Shelf Life
The new guy who thinks he can stack canned tomatoes better than anyone is here again. I thought he’d last maybe two weeks. Most fold under the fluorescent lights after a week. Marlene from produce keeps a betting pool. She gave him one. But now he’s back. I saw him chatting with the checkout clerks this morning, the ones who tie their hair in “messy” buns and keep scented lotion on their belts.
Everyone in aisle seven knows the cans are mine. I stack faster than anyone. I’ve got a system. One hand holds the bottom, the other layers in neat rows, check the labels, tilt slightly for display. If I were a chef, I could julienne the shit out of a carrot. The shift manager calls me “The Architect” and sends the heaviest shipments my way.
The new guy keeps asking dumb questions. “Should we go back to fill them in when some are missing?” “Should we organize the brands by color?” No. Just follow the plan. “Do you think this display feels more rustic or contemporary?” Do I think? I think when I’m paid by the display, I don’t have time to philosophize.
I’ve built some things, though, believe me. A giant pickle out of jars for National Pickle Week. A shamrock you could walk through out of beer cases for St. Patrick’s Day (that one collapsed). A Thanksgiving cornucopia that looked like it was “vomiting cans onto the floor” (according to Owen, who has the balls to offer a critique when he pushes carts). I’m working on something big for Italy’s Republic Day (June 2), you just wait. Once I arranged the seasonal display for the mayor’s gala (not many remember that the mayor loves heirloom tomatoes). I keep waiting for a photo to show up in the local paper.
Now the new guy asks if I’ve ever considered making the cans talk. Like what, recording myself saying, “Take me home,” and hiding little speakers in the shelves? I start to brush him off, but it occurs to me I’ve imagined that before, actually.
As he stacks, I take a can off the shelf and turn it in my hands. “You really think people would listen?”
He shrugs. “Somebody would.”
I set my can down on the shelf. He straightens it, and I let him.
Rowan Tate is a Romanian creative (poet, essayist, visual artist, songwriter). She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.