Primetime: A Novel

By Brian Harrison

Sam’s struggles with customers nearly daily who scam, threaten, are mentally unstable, drunk, illiterate and simply stinky, as well as employee’s harassment and unprofessionalism. Primetime also gives an insider’s view of aspects of the grocery business that shoppers do not know, realize or may appreciate. Even his love life are victims of the shooting and Sam must come to terms with previous relationships.

Just like working in retail, the novel is at times funny, heart-warming, romantic, offensive, but you always leave with a smile.

And yes, Primetime is inspired by true events and actual people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Harrison
• Release date: Apr 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476440101

Brian Harrison

I'm a Southwestern Michigan resident and grocery clerk for over a decade, being trained in nearly every position. I am a grocery manager by day, musician, writer, tie collector, and Oreo enthusiast by night.

Book preview

Primetime

A Novel

Brian Harrison

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright @ 2011 by Brian Harrison

Dedicated to

Shawn Brandon Henman

a friend whom I will always throw sea shells for

Prologue

Sam sat at Xavier’s at least two nights a week and drank 7-7s, long islands, martinis, or straight vodka shots until he was screwed enough not to care but safe enough to drive home.

He felt comfortable, safe, normal, and popular at that bar or the high-class Italian restaurant, Fireside, where he could have two $8 martinis (because his favorite bartender, Tonia, made them strong — thank God for happy hour). He felt special when someone asked, The usual? Whether it was his bartender, the guy that changed his oil, his barber, or the lady that worked at the car wash, it made him feel like a celebrity in a town not worth having a celebrity in.

After the put-it-together-yourself furniture factory closed down and as soon as Michigan’s unemployment became effected and re-effected by the non-depression-but-not-exactly-a-recession recession, his little town, Waukaponeda, became what felt like an Indian cemetery town.

Waukaponeda had a high Potawatomi Indian population (Waukaponeda meant, my home, my place). Cities, townships, streets and rivers were all named after important Potawatomi individuals: Pokagon, Peavine, Wabash, Winamac, Tippecanoe, and famous retreats like Silver Creek and Rogers Lake to name a few. Locals can tell who tourists were when they mispronounced the name like: Walk-a-ponda, Wake-a-pond, or even Yauk-ape-ed.

While everyone in small town America complains and dreams of moving out of the back woods, it’s hard and nearly impossible to for most young adults like Sam. Everyone brings their friends home to the place we call normal— there is no difference between one small town and the next because we all see our home as the least important place. And there was something about that, that Sam hated.

Sam wanted distinction, he wanted separation, he didn’t want lines to be blurred. He simply wanted … definition. He wanted to be in a place that was literally and physically on a map, not special because it was in the news or on novelty maps, but on maps with spiral spines one could get from the gas stations. He wanted to be in a place that people could pronounce, where there was someone living there that someone else from a different state has heard of even if they didn’t know them.

It was like any other Friday night in March after he worked his late PIC managerial closing shift at the middle-class grocery store that he could be found at Xavier’s. The blue-collar bar of town— the one that had a beer club where someone could try 329 beers from around the world and get their name on a plaque by the door after getting through the entire list (although not in one sitting, of course). Sadly and un-ironically, many of the plaques had two dozen names listed multiple times, but hey, that is small-town-recession America.

This Friday night was a little worse than usual for Sam. He had to deal with one no-call no-show, a sick cashier he had to send home, and a service clerk who was as useful as a power window on a motorcycle. Not to mention there was the annual spring canned-vegetable sale to encourage people to restock from the previous winter that was so newsworthy to everyone that lived outside of the Midwest but to those that live here, It’s winter, it snows, get over it. To those that actually had to shovel the two and a half feet of snow though, that amount could even be considered a normal October.

Someone could say that this night was seasonably cold but it didn’t matter because of Sam’s long island it felt, niiiiice. He paid his bill, took his fries home as usual, and began the trek out to find where he left his car. Upon stepping outside, he knew it was late because the gas station across the street was closed.

The street was empty except for a few randomly parked cars, but they were from apartment dwellers downtown who thought they could break ordinance and use curb parking as their personal spot. He stood in the middle of the cobblestone brick sidewalk, underneath the safety of the canopy when he heard two people talking come around the corner to his right. They were a young couple. He was a tall black man old enough to be carrying the sleeping child in his arms and it warmed Sam’s heart to see a black man finally fulfilling his responsibility. The woman with him. She would have been much too young to be carrying the baby’s bottle if she were black, but because of small town stereotypes, this short, much-too-young petite white girl was expectedly holding that role. Having babies at a young age was their only way to get money without working a respectable job. Plus, it seemed as if having children at a younger age gave allowance to party harder and drink more, but this young girl pushed the stroller and carried the baby’s bottle as the assumed father carried the baby. They broke stereotypes and to Sam, that moment felt like he was in the presence of something rare and special.

At one point a car drove from around the corner where the couple came from, reminding him he better find his keys now in the partial light rather then later in the complete dark. As he struggled through his pockets, he heard a sound and noticed the young girl stumble and grasp for the sill of one of the windows to Xavier’s. Someone needs to teach her how to hold her liquor, Sam thought. Then he heard the same sound that made him look up the first time and noticed that it was coming from the window of the white car coming down the street. The window was firing its automatic weapons like a James Bond car without a driver.

Sam jumped toward the trash can that lined the street and cowered. As the white Neon car drove by, it slowed down in order to continue firing at the couple. Sam’s fight or flight instinct finally kicked in and caused him to stand straight up from behind the trash can and in doing so, making himself a newer, fresher target. The shooter in the backseat saw him and Sam saw the gun rise from inside the pitch-black car and point straight at him.

Sam opened his eyes, finding himself lying on the cobblestone sidewalk holding his searing right hip in pain, his other arm outstretched towards where paramedics surrounded the young family. The police and paramedics came with weapons drawn, initially thinking he was the subject that shot and killed the young couple and toddler. It seemed like red paint leaked from Sam creating a pool around him as a police officer ran through the blood leaving a foot print on the sidewalk like it were the Walk of Fame. Sam screamed and reached out, leaving his own blood-stained handprint on the sidewalk.

The Nightmare

Sam hated working nights. He loved the responsibility of being a PIC (person in charge, which essentially meant he was the store director when the store director and CSM [customer service manager] weren’t there). He loved how every night was never the same. He loved dealing with customers, no matter how ass-hole-ish they were, as well as the problem solving aspect of the job. To Sam customers were like a box of chocolates, some were sweet, some were sexy, others were chocolate covered salt and nails. The feeling of maturity and responsibility it gave him outside of his daily still-living-at-home life was worth the Wal-Mart type salary and respect…he hoped.

Sam was almost done for the night when 10 minutes to closing, two women came in with three kids and grabbed a cart. Sam’s heart sank— he knew he wasn’t getting out on time. He warned them that the store was closing in 10 minutes but no one ever listens, why should they? Not to mention the six customers still browsing simply to check out at midnight so they could begin to use their food stamp card, which meant their new deposit would be effective.

He was close to finishing his nightly tasks. Walking with the two service counter drawers to lock them up, he noticed a tall man with close-cropped blonde hair walk in. With his back to Sam, he didn’t think anything of this customer except his odd attire, a full length leather trench coat. Sam saw his brand new first night cashier (still training, but first night without a helper), and the interracial couple the cashier was checking out fall straight down.

The cloaked customer turned and Sam threw himself to the floor, the money and change scattered on the waxed white tile floor. From behind the service counter, Sam looked up and saw from the convex security mirror on the wall that the man was carrying not one, but two shotguns and two automatic guns were dangling from what looked like black shoelaces under his coat. Its Jared Lee Loughner, he instantly thought. The gunman continued to fire—walking slowly towards the cereal aisle, emptying a gun clip into the cereal aisle and an elderly man. Sam snuck around the counter toward the front of the store to watch the gunman and look over toward the initial three victims. He then ducked back behind the counter as the suspect put a large manila folder into the photo slot of the counter only 10 feet away. The silent security button was dangerously too far away to push. The gunman continued to walk and fire wildly through the aisles, aiming at the ceiling and floor and everything in between. He gunman hid behind mirror like sunglasses not saying a word, letting the gunpowder speak for him. The gunman randomly used the shotgun, shooting produce, displays and the milk cooler while canned Mazak continued eerily overhead.

When he felt relatively safe, Sam scurried over on all fours to try to help the three victims at the register. But there was far too much blood— it looked like the shelving of ketchup fell over. Sadly, instinctively, Sam’s training told him to find a wet floor sign and a mop…

Sam saw the suspect looking at him from the other side of the store. From behind the mirrored sunglasses, he opened fire as Sam ran slightly toward him and back toward the service counter, struggling a moment with the mass of work keys slowing him down as he locked himself into the cash office. He saw the blood on his hands, arms and slacks. Without knowing, Sam pushed the silent alarm. He stood up and looked through the window at his dead co-workers covered in blood and the cereal shrapnel on the shiny-waxed floor. Without warning, the gunman was staring at him with the gun pointed at the window. Sam threw himself to the floor as the suspect fired, but nothing happened; the glass was bullet proof.

From the floor, he could hear the gunman shoot three more times at the glass. Sam stared numbly at the security camera screen on the wall opposite him; it automatically changed angles when cameras picked up new movement. Sam watched as the suspect walked to the end of the store and again fire randomly, shooting two night stockers trying to flee. At that time of the night the receiving doors were locked— and those keys were in the cash office with Sam. That’s when Sam noticed the phone was ringing but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen, he knew it was the police or corporate security calling to ask for the safety word. The gunman walked back down the produce section and shot a man who was hiding behind a pallet of watermelons. Sam stood up still watching the security screen as the gunman walked through two double doors and down the hallway to the employee break room, shooting a night stocker twice in the chest as he was cowering in the corner while on his break. Finally, the gunman walked into the men’s bathroom, and never came out.

Sam cautiously walked out minutes later after seeing the police lights reflecting into the building. He could still smell the gun powder in the air. The still-ringing phone mixed with static-y music played from the speakers above, ironically the Mazak version of Eagle Eye Cherry’s Save Tonight, was playing. Overhead lights were hanging from the ceiling flickering like from a movie, and boxes of cereal were still smoking as the phone continued ringing.

To his right, Sam heard Sam, are you okay? Is that yours? A local police officer came in with gun raised.

Is what mine? Sam felt himself mouth these words, but he couldn’t hear them.

Blood! SWAT members began swarming in from every direction, through doors, windows, even two from the ceiling. With their guns raised, they were going up and down the aisles checking bodies and giving each other official looking hand signals as if they were copying the movies.

I don’t think so, he felt the words skip from his tongue, when the reverberations of shock suddenly came to a screeching halt. Yeah, we need a few ambulances— I have at least five employees shot and there were around ten customers inside at the beginning. I don’t know if any got out. He paused a moment. I have access to the video cameras if necessary.

Is he still in the building? the officer asked. It was sergeant Gerry, one of his father’s former fellow officers, who was vying for the emptied chief position. Sam?! he asked again, "Is he still in the building?"

I think he’s in the men’s bathroom down the hall past the service counter, but he’s been there for about ten minutes, Sam heard himself explain. It was instinctual, uncontrolled. It felt methodical. It felt almost as if his training actually prepared him to respond with such detail for just such an incident. His response alone made him feel disconnected, uncaring, more depressed.

It made Sam feel like what he imagined a solider felt like after witnessing a bullet enter a fellow brother. He knew his two employees were dead at the register, and told another officer about the break room and in doing so he remembered the two employees in the back and he grabbed a paramedic.

While running down the birthday card and baby supplies aisle, he saw and felt that he was running through a darkening and narrowing hallway. He was running back toward reality, he ran to the point of waking up from the dream. Every PIC had dreamt the same dream— that their night would never end, that people would flood through the doors, but Sam’s recurring nightmare was different, his involved a murder and his inability to help the victims.

Sam’s torture didn’t lay just in his dreams—it was not being able to outrun his demons that was his true nightmare. Not being able to be a man and even attempt to save those people that night outside of Xavier’s was what haunted him. Simply not doing what men do and be heroes by simply being better than they thought they could. Why was he shot, why was he the lone survivor.

It haunted him that he couldn’t seem to move on, to not improve his own existence. Not being able to move out of the rut of his life left by his father’s and grandfather’s rusted ole beater Sam was unacceptable, to him it was a disappointment. Not moving out of his parents’ house, not moving out of his town, not moving out of the life he was bound to live because of the circumstances that were bound to outlive him was a maddening cycle of self-corruption, which in a way was the way of becoming a small-name celebrity in small town America.

The Preparation

When Sam worked the PIC shift there was a mental preparation that he went through prior to clocking in. Get hyped, get vigilant, get to that customer is always right even if they are too stupid for their own good niceness.

When he clocked in, he had to see his store director, Mike, to get announcements and specialized information, which really just amounted to small talk. Occasionally it was certain things he didn’t have to do or things he had to watch out for, other times it was, You have two call offs, one is your closer and we have no one in yet.

Fuck me very much!

Then, he had to walk through the store and look stately, arrogant, like he’s the boss with the beatin’ stick up his ass. This is also the time when he would check in with each department to see who’s working until when, who’s closing the department that night, and what sale items he may have to stock if they run low.

Next, was the fun stuff: check what audits he may have to do (count drawers to zero for certain cashiers or lanes), get keys and check out the schedule for the rest of the night. This is normally the suck-ball portion because he might have to cover a break-break-lunch-break (be on lane for an hour and 15 minutes). If so, he does what the CSM should have done and rearrange them. By that time into his shift he’s having people bitch and moan about not having enough lanes open or asking, when’s my break?

Sam was in and out of the cash office doing his managerial tasks when he heard a customer ask the service counter worker, La’Kisha Roberts, whether or not someone was Going to open another lane, there is a long wait. She answered, surprisingly friendly, "He’s backed up right now getting an audit that needs to be done so another lane can open. I can help you here, though." That level of friendliness, tact, and service was usually lost on La’Kisha.

The young man declined her service.

A few minutes later, Sam somewhat shouted that he was opening a lane and the young customer from earlier finally came over after trying to get other customers in front of him to go down Sam’s lane.

Upon checking him out he still complained that there weren’t enough lanes open. Sir, Sam responded, "I know that La’Kisha offered to check you out and you declined. I opened just for you and you are still complaining. I do apologize, but how would you feel then about apologizing to the customers behind you if I closed down because you don’t want me to be open to ring up your one can of string beans?"

That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry, he responded, flustered as he stumbled to get the money out of his wife’s pocketbook— yes, he was carrying her purse— when grocery clerks see things like this they just don’t ask questions. Sam just hoped his wife was in the store.

What is the Grocery Store?

What is this grocery store thing?

What do you mean? Sam asked the customer.

What is the point of this place?

It’s where you buy food? Sam asked back, confused.

Well restaurants and farms in that sense are grocery stores as well so how is this different?

I follow but what are you getting at, sir?

Why are you here?

Sam’s confusion grew. Was he crazy, trying to have a philosophical debate or just screwing with him? I’m here because I’m scheduled to be here, because I need the job, because I’m a poor graduate student with no prospects of becoming anything that represents success, he replied, his attempt at being funny was probably lost in his honesty.

No. I mean, why are grocery stores here?

Sam looked at him now totally lost and dumbfounded and asked back, "Sir, why are you here, in this building? You didn’t come here with this conclusion, but came upon it while here, so, what brought you here? And don’t say your car or the bus."

"Exactly! Good job, you’re here taking advantage of a natural response, have a great day.

The rest of the day, Sam debated on what the customer actually meant. There was something about his profession that was troubling. That someone in the past took advantage of hunger. In order for you to get what you need to sustain life you must give him something, you must give something up in order to have what you need to maintain breath. In certain circles, it’d be considered torture, psychotic, immoral to take advantage of someone’s natural biological reaction to life.

But to grocery clerks, its how they survive both in business and in their own lives. Sam survives because customers are willing to give up a portion of their life (their money) to him, out of need. People survive on others’ need to survive, humans, or more famously, Americans take advantage of that need. We are the reason for collateral damage, we are why people say, It’s either my home or starve to death. No one chooses to allow their children to starve, hence the reason for food stamps, which are taken advantage of by everyone and their mother…and grandmother.

Sam wanted to be normal. He dreamt of being one of those cool kids that everyone wanted to be friends with. He aspired to be one of those young twenty something’s that had not only the greatest time of his life in front of him but was also currently living the life that would set him up for financial security and stability to be well off, because well off in Midwestern terms is flex time. Not living to work in order to live by a thread. I’m hanging in there. Even though the pay here is more like hanging on, Sam would often reply when asked how he was.

He couldn’t ever think of a time when he was happier than working with customers and talking with them. They filled his emotional bank while My Market refused to fill a quarter of what he was worth. The ability to piss people off or make their day at the drop of a hat was powerful— he fed on it. He fed on gossip, it was his greatest joy and even though he didn’t know why, he also never cared to know. Sam was never originally the person to search out meaning. But being shot, pushed him in that direction.

And his paranoia, stresses and anxieties pushed him towards alcohol as an escape. He could take a shot of whiskey to mellow him out for work and still function and take two shots after work and only feel the percolation of the thought of a buzz. He could mix liquors together and not tell the difference. But tequila he was fearful of— it was the shot of the night the night of the shooting. It was the shot that changed everything. One too many shots led to wondering why there wasn’t one more shot fired that night.

Mad World

Sam sat in his car, the light was green. He was the only one sitting, everyone around him was speeding pass, honking, flipping him off, their music blasting Eminem.

Weird how a stop light controls more of our time than a watch does. It’s weird how I’m called an innocent victim because I lived.

His radio was off, his foot still squarely on the brake as the cars around him honked and passed him, cursing at him for not moving at a green light. No one stopped, got out and checked to make sure he was ok.

He stared ahead, feeling in a hazy daze, just like the pain medication that night in the hospital.

What makes a newborn guilty of anything worthy of death?

What makes a geriatric guilty of anything worthy of death?

Why is death a punishment?

Maybe I should have died.

Maybe I still have time.

Sam’s birthday will be tomorrow. He’ll turn that age when people stop counting—as if they’ve already lived a full life, as if there is no longer a need to count anything with anticipation.

Digress. Counting backwards feels like regret with a desire to relive. Regret.

"Just live in the first place."

I was supposed to die in front of Xavier’s.

What a miserable thing to put on your tombstone: I was supposed to die.

Sam was still scared. Life had suddenly become like the first day of school, every day. No one knew him. No one cared about life’s verdict on him. He felt torn: did he tell people he was an innocent victim or that he felt guilty of all the things they were, of which didn’t matter.

Worn out faces pass in worn out rusted-out cars.

My car is brand new.

My face is 20 some odd-years-old.

You wouldn’t buy a 20-year-old motorcycle unless it had a name worth riding.

No woman is going to ride this face…not with a last name I don’t deserve.

Sam finally turned right. Not out of need or desire, but guilt that he was holding other people’s life up … stealing their time like a