III - America On Sale

"It's a wonderful day at Stuckey's!"

Neil Asbury, manager of the Dover, Delaware Stuckey's General Store greeted his customers.

"It's a wonderful day at Stuckey's!" and in a way, this was not an exaggeration. There it was, in all its royal blue glory, a store one and a half miles wide and two miles long, surrounded by a parking lot four miles in circumference, like a football stadium. You could get anything here, find anything. Laptops, hosiery, caulk, deli meats, diet aids, roofing supplies, mouthwash, paint thinner, and enough toilet paper to clean it all up after you were done with it. "Stock Up and Save!", the signs said, and the customers knew that what they might be saving, in addition to money, was their lives.

Neil swept some dust out from under a coke machine that hadn't popped out a soda in years, and remembered how it was before.

Back in the day, a group of protesters would show up every other week with picket signs and a giant inflatable rat, claiming that Stuckey's exploited its minimum wage workers. The leader of the group, Hal Holsbury, stood about five foot one, and would squat inside a shopping cart, screaming "Release the slaves!" into a megaphone as volunteers wheeled him around. But no one cared to protest anymore. Not in Dover, and not even, Neil heard, in Berkeley, California.

The truth was, and always was, that Stuckey's employed the otherwise unemployable, and in America, this number was growing exponentially. Stuckey's was the nation's number one employer -- private or public. Without it, the economy, the country -- perhaps even the world, as Stuckey's products were manufactured around the globe -- might collapse. Even Hal Holsbury, once the Dover Stuckey's' diminutive nemesis, now worked there four days a week stocking shelves, thanking God for each paycheck, thanking God for his employee discount.

They were a rag tag bunch, the Dover Stuckey's crew. There was Myrna, the short-handed checkout girl, who blew two fingers off her right hand in a July 4th firecracker accident at the age of eight, and then, exactly one year later, lost the other two fingers and thumb while holding an identical firecracker. "I learned my lesson," she would say, "and then I learned it all over again".

There was Tanya, the fifteen year-old basket collector who always seemed to be either pregnant, or just recovering from an abortion, who had amassed an impressive collection of gold-plated hoop earrings that stated, in various cursive fonts, "Tanya".

There was Elliot Abramovic, the seven-foot, six-inch deli man, who spent part of three seasons as the backup center for the NBA's Shanghai Knights, and spoke exclusively in sports metaphors. "Meunster cheese", he would say, "is a real sleeper candidate this year."

Aiko Takashihara, a spritely young Japanese woman who was part of an international Stuckey's employee exchange, had been sent to Dover after an assault conviction. She liked to hang out by the sports equipment and play with the paintball guns. She spoke only three words of English: "We close ten."

In exchange for Aiko, Dover had sent to Japan Manny, the dog rapist, who was the store's "lighting technician" - a job title he invented after hours spent trying to figure out how to make it seem like he did more than just change light bulbs. The current lighting technician was Norris Blanchard, a retired marine who would mumble to anyone who would listen about "the good old days" of the 1920s -- thirty years before he was born.

There were hundreds of them like this, hundreds of misfits whose lives were saved by the big box store they called home for thirty-five hours a week. A community of rejects, distinguished by their bright blue Stuckey's vests.

Perhaps the epitome of them all was Billy, the delivery coordinator, a young, blond-haired homosexual with a penchant for lascivious behavior. Or at least that was his reputation. Billy was a tall man in his mid-20s. He had been working at Stuckey's since the age of nine, delivering fliers on his bicycle before school. Over fifteen years later, he had been promoted to coordinator. Another few years and he might be a supervisor, which meant five vacation days per year instead of four. And business cards. He wondered what would it be like to have his own business cards.

Billy's work day went like this: he folded boxes, he lifted boxes, he packed boxes, he unpacked boxes. He filled out forms, photocopied the forms and then taped them to the boxes. Every day. Thirty-five hours per week. Billy hated his job, but thanks to all the heavy lifting, his physique was impeccable. He was thin, but sturdy, with well-defined muscles that were all the rage on the homosexual scene. He had been told by many to move to New York and try his hand at modeling, but most of these offers came with strings attached -- sexual strings. He was a beautiful man, and he knew it. Even the women of the Dover Stuckey's desired him, and debated the likelihood of a possible sexual conversion.

It was in the Dover Stuckey's mens room that Billy would have an encounter that would change his life forever. It began as a routine incident, a distress call over the store-wide speaker system: "Hobo in the northwest bathroom!" That was Billy's territory. He put down a large cardboard box full of old, eleven-blade razors, activated his tazer and headed towards the bathroom. Following corporate procedure to the letter, he entered the bathroom with his back toward the door, turned clockwise slowly and then, facing the hobo, recited by rote: "By loitering, you are in violation of Delaware State Code one-ninteen, section twelve, part-B. Stuckey's kindly asks you to please remove yourself from the bathroom within the next two minutes. As a reward for your compliance, we offer you a coupon good for a free fountain soda with any medium sized meal deal purchase in our food court." Billy extended his hand which held the free soda coupon.

Normally this did the trick. In fact, some of the more clever hobos would lurk in the bathrooms explicitly seeking out the coupon. They would alternate bathrooms to avoid suspicion, but Billy and the other Stuckey's employees knew what was going on, and let it happen anyway. Who were they to deny those less fortunate -- those who couldn't even get a job at Stuckey's -- a good deal on soda?

This hobo was different. He didn't accept the coupon, or even acknowledge its existence. Instead he just stared at Billy with a look of helpless desperation, like a dog at the pound hoping to avoid being gassed. It was pathetic and revolting, but Billy couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the man, such was his nature. The man was a mess, covered in black plastic bags and various old grey t-shirts, one of which read: "Denver Broncos, 1986 AFC Champions". A thick coat of dirt was caked on to every surface of his body, and he smelled like rotten bananas. Billy stared into the man's eyes, not knowing what to do. The man spoke:

"I'll do anything for fifty dollars, man. I'll jerk you off."

Fifty dollars? This man was offering to bring him to manual climax for the price of a turkey sandwich? It was sad, really, but somewhat intriguing. Billy felt himself getting aroused. That said, he didn't want any part of his body anywhere near this disgusting hobo's. He thought for a minute, then spoke. "How about this? I will give you fifty dollars and this soda coupon, you will leave the restroom, and then I will manually stimulate myself on my own time?" Billy took out a fifty dollar-bill, tossed it towards the hobo and left the bathroom.

Pleased with himself, Billy sauntered down aisle 187b whistling an old Beatles tune he had copied from his father's computer: "Mean Mr. Mustard". It was there he passed Hal Holsbury, standing on an inverted milk crate, unloading thin, aluminum oxygen tanks onto a shelf.

Hal glared at Billy. "Why are you whistling?" Hal asked in his usual obnoxious tone.
"What do you mean?" Did Hal know what had just transpired in the bathroom? Should he tell him?
"It's November ninth. Have some respect." And with that Hal placed the last oxygen tank on the shelf, rolled his eyes, sighed and strutted away.

November ninth? November ninth? What had happened on November ninth? It was hard to keep track of which days were somber days, and which were not.

Billy shrugged off Hal's comment and walked back towards the loading docks. He tried to work as normal, but one thought occupied his mind: Who was that cruddy stranger in the mens room? Would Billy ever see him again?