Fiction, Josh Dale

Taking Care of Business

So, I go to Aisle 3 to grab whatever my wife instructed me to get. What was it? The, uh…organic canned beans? Some paprika spice medley? 5 pounds of pork loin? Maybe not in that order, but she’s the boss of the kitchen, and I’ve mastered pattern recognition. But look! A bumbling imbecile of a husband needs some entertainment. I turn the corner and see this badass display. Cans of Monster are stacked as tall as the shelves. Bundles of Doritos and Lays chips fill the area around the base of Coke and Dr. Pepper 12-packs. Two young men are wearing the company’s drab attire, plus an older gentleman in a button-up shirt and a clipboard. I reckon the store manager. In my experience, they can be austere assholes! So, get this. The one employee is up on a 6-foot ladder, and the other is handing him cans, right? This manager, with his graying combover, cracks some loose Monsters and launches them into the air. Both catch; neither spills a drop. They cheer. Crazy! 

This all happens at 10:00 AM, which is important to the story. A certain song was playing on the speakers. “Takin’ Care of Business.” Big with the Boomers, but it’s a bop, not going to lie to you. Anyway, the manager starts to boogie. He’s dancing around, flipping the clipboard over his head, and smacking the boxes of cans. Metallic thuds galore. What a performer! “Hey, boss,” the ladder guy says. “Why do you always play this song at 10 AM?” The manager exhales and wipes some sweat off his brow. “Devote one hour a day to taking care of business, and it can change your life. My ex-wife remembers this song well. No cucumbers were harmed!” The employees laugh so hard. They look barely out of high school. I take it they haven’t a clue what marriage is like. The moment passes, shoppers move along, and the trio stays. The titular song overhead ends, and the weekly sales advertisement rings out. The employees and their manager survey their creation, much like artists do. From my perspective, it looks like a fireball. Hell yeah, I can see it. Taking care of business, fellas! 

I finish up my shopping and visit the sole cashier. An older woman sits on a stool with a fancy badge. 10 years? Wow, that’s dedication! She coughs and shakes when the belt moves with my food. She was nodding off. Oops! I asked her about the music at 10 AM. She looks past me to a faraway place and giggles. Her forehead wrinkles like she’s recounting memories. The blip of the scanner keeps a steady beat. “His wife was the produce manager when he hired me. Ah, how he took a liking to me. They were arguing, and she called out, so I covered the produce department. One thing led to another, and we made love in the prep room. The goosebumps when that chorus kicked in…” She leans close to me. I’m bewildered, hearing this story frothing out of this woman’s mouth. “I regret nothing. This badge on my shirt outlasted their marriage. I still dream of his eggplant every so often.” I make that awkward smile where your eyes squint and your lips look like a worm. “Keep your business to yourself, now, ya hear? Have a lovely day.” She hands me the receipt, and I go on my way. The pictures in my head start flooding in. How many pieces of vegetables did they use in that affair? My groceries felt heavy in my arms, in the car, and in the house.

I open the door and wowzah, it smells so damn good! My wife is in a blitz preparing for the family reunion. Pots bubbling. Skillets sizzling. Emeril and Gordon: start blushing. She’s so good. She skirts around my lumbering ass, and I plop the bags on the island. I can smell the sweat on the back of her neck. Yummy. “Hey, babe, eyes up,” she commands me. A spatula in hand, she rattles off directions. “Dump the beans on the top right pot. 2 tablespoons of paprika. Get the pork on foil. Light oil. My auntie is coming in thirty minutes to help.” Now, the jester appears. I unpack the groceries and goddammit! Nothing she asked for is there! I look ready for a Super Bowl party instead of a curated family event. I start stammering, and it makes my wife pause. Among the chaos, she surveys the incorrect groceries. Her thick, black eyebrows narrow. She inhales deeply, sighs. “Ah, honey. It happened again?” I don’t know what to say, so I crack a Monster and guzzle some down. Liquid courage! “I was distracted by the fireball display, the guys building it, the taking care of business song, and the manager’s tryst with the cashier, the produce manager divorced him, and—” She struts toward me and puts a buttery finger to my lips. Zesty. Her chestnut eyes are stabbing me. “It’s alright. You may be a village idiot, but you’re my village idiot.” She removes her finger from my lips, and I salivate. I see that vein in her neck, just millimeters below her olive skin. It’s pulsing with anger. I want to lift her on the counter and suck on her neck like a hungry baby. I bet she tastes like rosemary. But yo, I’m a big dumb mutt in a man’s body and I’m on the clock! My wife, without skipping a beat, unsheathes a knife from the scabbard with one hand and hurls a tomato in the air with the other. She slices the thing in half in the blink of an eye. The two halves plop onto the cutting board, all gory. She’s a ninja, I swear! She smirks as I backpedal. “Good boy. You finish the job now, you hear?” I nod my head like a metalhead at a concert and bolt out the fucking door…