“Jess.”
The voice was there, it existed, but so did that redundant announcer who mechanically repeated the virtues of the “Big Naboo Sweepstakes!” throughout the entire store, so one voice began to remind her of all the others she encountered during the course of any given day partially devoted to work. One of her fellow drones, Dave - the same Dave who often vigorously proclaimed that he was the Big Naboo - phrased it as tolerating the job, and despite all the junk that characterized the content of his average utterance, she was tempted to agree completely. Then again, today was one of the weekly reprieves from the store director’s presence, so it was prime time for spacing off into the distant horizon of fictitious fancy.
“Jess?”
Spring blossoms, ocean waves, a taste of tropical juice! Nothing so glamorous; Cancun-laden dreams weren’t the focus of her thoughts. Far removed from the hedonistic revelry, Jess stared blankly downward, between the lines of text which peppered the complimentary employee copy of Electronic Gaming Monthly, with articles strategically, deftly, placed to best accentuate the prevalent bouquet of visceral advertisement. Each was a pompous plea for an accumulation of monetary wealth, siphoning precious funding away from functionally retarded families that were constantly eager to pursue any manner of transient alleviation. That was what she had been told, at least. So that reviled, required Introduction to Literature course, and its instructor, did have some relevance to everyday life!
In actuality, the experience only served as a bountiful reservoir for amusing references. Jessica gave thanks to her professor and the wisdom he had shared, as he would surely be proud of her application of fine literary criticism to such mundane rubbish.
This was her life, and it was easy. Boring, futile, and entirely lacking in any proactive aspiration, perhaps, but nonetheless quite relaxing.
“Hey Jess!” This voice alarmed her senses and pulled her mind back into the drudgery of daily grind. Her eyes rolled up to meet the curious gaze of the Big Naboo himself. “Yo, space cadet. Didn’t your break get over like eight minutes ago?” She glanced over to the clock and cursed the horrid visage employed by the corporation. The face of the clock was marred by a picture of Geoffrey the Giraffe; his ugly, deceptive mug was unsettling enough, but the fact that each of his arms were used to indicate the time was like pouring salt into an open, corporately-inflicted would. Dave’s accusation was valid, too, and that was an additional agitation for her to contend with. The question was, go with plan A or plan B? And the clock was blue.
Plan A was a general strategy for meeting the expectations of management. From the moment she first applied for the job, endured her most recent performance evaluation, and into her current situation, she was “Jessica Palmeri: Good Overall Worker.” That was the official description, but she was fairly certain that behind closed doors there was the chatter of “Nice girl. Absent-minded though. I’m surprised that she doesn’t mind being an ‘associate’. She’s been to college, you know. Just between you and me, she’s easy on the eyes, and pretty sociable, too. Put her in electronics -she won't intimidate the parents and boys will like her- because, well, she sells the merch. Just keep in mind that she’s a bit scatterbrained.”
Was that sufficient to characterize her position as a drone? Were a listener privy to said information, and subsequently, pose such a blunt question regarding self-worth, she would be tempted to reply with an evasive “Pretty much, give or take a phrase.” To grant a description which included easy on the eyes was a bit too generous. Above average? Maybe, but Jessica knew full well that she was scarcely blessed with curves and eyelashes necessary for excessive magnetism. She was a slender runt with shiny eyes, and while the globes drew guys in for a closer examination, the baseball-sized protrusions which accentuated her petite frame sent them running with “What a waste” etched upon their once-eager lips. Even Dave had once, initially, exhibited some form of overt interest in her, but thankfully, long since abandoned any notion of pursuing his fellow peon, subsequently regulating her to the status of friendly acquaintance. She was not a vindictive woman -sure, the fact that a punk like the Big Naboo had mentally rejected her appearance did irritate her slightly, but it was, at its worst, a fleeting shudder of vanity- and therefore she respected both his childish demeanor, and his status. The status of fellow peon, pawn, and participant, that is. Therefore, a flexible application of plan B was in order. A was reserved for any methods pertaining to the deceitful, pragmatic act of appeasing management, referred to by some as “playing dumb” and “eager to improve” by others. B consisted of convincing others that they were mistaken.
“Actually, Dave, I’m pretty much right on schedule. That clock is running about eight minutes fast. It’s only six forty-five, not seven till.” She watched as his brow furrowed, and she almost broke into a fatal grin.
“Shut up. It’s gotta be seven till.”
“Nope. You’ve been gone for two days, part-timer. If you had been here, you would so know about this already.” Again, she noticed a look of uncertainty spread across his face, one half covered in an unkempt mop of fiery hair. It was an appropriate opportunity for her departure, before the Big Naboo had further concerns to express. She tossed the magazine aside and squirmed out from the picnic table so graciously provided for employee comfort. While never having actually observed, let alone participated in, one herself, Jessica was willing to envision an outrageously contrived picnic thrown in honor of “Associate Appreciation Week”, with delicious dishes -cheese ravioli, potato salad, baloney and bread, oh my!- lavishly supplied by the good folks at Hy-Vee catering. She could almost catch a whiff of the bland, inoffensive slop that would, most certainly, sit atop the indoor picnic table, one never used for anything remotely similar to a joyous outdoor experience. Each savory dish would lie inside sterile troughs of manilla-colored rubber lined with scorched steel. Was there any better manner in which to promote the continued excellence of an associate, exemplified by the spectacular performance of one Jessica Palmeri? And the picnic table was blue.
“You gonna straighten the Bs? Me and Crash Bandicoot were talking about doing the Cs and so, you know.” Jessica appreciated such indirect statements, especially when they were uttered by a guy who was, evidently, furiously struggling to open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. She did indeed know; it was a question of straightening either the As or the Bs, a choice between Scylla and Charybdis (hooray again for Dr. Kaylor’s Humanities course). She pulled the door wide open, eliminating the illusionary separation between fallacious freedom and inane servitude. Before she could sever the ties to Dave, breakroom, and clock-lies, however, the Big Naboo mentioned something else, and Jessica’s curiosity was mildly aroused.
“I heard Jason talking to Crash a few minutes ago. Jason was saying something about new clothes, like button-up shirts, khakis and shit like that.”
“Really?”
“If it’s true, guess that means no more bullshit black jeans and stupid Geoffrey T-shirts for us, huh.”
“Yeah. I’ll do the Bs by the way.” Jessica giggled while Dave smiled at the ramifications of her choice. “And you can tell Steve that he’s stuck with the As, Barbie dolls and all.”
New uniforms? To think, no more grubby, weathered black jeans. The notion of khakis arising fresh and triumphant was welcomed with open arms and exuberant legs, but what about the new shirt? Cargo pants were functional and stylish, and she relished the thought of plunging her scrawny legs deep into their inviting folds, but she was also an intimate bedfellow of T-shirts and pullovers in general. A shirt with multiple buttons just seemed like too much work for the meager aesthetic asset commonly associated with such apparel. Jessica figured that it was yet another scheme to increase the potency of illusion, an act of retail wizardry in which customers were presumed to be spellbound by the “professional” yet “friendly” decor of this petty feudal serfdom and its ensnared tenants. She couldn’t baud the company without mercy however, as she had recently been granted a nickel-an-hour raise.
She located Kris in aisle 3C. The lanky blonde hobbled along, manipulating the merchandise into favorable positions as she laboriously maneuvered down the aisle. As Kris was hampered by an inflexible, plastic foot brace that encompassed the realm of her lower left leg, Jessica could see why two individuals would be necessary for adequate coverage of the convoluted mass that comprised the “C” aisles. She wanted to say “Hey Crash!” in reference to the automobile accident Kris had recently been involved with, but the ensuing wrath that would inevitably occur, expressed via the act of a hardened brace bashing against her shin, suppressed Jessica’s impulse for comedy.
“Hey Kris,” she began, awaiting an initial act of eye contact, “Dave said that Jason was telling you about some change in uniforms.”
“Yeah, he did.” Her voice always amazed Jessica, although she wasn’t exactly sure as to why. It was coarse; not horribly corrosive, but like worn, ineffective sand paper that defaced whichever pair of ears so unfortunate as to fall prey to its grating tone. As much as Jessica wished to avoid the malady, she listened as Kris continued. “Starting next month, we’re supposed to wear khakis and new shirts.” Jessica already knew that.
“But are the new shirts gonna be the same color?” Kris snickered in response, as if the inquiry was idiotic in base concept.
“Nah, they’re gonna be a lighter shade of blue, like sky blue, I think. Why the hell do you care what color they are, anyways? Will it conflict with your wardrobe?” Blue, of course.
Jessica nodded with a profusion of derisive enthusiasm. “Yeah, I am totally ruined, thank you very much. In fact, as soon as I get home I’m gonna go reorganize my closet in preparation for the dreaded day. Thanks for the info, Crash. Enjoy straightening the action figures.”
To her good fortune, Jessica was well out of range for a physical reprisal to be feasible, and thus Kris was forced to redeem her honor with an indignant “Bitch! Don’t call me Crash!” The mother of two boys who were browsing through the collection of Star Wars Legos in aisle 4C was not amused with the obtrusive outburst of affection.
Playstation controllers were a popular item, one of the exceptional success stories in an otherwise bleak sales period, and the chaotic state of the display case was proof of this ephemeral craze. A control pad was nothing new, as it was basically the same thing as her old Nintendo game pad. However, Sony had recently exhibited a slice of insightful marketing genius and unveiled a new face for an old product. The functions were subject to no innovation, but the color of the control pads were now assorted. Traditional gray, creamy emerald, gothic charcoal, and -of course- blue. Jessica never ceased in her confusion regarding the official, printed title of Island Blue. Were islands actually blue? No, the ocean was blue. The sky was blue. An island wasn’t blue, was it? (What isn’t blue?)
Every sign designating the contents of an individual aisle was blue. Each of the sporadic oases of carpeting was comprised of an indigo hue. The customer service department catered to a countless array of disgruntled patrons on a daily basis, and all of the fixtures which greeted these malcontents were blue. Dragonball Z action figures were a firecracker of profit; children and adults alike constantly swarmed her, begging to know if they were currently stocked with Dragonball merchandise. Vegeta, the villain turned anti-hero (or so she had been informed by an ecstatic lad) was the most popular of the collection and, as expected, Jessica had long ago ascertained that a majority of his costume was blue.
If she sought refuge from the incessant barrage of customer queries, Jessica could always flee to the sanctuary christened “Girl’s Restroom.” What lie beyond the blue door was a secret garden of sorts, albeit one comprised of stalls, sinks, and stools. The decor was not denied its prominence, as the flimsy walls separating each occupant were blue, the same blue that characterized the insidiously infectious corporation. At any given moment she could envision a cadre of jackals sifting through reports, projections, and industrywide psychological recommendations, each manicured beast eagerly nodding in response to the dogma of their current god, who was lord almighty until properly dispatched, one visage replaced with a correspondingly repulsive moniker.
“So, we can’t totally deny our associates a restroom,” the misbegotten idol would proclaim, studying his legion with an eternally vigilant eye predisposed toward suspicion, “as that would be utterly inhumane, which is scarcely an image we wish to be identified with!” The jackals nod, some shuffling through papers, others jotting down notes in cursive with fountain pens of impeccable quality and exquisite taste. These notes do not pertain to the issue whatsoever, instead focusing upon the fact that their god’s hair isn’t as fastidiously groomed as usual, and that such a flaw may indicate a weakness and thus, potentially, the coming of a new dictatorial era. A few members of the horde are producing crude sketches of their leader, limp and hanging from a tree. Even so, they certainly understand the veracity of his words. “At the same time, we know that they rarely engage the facilities for their designated purpose. Given this knowledge, I propose that we extend our celebrated motif to encompass the restrooms, to serve as a constant reminder to our junior associates regarding their purpose as members of our family.” The speech meets with immediate applause, as the cult is both voraciously unanimous, and eager to greet the next item on the official agenda; an increase in the Christmas bonus of senior officers. Europe is such a wonderful location for pacifying incredulous wives, lecherous husbands, and ungrateful children, after all.
“Ma’am?”
Jessica blinked, snapping out of her chimerical vice. She glanced down the aisle, noting the organized merchandise. At the very least, her body was adept at functioning responsibly in reflex to her mind’s determined reluctance. She felt her shirt stretch. “Umm...Miss?” Looking down (and, almost disturbingly, not too far down, as her stature was a far cry from impressive) she met the source of the tug upon her clothing.
A young boy stared curiously at her, apparently unsure of which title to use in reference to a woman not old enough to be motherly, but not quite young enough to be addressed as “Hey you." Jessica brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her face and smiled at the lad, and not because it was a requirement as an associate.
“Hi! Hmm, looks like it’s still raining a lot, huh?” She pointed to the boy’s disheveled mass of sodden hair, each golden strand flattened by the day’s incessant shower. The boy smiled gratuitously, exhibiting a plethora of disorganized teeth. Each sporadic, ivory projection cried out “Braces, please!” and, yet, it was irresistibly cute to say the very least.
“Yeah! My mom said it’s gonna last all afternoon. I hate when it rains, ‘cause there’s nothing to do and you get wet. Do you like rain?”
Jessica’s initial inclination was to respond with “Sometimes!” but this had been stifled quickly, as it was not the proper situation for a discursive dialogue upon the potential virtues of rain. Additionally, she agreed with her temporary companion that rain did indeed suck when it persisted throughout the course of an entire day and well into the early evening.
“Sure do,” Jessica replied enthusiastically. “So, I’m guessing that you are really looking for something if you came here through all this rain.” The boy nodded, as if unfazed by his disdain for drizzle or downpour alike.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Dragonball Z stuff. When my mom called, they said that you had all the stuff in stock. I want to get the Goku figure, like he was in last week’s show. Super Saiyan Goku."
Jessica didn’t have any notion of what identified someone as super let alone saiyan, but she was eager to listen. “Well,” she began, while pointing toward the “C” aisles, “I’m not sure if we have that particular figure, but let’s go look, okay?” The boy readily clasped her lowered hand with a surprising rapidity, as it was an act of affection often uncharacteristic of one stranger toward another. Together, they ventured forth into the realm of sculpted heroes, die-cast villains, and everything between.
