Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett Page B

Joshua stares at the floor.
    “I opened the door too fast,” Eric says finally. “I didn’t realize he was standing there.” He shakes him lightly. “Joshua?”
    Joshua nods, eyes still on the floor.

 
    Chapter Five
    A shift at Spend Easy imparts an odour difficult to describe—not revolting, but not too agreeable, either. It’s the smell of product that’s been handled several times, packed into boxes, left sitting in warehouses, shipped long distances. The skin of the hands and forearms becomes papery. The odour is strongest, there.
    After a long, hot shower, I walk around the house to Sam’s apartment, where he’s playing Super Nintendo in his pajamas. He’s in the middle of a Grand Prix in Mario Kart, but once he snags first he switches over to Battle Mode, and we play till after midnight. He kicks my ass, repeatedly.
    I’m about to request we switch games when he gets a customer—Al. I recognize him from the dinner party. We go out on the deck, and Sam produces a joint. Al has a couple puffs and holds it toward me.
    Sam takes it from his hand.
    “That’s not for Sheldon.”
    Al lifts an eyebrow. “Getting stingy, Sammy?”
    “That’s not it.”
    “What, then?” I say. “Out of curiosity.”
    “I don’t sell to 20-year-olds.”
    “Okay then, Mom.”
    We go inside, and Al plays video games with us for a few hours, until he feels all right to drive home.
    “Not sure why you’re so uptight about me smoking pot,” I say when Al leaves.
    “It’s not good for you.”
    “That’s such shit. You smoke it.”
    “I mean it’s not good for you. You, specifically.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “What do you think the Zoloft’s for, Sheldon? I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Al. But we already know your brain chemistry’s volatile. They prescribed you Zoloft to try and balance it out. Do you really want to add THC, and risk throwing it off again?”
    I stare at the TV, stuck on the game’s victory screen—Sam’s victory. I know he’s making sense, but I’m pissed off, so I don’t say anything.
    “I’ve smoked for years, Sheldon—I know I’m fine with it. Plenty of people are. For some it’s a painkiller, others use it for anxiety. Most smoke for fun, and never have a problem with it. But I’ve also seen a couple people go right off the deep end. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
    “All right.”
    “No offense, Sheldon, but you’re already pretty paranoid. You don’t need pot.”
    “All right, Sam.”
    “Okay.”
    I sigh. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Shoot.”
    “Why didn’t you want me to mention your name to anyone at Spend Easy?”
    He doesn’t answer for a couple seconds. “Let’s just say the person I know at Spend Easy would prefer my name didn’t come up.”
    “Is it a client of yours?”
    “You know I don’t discuss that.”
    I want to tell him about seeing Eric and Joshua near the trash compactor—about Joshua’s ruined nose.
    But clearly Sam stresses out about me enough, as it is. And anyway, I’m probably being dumb. The security cameras can see where they were standing. If Eric had done something to Joshua, there’d be a record of it.
    We play a few more rounds of Mario Kart, but I’m not really in the mood for it anymore. I tell Sam good night and walk around the house to my place.
     
    *
     
    Tonight I’m fronting with Brent, who spends most of his time in the warehouse. Meaning I need to move twice as fast if I’m going to front the whole store. I’m not worried, though. I’m getting pretty quick at it. Plus, there’s something calming about looking back at a wall of product you’ve assembled—a temporary bulwark against entropy.
    Ernie finds me in Aisle Two and asks if I’ve seen his nametag anywhere. “It keeps going missing,” he says.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t leave it lying around.”
    “I guess. Hey, are you free to hang tomorrow night?”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “What about Saturday?” He’s