Empty by Adam Chabot
It was 10:30 PM on an early November night and Michael was the only Many Books ’n Such’s employee on the floor. Holiday hours had begun which meant the store would stay open until 11 PM each night until Christmas Eve to “accommodate the rush,” according to Craig, the manager, who had informed all employees about this change at last week’s staff meeting.
“We should all be prepared to help,” Craig had said.
This was Corporate’s decision, a choice disconnected from the sociological realities of central Maine where the world shut down at 9 PM except for Walmart and Cumberland Farms convenience stores. Michael, and Clara who worked in the bookstore’s connected café, were the only ones who volunteered to work the first late shift, and at its beginning, Craig brought pizza to share in the break room.
Craig was in his early-50s, married, had two grown kids, and he had spent his entire career in retail. Very short, thin shoulders, and tousled gray hair, his general affect reminded Michael of a teenager except for his revolving palette of Polos tucked into tightly belted khakis. Craig would pace the store and praise his employees with constant compliments and appreciation, so much so, Michael often wondered if Craig’s benevolence was a mask for something, an addiction, a malady, or something that made him real. Part of Michael wanted believe Craig was an alcoholic, or had a gambling issue, or some other vice, something that didn’t make him come off as such a cheerfully autonomous corporate mouthpiece. Craig had also looked so undeterred by the new corporate shift and so casual with the reality that he would likely have to work every night through Christmas Eve since so few of his employees offered to help.
In the last hour, Michael had only seen Craig, Clara, and what looked like a man in ratty blue jeans napping in a café lounge chair. Michael frequently checked his phone, and busied himself with organizing bookmark displays or the magazine racks notorious for chronic dishevelment.
Also, that afternoon, Holiday music began to play from the sound system embedded into the ceiling in various places throughout the store, a musical shift from the standard loop of slow, banal pop songs. Similar to the new Holiday hours, Craig said there was nothing he could do about this cacophonous yet understandable change, and even if the store was empty, nothing could be done about the loud volume. Michael had to believe Craig knew this whole scenario was ridiculous, something sad, if not pathetic, in loud renditions of “Silver Bells” or “Santa, Baby” in the large, quiet store.
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At 10:45 PM, Clara, from the café, sought Michael in the bookstore. She then turned around and pointed at a man dozing in a café lounge chair.
“You see that guy, right?” she asked.
“Sure. He’s been there awhile.”
“He’s passed out. Craig’s coming in a minute to kick him out.”
As Clara turned to look for Craig among the shelves, she exposed the small of her back where her black apron was tied around her waist. Michael couldn’t help but to look.
“Yeah, he must be on his way out,” Clara added, then facing Michael who quickly averted his eyes.
“Did Craig thank you?” Michael asked.
“For what?”
“For—I don’t know. You’ve ever notice he does that a lot? Thank people?”
“I haven’t, no.”
A quiet moment lingered between Michael and Clara except for ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ emanating from the speaker above them.
They chatted often but their conversations were casual, proximal, and likely rooted in the fact they were nearly the same age. Clara once told him she lived in a place called Tower 99 in Bangor, which Michael knew was a swanky apartment complex on Franklin Street. Michael remembered driving by that building during its construction a few years ago, and even then, sneering at the “gentrification,” a word his father introduced him to, a sign that things were changing, and according to his father, they weren’t for the better, or at least for the benefit of people like him. Michael guessed Clara’s parents leased her apartment for her, but what he did know was that Clara was originally from Connecticut, had attended Bates, recently graduated, took a trip to Austria with friends last summer, and had enrolled at the University of Maine for a Master’s degree in nursing. She claimed she had an internship at Maine Medical lined up next semester and would quit the café after Christmas. Craig already knew about this and he was happy for her, he had said.
Michael also graduated from public college last spring, but returned to Veazie, his hometown and a twelve-minute drive from the store. He assured his parents he would be out of the house by September but it didn’t happen, so he spent his time perusing online job boards and tinkering with his resume like a procrastinated homework assignment. Michael had believed his next steps in life would be easy with the training wheels of education soldered off: a real job, perhaps a girlfriend, a departure from Maine. Somehow, so quickly, months went by and he was still here. Many Books ’n Such had hired him in October.
In Michael and Clara’s brief, transactional talks, Michael chose to speak as little as possible, refusing to let Clara see who he really was, opting not to explain how after each shift, he saw nothing for himself except the streetlights illuminating nothing but potholes and chipped parking lines and the faded odor of gasoline in the vacant parking lot. He would never disclose to her that he still lived with his parents, or that he didn’t have a Master’s program to explore, or that this bookstore job wasn’t something he could abandon at will. Clara’s intentional voice, driven and knowing like someone with a grip on the future, mesmerized him. Its tone was low but delicate enough to be both charming and deliberate, a calibrated tenor of someone who knew where they were going, what they wanted; working at the café was part of a plan, a small element of a larger equation. Michael didn’t believe Clara looked down on her job, but he believed she would eventually forget about all of this.
During quiet moments at the register, Michael would imagine a desirous future, one he wanted but had no idea how to attain. Echoes of this would hit him as he rang up a customer’s expensive purchase, or saw anyone in the store wearing a suit, or when he considered the abhorrent idea of working at Many Books ’n Such for as long as he had been alive. He thought a lot about Craig, but mostly, Michael wondered what it would be like to quit his job and have a chance to write a new story. But this was all a fantasy of course.
“I’d just wake him up myself, but I figured it’d be better if Craig did it,” Clara said. “You never know with some people.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Another moment floated between them.
“I love that they’ve turned on the Christmas music. Don’t you?” she said. “It’s my favorite holiday.” Clara had been rocking from one foot to the next and looking up at the closest speaker playing “Carol of the Bells.”
“Sure,” Michael said.
“I wonder if Craig will decorate. I asked him about it and he seemed excited by the idea.”
At this point, Craig appeared in the café, and Michael and Clara watched as he tapped the slumbering man on the shoulder with a gentle touch. Michael guessed Craig apologized to the man for interrupting him, and thanked him for his patronage even though he didn’t buy anything. He thought the whole scene was miserable, another one of Craig’s begrudging responsibilities manifesting in front of them: kick people out of the store, deal with unruly customers and their complaints, navigate a revolving door of employees, appease whomever from Corporate, clean the bathrooms when hourly workers refused to do it, live his life in the glow of fluorescent lights and in that repetitive music, over and over. To Michael, Craig was in charge of so little. What did Craig see every day? Did he really look forward to doing things like this? And Michael wondered why Craig wasn’t upset about Clara’s ensuing departure, another competent employee he would have to replace. Had he really been happy for her?
The man in the lounge chair stumbled to his feet and sauntered out the café entrance into the dark parking lot carrying a plastic bag bulging with what looked like old magazines.
“Where do people like that come from?” Clara asked.
She didn’t wait for a response; she said a quick “thanks,” in Michael’s direction and had already started back to the café. Michael offered a “you’re welcome,” but she didn’t notice; his words muffled by an ironically loud rendition of “Silent Night.” Instead, he watched her walk away, the long loops of her apron bouncing with each step.
*****
At precisely 11 PM, Michael checked his cell phone. His mother had texted him two hours earlier to remind him about leftover “supper” in the fridge.
Craig emerged from behind a row of bookcases—he was whistling—and he locked the front doors. He smiled at Michael.
“You’re sure no one’s left in the store?” Craig called to him. “It’s been a little slow tonight but it’s good to double-check.”
“All clear, Craig.”
“Thanks again. I really appreciate you working so late,” Craig added twirling the lanyard that held his keys into a tight coil around his wrist.
Craig walked behind the register, unhooked the drawer, and let Michael carry it as he followed.
“Oh, I meant to tell you that there’s more pizza in the break room if you want to take it home,” Craig said.
For the slightest moment, Michael wondered what would happen if he took off, if he sprinted out the door with his loot in hand, the thrill of it, but instead, Michael stopped to peer into the café. Clara was gone. “White Christmas” echoed between the black tiled floor and café chairs stacked onto tables. And besides, Craig just locked the doors. No escape.
“Looking for something?” Craig asked.
“No, sorry. I’m just tired.”
“No, no, I get it,” Craig said. “Look—leave the drawer in the back, clock out, and head home. I got this. Thank you for taking the late shift.”
Michael continued into Craig’s office and set the drawer on the desk as Craig maneuvered around him and sat in a creaky office chair worn from use or age. Craig wore a red Polo, a couple of chest hairs pirouetted over his top button. Why was he smiling, Michael wondered. Michael wanted to say something but didn’t know what, so he nodded in Craig’s direction and muttered a thank you in his direction. This world was not Craig’s fault, but Michael couldn’t do this forever.
Michael grabbed his jacket, clocked out, and quickly regarded the pizza in the break room but left it for Craig instead.
Once outside, the air embraced him just as he expected, liberation in the immediacy of un-clocked hours, a fleeting untethered moment. He could go anywhere, follow anything.
The heavy employee-entrance door crashed behind him as he saw an idling sedan humming in a parking space next to his car. For a ridiculous second, he wondered if Clara had been waiting for him.
The driver-side window descended as Michael approached, and behind it, a woman in a black fleece looked up at Michael and offered a toothy smile as if she knew him. She had been reading a paperback.
“Is Craig coming?” she asked. There were gray streaks in her hair, her eyes tired but friendly. “I know I’m a little early. I’m his wife.”
“Oh—he should be right out.”
“Oh, good.” She smiled again. “Thank you.”
Michael tasted the stale, iron images of Craig in the back room counting up the tills, taking a final walk through the store, checking the locks, a series of necessary tedium.
“You like working for him?” she asked.
Michael smiled and quickly blurted, “of course.”
She nodded in response and looked toward the employee-entrance door.
“He loves it. Loves the people.”
“I know. He’s great.”
“Let me guess—he let you go early, too, right? I saw some young woman leave a few minutes before you.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, thank you for all you do,” she said.
“I’m sure he’ll be right out.”
A silent moment hung between them before Michael said he had to go. She smiled again and rolled up her window.
*****
At 11:10 PM, Michael got into his car. He sat there for a few moments, embraced the momentary stillness, turned the car on, and rubbed his hands over his face pressing each finger into his forehead. He felt rushed to go home, but required to stay for a reason unknown to him, a comfort with being in controlled stasis. It was better if he could choose to sit in his car, in this parking lot, and soak in the world for how it was around him, even if he hated it.
Michael then watched Craig’s wife—he hadn’t learned her name—step out of her own vehicle, wave in Michael’s direction, and enter the employee-entrance of the store. Craig had opened it for her from the inside and seeing Michael still in the parking lot, he also offered Michael a benevolent wave.
Eventually, Michael backed out, and drove around the building to where the parking lot opened up to the main road. The lights in the store were still on, each window ablaze. Michael stopped his car in front of the café, lowered his head, and peered through the passenger-side window to see Craig and his wife unboxing a fake Christmas tree. Michael watched them as Craig balanced the tree on a plastic stand, while she pulled and separated its branches and then began to wrap the tree in a string of colored lights. Their mouths were moving—they had to have been singing—and they kept singing all the while. They must have been belting notes as loud as they wanted for an unseen audience, and Craig must have had so much more work to do in spite of it all.
“I trashed this short story about two years ago. I always enjoyed the story's situation as it's loosely based on my time working in retail, but the plot itself didn't feel like it worked. In spite of that, I made many revisions but I had a hard time feeling excited about it until very recently when I stumbled upon it again. I think having some time and distance from the story helped me see it more clearly, which, in turn, helped me find some excitement in it again.”
Adam Chabot (he/him) is the English Department Chair at Kents Hill School, a private, independent high school located in central Maine. His other work has been recently featured in rough diamond poetry, Sour Cherry Mag, and The Red Lemon Review, among others. He can be occasionally found on Twitter @adam_chabot.