Dark Places – A short story about a bad neighborhood
This story was originally published by the literary magazine Foliate Oak in 2014.
An updated version of this short story is included in the book, “You, Me and the Rest of US: #NewYorkStories.”
It was robbing season where I worked. Although I didn’t know why, it seemed a demonstrable fact that the warmth of summer somehow thawed the laziness of low-level criminals. Cops patrolled more often, random beatings became more frequent, and stick-up men looked for anything that shined with a focus that would be inspiring if it was directed at a book.
I don’t think Doug knew or thought about any of that though. In his typically unenergetic voice, our manager asked us to work after closing time on a Friday night. The temptation of overtime pay was too much for our hungry wallets to resist and so most of us stayed late, despite the dangers outside.
Two other money-starved employees and I were told to clear the sales floor of all merchandise. It was going to be waxed or buffed,or both, and from what I gathered the flooring company offered a discount if they didn’t have to move anything. The amount they discounted was more than what would be needed to pay us to move stuff. The arithmetic probably took Doug all of three seconds so in accordance with his sound math we pushed carts of sleeping pills and dumped boxes of energy drinks into the gated lot behind the store. We all did the work on the cheap for the company—though every one of us thought we were getting over.
Overtime pay made Jackie stay, though barely. She told me she was a little scared of the neighborhood. She said that she wasn’t sure if the gates were high enough to keep out the wildness that the prospect of free pharmaceuticals might bring. We wouldn’t leave until two in the morning and she whispered embarrassingly that she never liked being around past 10 p.m. I grew up in the neighborhood though. I knew it like a close relative. And I knew that, at night, the gates would definitely not be high enough to keep out thieves for more than a few hours. Luckily a few hours was all the time we needed.
We emptied the store of all its unshelved items in under an hour while Doug sat in the manager’s office to organize paperwork and check his social media feeds. With a box of unpacked cough syrup in my arms, I snuck a peek of him looking through a Facebook page called “Big Ol’ Booties.” He scrolled down its timeline, which was filled with a mix of candid and professional photos of women’s asses. Even with my passing glance, I could see Photoshop at work. Someone was using smudge tools, alpha layers, lightening and darkening effects to carve out perfect butts that could never exist in the real world. Though I didn’t like it, I admired the fact that he was able to surf the net for borderline porn while I worked...
Hey there… So, this story’s not all here anymore. An updated version of this short story is included in the book, “You, Me and the Rest of US: #NewYorkStories.“
*Images Courtesy Kris Van de Vijver