7
Well, I’ve got to go home. It’s definitely past my bedtime,” Sandy said. It was one in the morning and I could tell Sandy was winding down. I, on the other hand, had eight more hours to go. However, my day began with an alarm clock ringing at 6:00 P.M., so I was painfully awake, and I was also slightly aroused from seeing everything I just saw.
Sandy left and I was alone in the store, left to my own thoughts in a three-thousand-square-foot room filled with dildos. Should I treat myself to a cup of the punch? There was a bit left in the bowl, so I figured, why not? I chugged a cup. It was actually pretty good.
The customers who came in between 8:00 P.M. and 11:00 P.M. usually bought items to use for the evening. They had this air of excitement to them, like patrons at a bar in the early evening filled with optimism and confidence that they would find a person to go home with at the end of the night. Even if that “person” was a Fleshlight, a pornographic film about women in their 40s fucking their pool guys, or just some purple anal beads, it was still a happy ending to an evening. The customers who came in between 4:00 A.M. and 7:00 A.M. were usually on their way home from somewhere. They were visibly drunk or high, with a bag of mixed emotions. Sometimes they came in groups (like Jimmy), and sometimes they were just alone, but the “after-hours” customers all very much had a place to go before the after. These customers had a social life, but not a sex life; or they had romance in their life and not much sex; or they had a sex life but wanted more kink, and Dreamz was there for all their 4:00 A.M. to 7:00 A.M. needs.
However, the customers during the hours between midnight and 3:00 A.M. were different. They required more attention than others and spent less money than most. These people weren’t going to or coming from anywhere. The store was the beginning, middle, and end of their night.
But who was I to judge? I, too, was the before, during, and after party. Hell, I was the entire party. I used to tell myself, this was a temporary job to hold me down until I got a real job, but I wasn’t actively doing anything to pursue something “real.” Was I supposed to be? Was I supposed to be actively applying for jobs I didn’t really want, that likewise didn’t want me either? I had the credentials to be an incredibly mediocre teacher, but that paid just as much or maybe even less than what I was making, and I had less of a passion for teaching than I did for selling keys to ROOMZ. Having a night job gave me a convenient excuse for my lack of social life. The unique debauchery that ensued ignited sexual fantasies in parts of my brain that I never knew existed. I guess what I am trying to say is that I liked it there.
The night progressed. The post-midnight lull continued, as people wandered through the store, picking up different products they had no intention of buying and putting them down.
“How much is this?” a man in a stained Hard Rock Cafe Orlando T-shirt asked. He was holding up a vibrating egg that was certainly meant for a woman’s clitoris.
“$24.99,” I answered.
“And what about this?” the same man asked, this time about a kitschy, bacon-flavored lube we carried.
“Oh, lucky for you that’s on sale today! It’s $12.99.” It was on sale because no one actually wants to use a bacon-flavored lube.
“Okay. What about this?” he asked, holding up a studded dog collar, intended for BDSM roleplay.
“That’s a hundred percent leather so that’s a bit pricey—it’s $89.99. But it’s great quality!” I replied.
After a long, awkward silence he said, “All right—I will be right back.”
Any time anyone ever told me they would be right back, they never came back. When I previously worked retail as a teenager, I was taught to invasively drive sales. I was applauded if I stalked a customer and made a sale simply because they wanted me off their back. But to Sandy, the sales seemed secondary to making the people—and the genitals connected to them—who walked through this door feel comfortable. So if it gave someone comfort to ask prices on butt plugs they never intended on buying, then so be it. I hope it inspired some kind of arousal in their brain, and they went back home and got themselves off by using all the products they didn’t buy in their minds. Except the bacon-flavored lube. I never understood that one.
The hours ticked by, a few people coming and going, but the store was mostly quiet. It was now 7:00 A.M. Between 7:00 A.M. and 9:00 A.M. was always the slowest hours of my shift. Time moved like sludge. There was no way it was only two hours. It had to be at least six.
I grabbed a broom and swept the floor, something I usually did at this hour to keep my body moving around. I heard the bell attached to the door ring from across the store. It was most likely Sandy coming in to take over the next shift a little early. That bell only rang once every handful of times the door opened. Sandy knew how to push it open at just the right angle so the bell would go off.
But it wasn’t Sandy at the door. In walked someone who did not look like any of the “normal” customers, and someone who didn’t resemble anyone I had ever seen in Tampa, either: Tall, skinny, sharply dressed in a sexy black blazer, tight black pants, a white button-down shirt with a pointy collar, and a silver watch. This clothing ensemble certainly wasn’t from Walmart, and it wasn’t even from Target.
She was stunning.
She had short, slicked-back black hair, and a purple rose tattooed on the left side of her neck, just barely peeking out of her suit. I stared at her as she entered; I grasped the broom handle, and it gave me a splinter.
No one ever came in here wearing a suit, and very rarely did I ever see women in here, particularly by themselves. I watched her survey the store, looking over the rows of products until she finally saw where I was standing.
“Hello! I’m Amanda. Is the manager here?”
“Hi there. Good morning. Um, it’s just me here! The owner should be here in about an hour. I guess we don’t really have a manager. Just me and the owner. I’m Taryn!”
I was fumbling my words. I am not used to interacting with people who wear suits. I mean, my current boss wore ruffled skirts with flamingos on them. I had never in my actual life interacted with a woman who looked and dressed like this.
She looked at the clock on the wall then looked at her phone. “Shit, I’m sorry. I am three hours early! I’m completely jetlagged. I just flew in from Australia, and my phone doesn’t know what time zone we’re in.”
I was so confused. Was I hallucinating? Was a side effect of moonshine punch delusions of beautiful women in suits?
“You don’t sound like Australia. “ I paused. “I mean, Australian. You don’t have an accent,” I said.
“Oh I am not from Australia. I was just there on business. I’m a sales rep for JT Stockroom.”
“A what? What’s that?” I asked. “I mean, I know what a sales rep is; you’re here selling something for our stockrooms?” I nervously laughed. Why was I so nervous?
She grabbed the leather collar off the shelf that a customer picked up and put down earlier in the night, and she pointed to the tag. It said “JT Stockroom” on it. I honestly never paid attention the names of the companies listed on the tags on any of the items; I barely knew the names of all the items at the moment. I never gave any thought to where any of these products came from. I assumed they were all made in one giant slutty factory somewhere that Sandy went to once a week on her way back from bingo.
“Oh! I am so sorry. I should have known that name. I’m still pretty new here.”
“It’s ok. It’s my job to travel to all the stores that carry our products and educate the staff about them. I had talked to the owner and told her I would be in at 11 A.M. But my jetlag apparently got the best of me!”