Walkin The Dog

“Yeah. He deserves it, I guess.”

“I need a new produce manager.” Marty's eyes did not blink.

“Uh, yeah, I guess you do. Benny lookin' to move up. He got a wife and kid.”

“How old are you, Mr. Fortlow?”

“Me an' sixty's kissin' cousins.”

“And you work harder than two Jason Fulbrights.”

“Not if I sit out here suckin' beer all day.” Socrates bit his lower lip with a row of powerful yellow teeth.

“You could be my produce manager, Socco.”

“Naw, Marty. Not me. I just come in and do what I'm told. Pick that up, put that down—that's me.”

“You're the best man I got, Socco. And I need somebody I can trust in produce. Produce and meat—they're perishable and need a responsible eye on 'em.”

Socrates turned away from his supervisor and looked across the street at the huge supermarket with its vast parking lot. It seemed very far away.

“We better get goin', man,” Socrates said to his boss.

Socrates and Darryl worked next to each other on checkout counters five and six, bagging groceries for the four o'clock rush.

“How you doin' in school, little D?” Socrates asked his young friend.

“S'okay I guess.” The boy concentrated on the number ten cans of tomatoes he was placing at the bottom of the bag.

“Okay good or okay bad?” Socrates pressed. He could bag twice as fast as any child in the store. His hands did his thinking for him— a trait that brought him more trouble than help over the years.

“I already brought my report card home to Mr. and Mrs. MacDaniels. They got it.”

Socrates finished putting his six bags into the wire cart for a small white woman. He recognized her face but couldn't recall her name.

“Can you help me, young man?” The white lady smiled at Socrates while skinny Darryl struggled with the heavy bag he'd loaded. Socrates could have told the boy that he was putting too many big cans in one bag but Darryl needed to learn for himself.

“Sure,” Socrates said to the little white woman in the synthetic brown pants suit. “Happy to.”

When Socrates returned Darryl was still working counter six but the only other opening was on number fourteen. They worked through the rush until it was time for the late afternoon break. Darryl was the first to get the nod from the assistant supervisor of the late shift, Evelyn Lau.

Darryl left through the deli department. Evelyn always kept Socrates on until the end because he was the best worker at Bounty; the only one who could bag for two checkout counters at the same time.

After Evelyn gave him the nod, Socrates found Darryl smoking cigarettes with some of the other children around the Dumpster at back of the store.

“Come on, we gotta talk,” Socrates told the boy.

Darryl dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his Nike shoe.

They walked around to the ice-making machine at the other side of the store and stood there for a while watching the blue skies darken.

“How much that shoe cost you, boy?” Socrates asked.

“Regular one sixty for a pair, but I got these for ninety on sale.” There was pride in the boy's voice but he squinted and flinched a little because he could hear a lesson behind Socrates' question.

“And you gonna stamp out a cigarette with a rubber-soled shoe that cost you a whole week's salary.”

“It's mines. I bought it.” Darryl said. But the defiance was only in the words, none of it in his tone.

Socrates was the only man that had a right to hit him, that's what Darryl thought. Even though Hallie and Costas MacDaniels were his foster parents, Socrates was the one who had taken him out of a life of gangs and forgave his mortal crime. The social welfare department wouldn't let a convicted felon adopt the boy, but Socrates looked after Darryl anyway and made sure that he had a chance.

“You work two weeks for shoes you shouldn't be burnin' 'em like that. Bad enough yo' feet outgrow 'em in six months. I mean where you think money come from anyways?”

Socrates could see that Darryl was angry but he didn't mind.

“And what about that report card?” Socrates asked. “You gonna tell me about that?”

“I got dees and stuff.”

“An' what stuff?”

“You know.”

“What's wrong?” Socrates wanted to know. “Don't you do your homework?”

“They'ont like me, that's all. They just don't care. I'ont know what they be talkin' 'bout. An' if I ask they'ont even say.” The glower in Darryl's eyes reminded him of the boy who spent so much time with his Aunt Bellandra.

“Why ain't they gonna like you, Darryl? It's a school. You a student. It's their job to tell you what things mean.”

“But they don't. I just don't get it. They think I'm stupid, that's all.”

“You not stupid,” Socrates said. “You not. But that ain't gonna help if you fail in school. I mean what you gonna do if you fail?”

“I could work right here wichyou. People work here. Mr. Gonzalez do.”

“If that's what you want,” Socrates said. “If that's what you want. But don't make it all you could have. Ain't no shame in bein' a grocer but it's bitch and a half if they think that that's all you're good for.”

Socrates made German potato salad for his dinner that night. He boiled six potatoes and fried bacon on his butane camping stove. He used two tablespoons of good vinegar with mustard and minced onion, garlic powder, and a pinch of cayenne for seasoning. He ate until he couldn't swallow any more.

Then he pulled on his fatigue pants and jacket, stepped into his high army surplus boots, and put two pints of Myrtle's brand brandy in the inside pockets of the lined army coat. In the vacant lot he climbed into a Westinghouse refrigerator box carrying a red plastic milk carton box for his seat.

The sun was down and there was a chill in the air but between Myrtle's brand and Uncle Sam Socrates was snug and warm.

He used the oversized bottle cap for his shot glass and poked a hole in the box to see the night sights. He had brought a half gallon plastic milk container to use as a urinal. Socrates was on a mission like a small boy camping in the backyard, or a sniper laying in wait.

He nodded out now and then, talking to his Aunt Bellandra in a brandy stupor on the plastic milk crate.

“Does the angel play for white men?” the boy Socrates asked.

“No, baby,” Bellandra replied in a surprisingly gentle manner. Socrates thought that she must have been drunk to be so friendly like that. “White men don't need that angel, neither do white women nor black ones either. It's just black men so hardheaded that they cain't do right even by themselves.”

“Oh Reggie! Oh yeah!” a woman's voice cried. “Oh do that! Do that! Yeah.”

Socrates came awake to the sound of the lovers. The young woman's pleas got him half hard in his refrigerator box and he had a difficult time getting the right angle with the milk container to relieve himself. After a while he got it right but the stream was noisier than he would have liked.

“What's that?” a man, probably Reggie, said.

“Uh, what?” asked his girlfriend.

Socrates managed to stop urinating but the last few drops were as loud as tapping fingers on a tight drumhead.

“Who's that?” Reggie called out.

Socrates stifled a giggle thinking about how he was hiding in a box way past midnight. There he was with some clown swinging his dick in the night air and calling him out.

“Who's there? Motherfucker, I find you an' I'm'onna cut you too!”

Socrates zipped up his pants because he didn't want to fight with his business hanging out.

“Sh! You hear that, Tanika?”

“Let's go, baby. Maybe it's Arnold.”

“Motherfucker!” Reggie shouted. “Is that you?”