and ranting about it would kill a lot of time. “Oh fuck, such a good question. Where do I even begin?” I pointed in the rough direction of the train station. “Bell Station here had been finished just before Covid. Before then, the scum dwelled downtown and on the north side but with the LRT expansion they infested the south. During Covid, our shit-for-brains mayor decided to make public transit free. Next thing you know, the bums live on the train. It’s nice and toasty, especially in the winter. No masks, obviously. Smoking crack and ice, shooting heroin, what have you. These virus-carriers started pissing and shitting all over, marking their territory. I mean, for God’s sake, this is public transit, not a GG Allen concert.”
As soon as that reference came out, I knew Andriy wouldn’t get it. He didn’t look like a punk rock fan. I raised my palm, “Nevermind that. Long story short, this train station became their fucking home. And since Foods ”R” Us is close to the station, they come here to eat. No fucks given.”
Andriy nodded, gazing toward the filthy behemoth as he stuffed his basket with packaged meat. Jason monitored the suspect from a safe distance, pretending to be on his phone. Eyes back on me, Andriy said, “I get that, but why are there homeless people here in the first place in the first place?”
I stroked my trashy moustache, and made a victory sign. “Two points. First, intergenerational trauma. You know…Natives. In residential schools they were abused mentally and sexually. Plus the genocide…Let’s just say, many of them haven’t recovered. They just can’t get a grip, and they kill themselves slowly with drugs and alcohol. But second, and this might sound a bit like a conspiracy theory. I think the homeless are left to wander in plain view by design. The rich elites show the poor what’s gonna happen if they don’t toe the line; if they stop working, if they stop paying their bills, if, God forbid, they start some kind of revolution. I mean, when I see these degenerates sleeping in their dirty blankets in the stations, I feel more motivated to go to work and pay those bills.” Again, I gave a shrill laughter, hopping he won’t notice my use of degenerate.
Andriy absorbed my arguments with avid interest, wheels turning behind his keen blue eyes. “I’m not convinced. There are rich and poor in Finland or Sweden, but they don’t have a homeless population.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been out of Canada. The way I figure is that these people are of no use to society. What’s the point of investing in them? They’re basically invisible, there’s no labor to be squeezed out of them. So then, they just let them roam around, like walking scarecrows.”
Andriy was shaking his head and getting ready to rebut when a middle-aged customer interrupted us, like they’re fond of doing. “Sorry sirs, do you carry halal chicken here?”
I began raising my hand to tell him to go to the meat department, but Andriy answered first, “We don’t carry it in this store, but Walmart does.”
The man sighed with disappointment and clenched his teeth. “And where’s the nearest Walmart?”
Again, I opened my mouth to say it’s not our business to know Walmart locations but Andriy already had his phone in his hand. “Let’s check out on the internet,” he said, tapping the screen and scrolling. “You go east on Nelson avenue, and then south on Calgary trail, till you reach Southpark Shopping Center. A Walmart is there.”
The guy nodded, mumbled his thanks and made himself scarce.
I gave Andriy a crooked smile. “A plus customer service, going above and beyond…”
He flashed an impish grin. “You have to be nice to them or they blow this fucking place up.”
Tilting my head back I let out a braying laugh.
Brenda’s nagging voice crackled over the PA system abruptly cutting our fun. “Andriy to customer service! Andriy to customer service, please!”
Andriy gave me a fist bump. “I’ll be back,” he said, his voice a poor imitation of the Terminator, as he marched toward the front end.
The interaction had a tonic effect. It was already time for my first break. With Andriy’s help I tricked the noonday demon once more, the scalps of two more work hours under my belt. I quickly finished filling up the bell peppers, and pushed my cart in the back, and headed to the break-room.
I was stuffing my face with fries and chicken wings, and watching a Goregrish video about a cartel victim getting their face burned off, when shouting erupted near the cash registers. The commotion sliced through the air, and an acrid, spicy smell followed close behind. Brenda burst into the room, face beet red, muttering curses, and went straight to the eyewash station.
She got pepper-sprayed, I realized, with a surge of sadistic joy. I thought she should count her blessings, some of these thieves would spray fire in your face. These attacks were common as most robbers were also crazies or junkies. Once, this native chick threatened to commit suicide and started cutting herself with a knife from the kitchen aisle. I still regret not being there to video her. It would have been my first post on Goregrish.
Andriy rushed into the room and sat two water bottles, a milk container, and a some cloths on the table.
“Cold milk is good for rinsing too, Brenda.”
“The motherfucker blinded me. I can’t believe this,” she grumbled.
“What happened?” I asked, playing dumb.
“That crazy bum had pepper spray,” Andriy said as he hurried to the sink near Brenda, and soaked a white rag.
“Oh no!” I said, and bit back laughter. Brenda, the racist cunt. Customers had complained about her for months in online reviews--especially the natives. How she followed them around the store, shot daggers with her eyes, and mistreated them at self-checkout.
Also, I knew the nosy cow had snitched on me for time theft, complaining my breaks were too long. Snitches get stitches, as they say. Karma’s a bitch.
Jason came in, hands in his pockets. “Motherfucker was fast for a big guy.”
“Cyka Blyat,” Andriy said, “he left with all that meat?”
Jason nodded and looked down. “Not much we could have done. I just called mall security.”
Andriy produced his phone and walked to the far corner of the room. “I’m gonna call the police, too. This is assault.”
“Is all that meat coming out of your paycheck? Hundreds of dollars wasted,” Brenda barked from the sink. “Where were you?” she shouted as she stepped toward Jason, ready to punch him despite her slight body. “I kept paging for you. I’m gonna have you reported, you waste of skin.”
“I was waiting for him by the front door,” Jason said in a small voice.
“But I told you to come to the self-checkout.”
“You weren’t supposed to engage him, lady. That’s my job.”
“Well, you’re not doing it very well, are you? I’ve been paging for you all night, and that’s the first time I see you. God! You’re supposed to catch thieves, yet you’re the one stealing time.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, lady. You’re not my boss!”
Brenda threw out her hands in frustration. “So what? Am I supposed to let those scummy junkies rob us blind?”
Watching Brenda’s cheap over-the-top display filled me with anger and disgust. Throwing caution to the wind--and gas on the fire--I blurted out, “What’s it to you, Brenda? They’re not robbing you? Nothing here is yours? You’re already so blind you actually think you own the place?”
Her bloodshot eyes flashed and her face turned a darker shade of red. “If we let them steal, we’ll be out of a job, dimwit.”
“We’ll be out of a job anyway. You think it’s hard for a robot to do your basic job? You better focus on your retirement plan.”
Brenda was ready to spit her venomous reply when Andriy stepped between us, hands raised like a referee in a boxing match. “Guys, guys, this is not a productive discussion. We have to stay professional. Brenda, you can make your complaints to the management tomorrow, but now you better sit down and use these towels on your face to fight the burning. There’s no point getting anxious over this and making things worse. We need to keep calm.”
To Jason, Andriy said, “Come on, man. The police will be here shortly. We need to get our statements ready.”
They rushed out of the lunchroom.
Brenda sat down with a deep sigh and started sobbing quietly like a petulant child, tears streaking down her sunken cheeks to the trembling tip of her chin. The sound of Brenda crying was soothing. I craved licking her salty tears.
She was still hot, in a damaged sort of way. Thinning, straight blond hair framed a wrinkled, pale face that bore traces of a faded beauty. Her hazel eyes had a furtive desperation to them, like those of a stray lonely dog. Her emaciated body betrayed an unhealthy obsession with losing weight.
My dick jumped to life. I imagined her being gang-banged by a group of native thugs hung like horses and her tears and snot actually being thick layers of cum and spit. I imagined them fucking her face so hard her nose would start bleeding and her front teeth would loosen. My erection grew, pressing against my jeans. I opened my picture app and recorded her crying, holding my phone casually to appear I was reading something. Satisfied with the gathered material, I tossed the greasy container and empty Coke into the garbage, then filled the cheap plastic kettle for coffee. After lunch, I usually needed caffeine to stay awake.
I sat back down. Staring at the tormented sicko, my libido gave way to a bubbling disgust. Soon, the hum of boiling water mixed with Brenda’s sobs and my simmering hate.
“So, what happened Shitty Jane, did you try to play the hero again?” I poked at her. There were no security cameras in the lunch room, and no witnesses. If she decided to complain it would be my word against hers.
My sharp question jolted her into a straight position. She wiped the tears and snot off her flushed face with a cloth and looked at me like I was a roach squirming in her soup.
I continued in a calm tone despite the torment inside. “You know people call you Shitty Jane? Do you know why? Because you look a lot like Jane and you guys are friends for some reason but she is cool and kind whereas you are…well…shitty.”
She brushed her hair out of her eyes with a nervous gesture and raised a thin eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Indeed it is. I hear that you used to be a manager and maybe that’s why you feel the need to be in control. But that is the past Brenda. You have to stop living in the past and accept the present. You’re nobody here. Your name on the schedule is all the way at the bottom and you barely get any hours. I guess you’re restricted? I know for a fact you’re restricted in the head. This job sucked you dry. Your husband barely touches you without cringing, I could bet on it. Menopause looms large. You going after thieves like that is just a cry for help. You need lots of therapy, Brenda. It’s not too late. Despite what they say, you can stop being shitty. You weren’t born this way, were you? I believe in you.”
She rolled her eyes hard and then glared at me with a mixture of revulsion and raw hatred. “Hell will freeze over before I take advice from your lazy, fat ass. You think I don’t see you, chubbs? Slacking off all day, trying to fly under the radar, all the girls on cash mocking you behind your back. We have our eyes on you, scummy beard-necked incel. I don’t know how on earth you made probation but you’ll be out of here before you know what hit you. The streets will thin you out real fast. Homelessness is the best diet, you eye-sore. Shouldn’t you be on the floor anyway, you walking dumpster fire?”
The cunt’s words cut deep, but I managed a smile. “You sound downright insane …Shitty…Jane?” I high-fived myself internally for coming up with the epic ryhme.
We stared each other down. Brenda’s face turned deadpan. Suddenly, she launched herself out of her chair, lashing at me with cat-like agility. I pulled back instinctively, her claws slicing through the air inches from my face. The table between us screeched against the floor as I scrambled out of my chair. For a terrible second I thought it would knock me down. The milk carton tipped over, spilling its contents, while water bottled rolled to the floor with hollow clunks.
I managed to sidestep to the left, keeping the table as a barrier between us. Branda quickly computed I was out of her reach and her wild eyes darted to the boiling kettle on the counter. As she lunged for it, I bolted to the door. Some primal part of my brain guessed the trajectory of her throw and I ducked by head a split second before the plastic kettle exploded against the wall. Scalding water whipped my back but my charged system swallowed the pain.
Heart pounding, I darted through the hallway to the safety of the sales floor and of security cameras. I veered to the right, down aisle ten. In the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Andriy and Jason talking to the police at the entrance. It will be on Branda to explain the mess in the lunch-room, when they get her statement. Although terrified, I was also euphoric. I really got under the bitch’s skin, at least some of my verbal punches had landed. I recorded her crying like a cheap slut who didn’t get paid. Things were happening. All the action kept the dark thoughts at bay. Brighter colors leaked into the world. I entered the backroom with a spring in my step.
A few days later, I was on the morning shift, restocking the salad wall, a hangover throbbing in my brain after a night of gorging on Imperial Stout, power electronics, and snuff films. My hands were opening and breaking boxes with dexterity, as if my diminished consciousness had freed them. The crinkle of plastic bags and clamshell boxes sent pangs of irritation through my tormented psyche. A mind-numbing Mariah Carey Christmas hit seeped through the speakers. The cold air from the freezer covered some of the fetid miasma emanating from my arm pits.
It was one of those gray, snowy days when people wonder why they lived so far up north. People, that is, who still had the strength to wonder and contemplate making changes. Not me. I was just a pair of hands slapping discount stickers on wrinkled salads with expiration dates marked for today or tomorrow.
High-pitched shouting from the self-checkout area pierced the morning lethargy. Rubbing my temple, I stepped toward the end cap and got a clear view of the whole front end. Brenda and Jason were shouting at a massive, raggedy-looking guy. Jason had his phone pressed to his ear. It was the hulk who had pepper-sprayed Brenda the other day. He still wore his balaclava as a tuque but, instead of the grimy blanket, now he had a ripped and tattered black jacket. Low-hanging Adidas sweats, barely holding to his narrow hips, revealed the crack of a hairy ass. His skinny legs made you wonder how they carried his gargantuan upper body. Wobbly, the ogre unzipped his stuffed pack with slow, deliberate movements, greasy black hair hanging into his face.
On till eight, Andriy finished ringing through a customer and stepped toward the scene. The shopper--a small, balding Filipino guy--fetched his bags and rushed to the door, no look back. The cornered behemoth turned his head toward Andriy, like an animal sensing danger. “Whatcha looking at, pale face? Stay away or I’ll fuck you up,” he shouted, wild eyes blazing from under a heavy, jutting brow.
“Can you just go out, please!” Andriy said and pointed to the door.
In the background, the warm, nostalgic notes of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire,” provided the soundtrack for the standoff.
Sensing something big was going down, I produced my phone and began recording.
Next, things happened in dazzling succession, as if someone pressed a fast-forward button.
Brenda stepped toward the towering native guy, a can of spray in her hand, blasting. She must have kept it at the ready on her desk.
Suddenly, a guy in a black hoodie burst out of the aisle next to me, clutching a full bag to his chest like a football. With a savage yell, he shouldered the Christmas tree at the entrance and bolted out the door. The tree tittered and then fell unceremoniously with a defeated thud, ornaments scattering across the floor.
A blade flashed in the corner of my eye. While everyone’s attention was on the ninja-looking thief, the big guy in front had produced a machete from his bursting pack. He hacked at the arm holding the mace. Brenda let out a blood-curdling yell as the can dropped and her forearm went limp, the bone broken. The lower arm dangled from the elbow, held by turn muscles, strips of skin, and tattered cloth. Jets of bright blood splattered on the sandy brown of the vinyl floor. Behind her, a wide-eyed Jason bolted toward deli and bakery. Brenda turned to cradle her gushing wound, and the blade hit the back of her neck with a sickening crunch. Blood oozed from the deep cut like fermented juice from an overripe watermelon, soaking her jacket. The blow dropped her to her knees, and she ripped out an agonized scream as she fell on her mangled arm.
Even if she survived this vicious attack, she wouldn’t be able to move much again. Chances were that Branda’s husband would have a vegetable for a wife, but at least she wouldn’t run her mouth as much.
I got closer to the row of tills and zoomed in on my camera. I didn’t want any drop of blood to go to waste.
Driven by reckless instinct, Andriy rushed to Brenda’s help. With surprising agility, the attacker hacked at his head. Andriy pulled back, but it was a split, fatal second too late. Bright blood erupted, flying in the wake of the blade. He was dead meat. His carotid was severed. Barring some sort of miracle, he would soon bleed to death. That spray of bright arterial blood lit up my day, fireworks of endorphins illuminating the dome of my mind. A beatific sense of freedom engulfed me, and I approached the violent scene further, my heart racing, my hangover forgotten, all my troubles obliterated by the cathartic bloodshed. This was a high a hundred times more powerful than the Brenda incident a few days ago. This was the stuff I watched on Goregrish on the daily, but it now happened right in front of me, not through some grainy security camera with no sound. On top of it, my trusted smartphone immortalized everything in HD for my future pleasure. This brutality was the truth and the life!
Andriy covered his neck with his hand. His fingers turned red instantly. He looked at them with unbelieving eyes and stepped toward the assailant on wobbly feet.
The slasher paid no mind to the walking corpse and pointed the bleeding machete toward the dozen or so people cowering on my side of the cash registers. Spittle flying from his mouth, he shouted over the chorus of cries and screams, “Stay the fuck back or I’ll fucking scalp you all. Every last one of your sorry asses. I’ll cut you up, ya hear!” He barred his crooked teeth in a hideous mix of a clownish grin and a savage snarl.
A small crowd had formed on my side of the cash registers. Nobody dared play the hero. Mark, the meat manager, was frowning, probably thinking of running to grab the cleaver but not quite daring. Barb from bakery succumbed to hysterics and was screaming like a banshee, doubled over, hands covering her face. Angela from groceries was holding her chest--she had had a cardiac event just the week before. By contrast, Fernanda, the Mexican woman from Starbucks, had a stoic expression on her face as if this was just another day in the neighborhood.
While some in the crowd were frozen in terror--the deer-in-the-headlights look--others were punching numbers on their phones, recording or pressing them against their ears. To my right, a few people rushed out the doors were they bumped into confused customers watching from the lobby, necks stretched, fearful yet curious; agitated sheep in a stable.
Accompanied by a chorus of shouts and cries, the native thug walked slowly, casually, toward the automatic doors, his pants still sagging, a pack full of meat in his left hand and bleeding machete in his right, a skinny crimson trail behind him.
Andriy shuffled after him, zombie-like, his chest drenched in blood. Then he stopped and mechanically adjusted his man bun and shirt as if nothing had happened. As if his bleeding out were just a minor inconvenience. That gesture haunts me still and will for the rest of my life. It reminds me of an old episode of Forensic Files when this guy was attacked with an axe during the night, but managed to wake up in the morning and have his coffee as usual, oblivious to his head injuries. We’re designed to keep going even when drained of our essence; destined to keep crawling, keep dragging ourselves to nowhere.
After adjusting his hair, Andriy staggered like a drunk, his neck still pumping red on the floor, and finally crumpled to the ground, on his back, head still turned toward the door.
I hurried past the first till toward him, still recording, and screamed, “Call 911! Call 911!”
As I approached, careful not to slip on the red puddles, the iron smell of blood got stronger. I kneeled down beside Andriy and focused the camera on his paling face. People panicked all around me and I was making art, a photo journalist in a war zone. I was serene, in the zone, buzzing.
Fernanda was suddenly at my back. “You think he’ll make it?”
I lowered my phone and turned. “Get the fuck--”
Glass exploded and something metallic hit the floor with a harsh clatter. My heart jumped in my throat. Freezing wind hit my face. Fernanda retreated with a yelp followed by a wave of screams. Only a few feet away, one of the criminals had thrown a shopping cart through the window. They hurled insults at the traumatized audience. The big one kept brandishing his machete while the ninja-looking moved his pelvis back and forth, pretending to stroke his dick and ejaculate.
Although the attackers were nearby, my wave of creativity was a protective shield. I turned my attention Andriy. Using the distraction created by the commotion, I swiftly produced a sticker from my apron and stuck it on his forehead: “$2 dollars off if you enjoy it tonight.” His skin was clammy so I pressed a bit harder. Andriy’s eyes moved anemically, following my hand. Then he looked at me and tried to say something, but he choked, his words turning into a thin dribble of blood. I kept the sticker on for a few seconds, making sure the camera had a perfect view of it. Then I peeled it off and stuck it on my own forehead. The bright blue of Andriy’s eyes faded slowly, and his gaze went through me, as if I weren’t there. Soon, those expressive eyes would turn a dull gray and cloud over. His gray cells--the cells that made him too smart to go to war for Ukraine--were already shutting down, as useless as mold on a cauliflower. Enraptured, I recorded his Andriy’s final moments, his last breath. Then I turned off the camera and stood up, a contented smile stretching my lips.
The criminals were gone, and now the broken window framed a cluster of stunned, bundled-up faces, against the backdrop of the snow-covered parking lot. Glass crunching under my feet, I walked briskly past the discarded shopping cart and toward Brenda. The thought of uploading Andriy’s death on Goregrish filled me with glee; it would be my first post. But maybe more quality content lay ahead.
Carol sing along, something peppy
Brenda was surrounded by a group of useless do-gooders.
Mark was making feeble attempts to assert some control over the chaos. “Don’t touch her, guys, she suffered a spinal cord injury. We need to wait for the ambulance!”
Branda lay where she fell, immobilized, her head pressed against the floor. Her severed forearm twisted downward at an unnatural angle from the jagged, glistening bone of the elbow. Red still leaked from ripped muscles that looked like mashed cranberries. Her hand was frozen in a grasping gesture. Wild eyes rolled helplessly like those of a dog hit by a car. Her mouth moved like a fish out of water, drooling on the black ergonomic mat. A puddle of urine grew from her crotch, adding an acrid tinge to the coppery smell of blood and the remnants of spicy mace.
Strident sirens cut through the drone of Christmas carols. Time was running out.
I raised my phone to record, but then a new wave of inspiration hit me. I dropped the phone in my pocket, pushed through the bodies, and blurted out, “Don’t worry, Brenda. Help is on the way. You’ll be dancing in no time.”
Her hateful gaze burned a hole through me. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
The audience gasped as disgust twisted their faces. I felt like the sticker on my forehead was another abnormal detail in the unfolding mayhem, another lash against their traumatized brains.
Caught in a surge of creativity, still focused on Branda, I raised my right hand with a grin. “High-five?” Her wilted hand stood lifeless. I dropped my own. “Down low?” Then yanked it back. “Too slow.”
Fireworks exploded in my vision. The punch drove me back, but I kept my balance. It was Mark.
“Shut the fuck up, you fucking weirdo!” he barked.
More aggressive mutters emanated from the huddle.
I tested metallic blood in my mouth and spat out a tooth. Then I smiled at them, blood dripping down my chin. Brays of laughter grew in my ears, coming from I don’t know where, it felt like I held it in forever. I brayed like a donkey, doubled over holding my belly, and then dropped to the floor.
They all looked at me like I was laughing at a funeral, and their dumbfounded, sheepish expressions only made me laugh harder. I rolled on the floor, ignoring the blood and shards of glass, my stomach aching, warm tears of joy streaking my cheeks. For a few glorious, shining moments, I transformed that brutal scene into my stage, frolicking in the limelight, with nothing but a broken window, a discarded shopping card, and two stiffs as my props.
