September 1, 2003
He calls me a sadist
by Aryn Kyle
he first time I slept with Eric Moe it was on the table in the employee lounge. As the manager, he had to stay late to count the safe and write the nightly report after the bookstore had closed. I had forgotten my wallet in my locker and had to go back inside to get it. He said it would be a one-time thing. His wife was going through a bad period. Had cut him off completely. He hated his job. Felt disconnected from his daughter. The backs of my legs scratched on the rough edges of the table and Eric Moe bit my lip until it bled. Afterwards, I got dressed and left him sitting on the table, crying into the flats of his hands.
"You're kidding?" Mara asks. She is on her knees in the children's section scrubbing vomit out of the carpet in yellow rubber gloves like the ones my mother used to wear to wash dishes. Mara trained me. She has been here for three years and knows the store better than anyone. Telling her about Eric isn't betrayal, it's just information.
"He's so old, Jill," she says. She dips her rag into a bucket of soapy water and wrings it out over the stain on the carpet. "You know he has a kid, right?"
"April," I say. "I give her flute lessons on Thursdays."
Mara stops scrubbing and looks at me. "That's fucked up."
I shrug. "She wants to learn how to play."
Mara lowers her voice and gives me a look. "How many times?"
"I don't know. Seven or eight."
"Where?" she whispers.
I squat down by Mara, adjusting the handle of her bucket. "The office, the stock room, European History, Film Studies"
"You do it here?"
She clucks with her tongue. "There is something seriously messed up with all of this."
"It's not a big deal," I tell her. "You've slept with every boy here."
She laughs. "Yeah. Both of them."
Eric Moe doesn't like to hire boys. He says they're sullen and dissatisfied, too quick to go out and find a better job.
"He won't fall in love with you," she says.
"Good," I say.
Eric Moe is too thin and too straight. Everything about him is straight. He has straight hair and straight teeth. He wears straight, thin ties and pants pressed with perfect straight creases. He uses words like 'spearhead' and 'eyeball' as verbs and drinks decaffeinated coffee because he says that regular makes him overly sensitive to sound. He is proud that our store is ranked first in cleanliness for our region, which I guess is good since it's ranked last in sales. After we have sex, he always says it is the last time. He calls me a sadist. Says that he won't let me break up his marriage. He loves his wife and daughter.
A woman comes around the corner and holds up her hands when she sees Mara and me. "Thank God," she says. "Why are you workers so hard to find? I've been looking everywhere." She is all chin and nose and narrow eyes.
"Can we help you?" Mara peels off her gloves.
"Yes." She hands me a book. "Is this good?"
"I haven't read it," I tell her and try to hand it back.
Mara nudges me with her elbow and smiles at the woman. "This has been a very popular title," she tells her. "Really high sales for this one. Take it home and read the first chapter. If you don't like it, you can always return it."
When the woman is gone, Mara wags her finger at me. "You don't have to be knowledgeable," she says in a sing-song voice. "Just enthusiastic."
Mara knows everything about customers. When she trained me, she told me how to handle the mean ones. "Some of them just get off on being nasty. If you cry, they usually stop."
"The customer is always right?" I'd asked her.
"The customer is usually a moron," she said. "But if the boss has to choose a side, he will always choose theirs. With most of them, they just want to see that they've gotten to you. A few fake tears is all. It's not that bad."
Later, Eric Moe's wife brings him dinner in a greasy paper bag and their daughter stands in front of me, smiling through her curtain of hair.
April is eleven, quiet, respectful. Everything Eric Moe's daughter should be. While Eric and the wife eat dinner in his office, she follows me through the store.
"I've been practicing," she says.
"I really like your shoes."
"If I'd brought my flute, I could show you how much I've been practicing."
"You can show me on Thursday."
April stands on the other side of the cash register while I count the cash. She lifts herself up on the counter with her arms locked at the elbows and her feet dangling off the ground.
"I love Thursday," she says. "It's my favorite day." She clicks her toes against the side of the counter and then drops back to the floor. "Because of flute lessons."
"I'm glad," I tell her.
When she follows me back to the employee lounge, she loops her arm through mine. "You smell nice," she says and leans her head against my arm.
"It's my perfume," I tell her. We pass Mara, who is taking out the trash, and I can feel her stare on the back of my neck.
I watch the closed door of Eric Moe's office and try to make out the sound of voices behind it. "You can try some," I tell April and gesture to my purse. "Don't go nuts, though. Your mom might not like it."
On our way out that night, I say I've forgotten my keys and go back. Mara watches me while the other girls get into their cars.
"Want me to wait?"
"Nah," I say and she shakes her head.
Eric is sitting in front of the open safe, head down, counting the money. From where I stand I can see the freckled birthmark on the back of his neck.
He turns and smiles. "Well hello there."
"I forgot my keys."
He holds one arm out to the side like I'm going to walk over to him. But I lean in the doorway and cross my arms over my chest.
"Well you probably shouldn't walk out alone now," he says. "I'm not supposed to let you do that. For safety reasons." I nod.
"You never know what could happen out there," I say. "Rapists and murderers just waiting to attack in the bookstore parking lot."
He coughs and looks at the floor. He is not sure if I am joking. It is usually like this.
When he starts to pass me in the doorway, I rotate my ankle and follow him with my eyes. He stops and puts one hand out against the doorframe. I stare.
"Let's do it on the safe," he whispers.
"It hurts my back," I say.
He sighs and walks past me into his office. I stand and watch him straighten the papers on his desk. I point to April's school picture. "How was dinner?" I ask.
His arms go still and his head drops. "Don't."
I smile. "April is really amazing."
I see Eric's jaw tighten. "Stop," he says.
I take a step forward. "God, she looks like her mom."
When he grabs my shoulders and shakes me, I tell him, "Let's fuck in Fly Fishing ."
On the floor, the back of my head bangs against the bookshelf and Eric laughs when I gasp. He forces his hand into my mouth and I feel the skin on my lips split as they strain and stretch. I let my teeth find the clink of his wedding band and I push at it with the flat of my tongue. Bite into the flesh around it. When he pulls his hand back, I think he is going to hit me. But instead he pulls off the ring and throws it against the shelf.
It's fast. Hard. He says words I can't make out and moans when I dig my chin into the hollow of his shoulder. When we're finished, I stand in the aisle touching my hand to my swollen mouth while Eric searches for his ring underneath the bookshelves.
"This is a mess," he says and gestures to the books that fell when I hit my head against the shelf.
"I'm off the clock."
He doesn't look at me. "Then go home. I'll fix it myself."
I'm at the computer when Angry Guy says he needs to find a book. He drums his fingers against the desk and takes short, huffy breaths. Angry Guy is an important person with important places to be. Angry Guy is in a hurry. No smiles. No chit-chat. Angry Guy just wants his book. Unfortunately, Angry Guy doesn't know the title or author of the book he wants.
"It was just on TV and I think the cover is red." I look at him over the computer screen and he snaps his fingers at me. "On TV," he says. "Not more than an hour ago. And it's red. The book is red. Did you get that, Gidget?"
Enthusiasm is not going to help me here. "Well," I say slowly. "That's lucky because we actually organize our books by color here."
When he asks to speak to my manager, I page Eric Moe over the intercom. He walks up smiling like a game show host and I nod towards Angry Guy with my eyes.
Eric is all business. "I'm the manager, sir." He keeps smiling. Extends his hand. "What can I do for you?"
Angry Guy wants me fired and tells Eric so. I cross my arms. This is something that can't happen. Eric cannot fire me. The reason that Eric cannot fire me stems from the basic manager/employee code listed in our company handbook: Eric cannot fuck me.
Eric Moe's mouth tightens and he doesn't look at me. "Jillian is one of our best employees," he tells the man. "I'm sure there has just been a misunderstanding." He steps behind the desk and Angry Guy shakes his head. It is non-negotiable. If I keep my job, he will never shop here again.
This is the best solution I have heard so far.
Eric says that he is so sorry he had a negative experience. Just like that. 'Negative experience' and I feel my face begin to get hot. He says he'll have a talk with me and offers Angry Guy a gift certificate for fifty dollars. Angry Guy accepts.
Angry Guy watches me while Eric fills out the gift certificate, curling one side of his mouth into a fat little smile. This is the part that makes him very happy: My boss apologizing to him for my bad behavior, making it up to him, letting him watch while I wait for my spanking.
"That girl nearly cost you a customer," he says to Eric. "I hope you give her something to think about."
As Eric hands the man his certificate, he puts his foot over mine under the counter and lightly presses it down onto my toes.
When we're alone, he touches my elbow and winks at me. "Don't be a bitch to our customers."
That night we do it in Crafts and Hobbies and when Eric Moe rips my blouse I tell him that his wife is going to leave him. It's a woman thing, I say. I can just tell.
"You're pissed about that customer earlier," he says.
"She makes more money than you do. Maybe she'll give you alimony."
"I have a boss too, you know. I tell some customer to fuck off and he would just go above my head."
"Think how much easier it will be," I say as he digs his fingers into my hair and pulls it hard in fistfuls, "when you only have to father on weekends and occasional holidays."
He pushes me backward with so much force that the shelf shakes and flower art books waterfall down on us as he pins me to the floor.
"He wanted me to fire you," he hisses.
"So fire me."
Afterwards, we stand in front of my car while Eric writes me a check for April's flute lessons. He tears the check off and blows at the ink. "You're a snake," he says. "Drive carefully."
Mara is using the phone in the stock room to prank-call the store. She holds her finger over her lips to silence me and when she speaks her voice is thick and affected.
"Yes," she says into the phone. "I'm looking for a book." She says the author's name and the title and then gives me the thumbs up sign. "I'm on hold," she tells me.
The thick voice comes back when she starts to talk again. "I'm not positive that's the one, hon," she says. "Could you just read me the back of it?"
Of course, Mara is positive that's the one since we spent the last fifteen minutes searching through Romance to find the book with the most graphic description printed on the back.
Mara covers the receiver with her hand and holds the phone to the side so that we can both listen to Jake, who is a new hire.
"…But Randolph throbs with longing to make the chaste Muriel his own. Only his desire is stronger than her will. And in the thrust of one heaving summer, they defy her uncle and join their passion in the vineyards of her inheritance."
After she hangs up with Jake, Mara tells me that I ought to go look like I'm working. "If you slack too much and Eric doesn't say anything, people will put it together."
I dust in Classics until it is my turn to get the phones. The first caller is a man who needs a book on restoring 1970s Fiats. He says he saw it in the store three weeks ago.
"Someone might have bought it between then and now," I tell him.
"No one bought it," he says.
"I'll have to go look." I don't want to go look.
"I'll wait," he says.
I have to get on my knees to search the shelves and I bump against men's legs as I run my finger along the spines of books. Two different men step on my hand while I am on the floor.
"Do you have to do this right now?" one asks.
It takes almost fifteen minutes, but I finally find it. It's skinny and bent at the corners, crammed between two motorcycle books.
"I have it in my hand," I tell the man when I pick up the phone.
"It took you long enough," he says.
"I'll hold it for you." I am searching through the drawers to find pen and paper so that I can write his name down.
"Don't bother," he says. "I'll come in later tonight."
I am not going to look for the book again. I found it once. I shouldn't have to find it again in an hour. "I can't guarantee that it will be here if I don't hold it for you," I tell him.
"Why's that?" His voice is dull, humorless.
"Someone might buy it."
"Listen, Gidget, no one will buy it."
Aha. Angry Guy. After he hangs up, I take the book and re-shelve it in the Cooking section.
"This night sucks," I tell Jake when I get back to the desk.
"Yeah," he says. "Some horny bitch made me read a romance novel to her over the phone."
When I hear him, he's already yelling. "I talked to some girl! She found it less than an hour ago!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't find it," Mara says. Her voice is small in comparison to his, breathy and light. "Maybe someone bought it between then and now."
Angry Guy pounds his fist on the desk. "It's the most obscure book in history," he shouts. "Nobody fucking bought it! Look again."
As I walk up to them, I can see Mara's chin beginning to pucker, her eyes reddening around the rims.
"What's the problem here?" I ask.
"You," he says. "I talked to you." Customers around us have gone strangely still, staring over the tops of their open books. "You told me on the phone that you had a book."
"We're very busy here, sir," I say evenly. "I've talked to a lot of people on the phone."
"You remember, sweetheart." His voice is heavy and wet and he touches his tongue to the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure you do."
"Well she can't find it," he points at Mara and instantly her lip begins to tremble.
I look back at the man and shrug. "Someone must have purchased it."
His face hardens and his frame squares. "No one purchased it," he says.
Customers are beginning to exchange looks with one another. They think he's a lunatic. Some nut-ball who makes scenes in public places. His pupils narrow and I stare at him. "We could order it for you," I say. "It would be here in five to seven business days."
He takes a step toward me and I can feel his breath on my face. "It's here," he hisses. "I saw it here three weeks ago."
I keep smiling. "Maybe you should have purchased it then."
Eric is moving towards us like he's on wheels, his eyes darting between us and the customers watching. "What's the problem?" he asks Mara, who has dropped back behind me.
I feel Eric Moe at my elbow, trying to move between us, but I take a step closer, sugar my voice, show him my teeth, and stare hard.
"You gonna do something about this?" he asks Eric, but I take another step closer.
"Now sir," I begin, slowly, like to a child. "I'm trying to help you." I talk louder, loud enough that everyone listening can hear. "But this is a public place and I am going to need you to lower your voice and be a gentleman."
His lips are hard white lines when he grabs my neck. I hear people gasp. My eyes and tongue push forward and my eyelids go taut. My heartbeat is in my temples, my lips, the bridge of my nose, and the light dims around his face. It isn't until my head hits the ground that I hear the sound of Eric Moe's fist, the soppy noise it makes as it hits again and again, and I feel Mara's hands on my face.
Eric Moe and I stay late to fill out the nightly report. He is sitting at the desk and I sit on the floor with my back against the office door. My neck feels ropy and long and my head rocks on top of it. The report is blank on the desk and Eric is smoking.
"I'll lose my job," he says. His eyes are swollen, he watches an empty space on the wall.
"You hate your job," I tell him and he ashes into a styrofoam cup.
"I hit him. I could get sued. The whole company could get sued."
My tongue is thick and dry and I can feel my heartbeat in the back of my throat. I try to steady my head with my forearms.
Eric stubs his cigarette out on a pad of post-its then blows the ash onto the carpeting. "My wife is going to leave me."
I stare up at the florescent lights, the water-stained ceiling. I can't think of a single thing to say.
He blinks at me and taps his pen on the empty report. I extend my leg in front of me, but my foot doesn't quite reach his and he looks down at the place where we almost touch. Tomorrow is Thursday and in the afternoon I will listen to April play scales on her flute. I will wear a turtleneck so that she won't see the marks under my chin, the bruises on my neck. I will let her watch MTV. I will let her try on my clothes. We will make cookies and root beer floats.
But now, right now, we sit like this, Eric and I, almost touching, not saying anything.
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