Receiving with Wayne - Just A Moment #6

"I'm nearly there," I think. The last of Tiegh's daypacks returns to its hook. The muted, earthy colors of our packs blend into their black displays, and I've never quite figured that out. Tiegh puts a lot of design work into their store (more than most other stores I've worked in), yet the display of backpacks merges into a black expanse.

Customers don't seem to have a problem though. They'll put their hands on every one of these things and rarely hang them back up. (Like tonight, I've picked up all but one of these things.) Maybe that's the point? Just get the item in the customer’s hand. Well, it works and makes my job easier - except for clean-up time.

I take one last glance at the backpacks. The small freckles hang in their assigned locations, which belies the fickle appearance. That section is complete and ready for whoever needs a new school bag tomorrow.

An electric pink sleeping bag snags my foot when I turn to my next section. That little girl failed despite her father's instructions, but he wrangled a couple of kids. I don't guess he was totally focused on this sleeping bag. I do think they'll have an excellent trip on their first camp out.

With the sleeping bag in hand, I move past the almost waist high tables of our bags laid out like t-shirts. Five years at Teigh have me straightening items while my thoughts remain with the little girl and her first camping bed. Experience is a great freedom for the mind.

That dad was my last customer, and he got a matching set. The lady was not happy about this, but it kept the price down. I wonder about hiking and camping with kids. I don't reckon Teresa and I will ever know. After ten years, it feels unlikely. We sure do enjoy the hikes we do get.

Actually, Teresa suggested a new hike during our lunch today. She mentioned some state park that we (somehow) haven't visited yet. Maybe we can talk about that when I get home.

There's another table reset, and I hope Teresa enjoyed her afternoon. I know morning shifts at the Pastry Palace are never easy. Though, I remember something about mostly businesspeople today. I'll have to ask her about it tonight. Our days together make for an odd look (I'm sure), but they're pretty great with her.

Pretty easy night for sleeping bags. I've only got one table left. Each item gets straightened out before I fold it into place. They look like gifts under the Christmas tree - waiting for the morning. Now, I only need to get the trail packs, and I am out of here.

I move to the trail packs and greet Larry and Susan. I don't know their actual names; they're this couple in one of the pictures on the back wall. They hike uphill with a look of determination. I feel bad for them, because they look as though they try to conquer their hill. I feel like they need some encouragement.

"Hey, Wayne," squeaks from behind me and asks, "what do you and Teresa have planned tonight?"

I picture Teresa and I at our dining room table. Teresa's latest kitchen experiment sits before us; but the weight of a trail pack in my hand brings me back to Tiegh's, before I taste the first bite. I answer, "Hey, Amos. Oh, probably nothing more exciting than dinner and maybe a movie on TV. Gotta get these packs hung first though." I get the first one back in its place.

"Well, I'd hate for dinner to get cold,” my manager says. "Why don't you go on?" Amos circles his hands on his rather ample belly; he may be the one employee that's older than I am. At the very least, he and I are a good decade older than the other staff members.

Still, I've noticed something over the years: That belly rub means he has something on his mind. I make a guess and ask, "How about you and Delores? Special plans for the evening?” I get another pack on the black, cage-like rack.

"No, that's not it," Amos says, “and you need to stop." He grips his hips this time with the look of a soccer coach who's star player kicked an own-goal. "You need to be done. It's just time to go home."

I raise an eyebrow in his direction, because this section can't look that bad. I restore one more pack to the wall and say, "Sure thing, you grab that one three steps behind you, and I'll grab the other two. Then, we'll be done."

"Wayne, I've already clocked you out." Amos steps between me and the pack directly behind him. He puts his hands in front of him at his waist, trying to calm the moment. He says, "Look, Wayne, you're about to hit forty hours, and you know that I'll get reprimanded for that. So, you have to stop.”

My eyes widen at him with a shake of my head. I cannot understand. I look at the three parks on the floor, at my boss, and at the three obvious open areas on the wall. I can only imagine two minutes between me and a complete reset. My confusion produces only these words: "Do what now?"

"I know, man," Amos says. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Look, tomorrow is Saturday, and we're going to need some serious clean-up after that. That means you need to be done tonight. Besides, Gladys can handle three packs in the morning."

I look past Amos like a hiker who sees an unexpected hill. It's not that the terrain is difficult, but it wasn't in the plan. I think about the usual busy-ness of Saturday, and I wonder if leaving a mess for Monday's crew wouldn't be the better option. Yet, I am not here on Mondays, which means the mess will be left for me on Tuesday. I cannot ignore the small job ahead of us though. I say, "Amos, let’s pound this out and set Gladys up for success."

Amos returns a head-shake. He looks as though he tried his best, so he says, "Well, you do what you want - just know that you're not getting paid for it." He turns away from me before pacing toward the back door, the employee's exit.

I watch Amos as far as the rack of water bottles. He reminds me of a "power hiker." The kind of person, who sees not the trail in front of him but rather only the destination - as a personal challenge. Each step comes with intention and determination but not a glance to either side.

I remember, too, the trail packs on the floor. I turn to face them, yet my body refuses to move toward them. I imagine only three minutes would get them on their rack, but I'm not officially working. I wonder, then: What's the point? If my boss is not worried about it, why am I?

“Because morning shift shouldn't have to worry about this - especially on a Saturday,” I tell myself. I reconsider the short time to complete the job, but my mind lingers on already being clocked-out. Boss told me to go home, so that's what I should do, right?

I end up with this: "Well, it won't take Gladys long either, and the packs could still be there when I arrive tomorrow.” I like the sound of that last part. "Yeah," I think, "hopefully, she’ll leave it for me to do tomorrow."

Now, my turn arrives to walk past the water bottles toward the break room. The tents come next. They’re all propped up on the floor; Tiegh's store planning strikes me as genius on occasion. At last, the break room door stands in the wall with a flat frame. The door blends into the wall; you might not see it if you aren't looking for it (which I’m sure is the point). I am definitely looking for it tonight.

White linoleum stretches from the door to a row of lockers along the back wall. I cross to Locker #23 before pulling out my dinner bag and cellphone. The bag goes on my arm like a purse, and I check my phone before turning to the door.

A round grey table nearly trips me when I see the text message notification. I move around the table and open the message from Teresa on my way to the door.

My first swipe at the light switch misses short. Teresa says, "Hey, dear, don't forget that I'm headed out with the girls tonight." Well, this is just great. "I've been told to go home," I think, "but no one will be there.” I'm back to the question that I asked Amos: Do what now?

Well, this light needs attention before I can deal with that. With that done, I step onto the sales floor once more, take the two steps to the "fire exit" (that serves as the employees' door), and see a post-it note. It informs me that Amos is already gone, so I must make sure the door locks. I think, "Wow, I'm even here by myself."

I pass through the door, like a deflated balloon that slides across the ground in a breeze. The door gets a yank closed before a shoulder push to ensure that it locked. I turn into the night with street lights revealing only my car in the lot. My remaining question returns with a hint of longing: What do I do now?

I'm not doing anything here; that's for sure. Only my car sits in the parking lot. I can see all the various attempts at patching the back lot. Black asphalt of the main road flows over the grey, broken, and warped concrete. The flickering light from the street lamps completes a picture straight from Edgar Allen Poe.

I guess I'll just take my lonely car to the house. There's always something to do there. The toilet's wanted a cleaning for a couple days, and I bet I can find some dishes to wash. Teresa and I would have less to do tomorrow that way. Who knows? I might even get to finish that job.

My first steps away from Tiegh bring me off the stoop to the smoking circle. A few of my coworkers still sneak out here, especially after an unusually difficult customer. I wonder if they come in pairs, or if they come alone as I do tonight. After such a difficult customer, I'd probably come alone, but tonight hits different.

A rise in the concrete catches a foot, which reminds me of a solo hike a couple weeks ago. I went to a trail around here (that I'm as familiar with as this parking lot), and I kept tripping over roots. The sun was bright and warm while every bird for a mile sang its song.

Not here though, I can barely hear Highway 42. That's incredible for a Friday night. I suppose everyone is at their place for an evening out, or they've already returned home. It's not like the nightlife around here is all that exciting anyway. That should encourage me to go to the house too. I can, at least, relax there, once the chores are done. Yeah, I'll go finish some work, and then it'll be chill time.

Almost halfway to the car now, I must wonder if my car could accompany me anywhere else? I pull my cell phone from my pocket, and it reports half past eight as the time. Eh, most places will be closing down soon - by the time I can get somewhere.

Nightshifters (like me) have an unwritten code. No one likes a customer arriving right before close, so you shouldn't be that customer. Now, that's not to say that there aren't emergencies or loopholes. It's just a general idea: Don't be that person. You know everyone is trying to get home, so you shouldn't impair that.

Because of that (and a general preference for hanging out with Teresa), I don't think I ever went to a coffee shop to read after work. Most places close the same time we do during the week, so there's no place open. Too, I don't want to be that guy, especially on the weekend.

Anyway, I can read at the house, and coffee (at this hour) is probably a bad idea. The house looks like a better option with all things considered. Besides, there'll be only a little more work there before reading time.

“Except Waffle House” flashes across my thoughts. I get to the car, reach for the key fob, but the car remains locked. Waffle House never closes, and they have plain, black coffee. I catch my reflection in the car window and stare as if looking down a new trail.

I move around to the hood of my old, navy sedan. The plastic makes a pop sound, when I sit down; hopefully, that's a dent that'll come out. "When was the last time I went to a Waffle House?" I look at the back of the shopping mall. The lights above the store doors remind me of stars.

That last visit must have been with Teresa. We would go to Waffle House before she got the job at Pastry Palace. That's right. We'd go over there after long shifts, and she was too tired to cook. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Now, that would make a fine place for a coffee and a read. No one expects normal at the Waffle House, and who knows? The staff there could even appreciate a nice, quiet visitor after a Friday night rush.

But, those household chores will not do themselves; I've tried that. Teresa and I took a week off for several day hikes, and we put the clothes next to the washer. Unfortunately, the next week had me at the store for extra inventory shifts, while Teresa helped the Palace get ready to open. Surprisingly, the clothes failed to jump into the machine. Though, they could of had more respect for themselves than that.

Seriously though, Teresa has a small chance of coming home early. Her friends all have children now, so they may bail on her. That's what happened the last time. I remember something about a school play, but I am fuzzy on the details. The point is this: I would feel terrible if I missed her tonight.

No, the real point is this: She and her friends plan these things for weeks, so they stay out all night. A time or two, Teresa has even tried going to work immediately from one of these girls nights. Those were not her most successful days.

And, come on. Who doesn't love Waffle House coffee? That's not to say that it's the best (by any stretch of the imagination). Still, it's great, like an old McGonagall poem. You know exactly what you’re getting, and it always satisfies for just that reason. Man, I might go only for the coffee after that.

But wait. There's my birthday present. Teresa got me a copy of Something About Living back in March. (Sharing a birthday with St. Pat is great cause everyone's already in a party mood.) Lena Khalaf Tuffaha won the National Book Prize for that poetry collection last year, and I still haven't touched it. I brought it for supper break tonight, but I didn't bring it in. It's sat out here all this time. Maybe waiting for this moment?

For this moment indeed. I push myself from the car's hood. A plastic snap causes an immediate turn around. I rub my hands over the navy paint, and the hood's as smooth as it was. I smile at no new dent in the car. I saunter over to the driver side door and press the unlock button on my key fob one time. (I'm in a back parking lot after sunset - can't be too careful.) In a single motion, the door opens, closes, and is relocked with me tucked safely inside.

I plop my hand into the passenger seat but hit only cloth. The cabin lights flash on, and there is no book in the passenger seat. "Well, how's that for ruining my whole night?" I think, "Finally motivate myself to do something, and I didn't actually bring the stuff to do it." I'm like a hiker (who forgot his raincoat) in a scattered shower.

I calm myself with this: "I know I packed it." My hand moves from the seat to the pocket on the back side. I do find several things, but none of them are the book.

I take a dive over the center console. White, laminated paper shines under the passenger seat. I pull it from its cave, and there is my book.

Relief escapes from me in a long exhale, as I clutch the book to my chest. Not only have I recovered the needed item for tonight's trip, but also I have not lost my birthday present. Teresa was very sneaky getting this one, and I have looked forward to it for months. I do hope she has fun tonight.

The car gives a couple clicks before starting in a usable fashion. I grab the gear shift with a glance behind me. The car doesn't shift into gear though. I stare out the back window with a new question: Where is our Waffle House?

My cell phone materializes in my hand. A vision of passing the place on my way to work haunts my mind while I type a search for Waffle Houses near me. Turns out that I was right. It's only two streets back. I can even take a couple backroads and avoid the highway. That'll be great on a Friday night.

The car lurches into reverse, and I turn out the far exit of the mall. At long last, it's time for a coffee and a read after work.