Frank Rooney had been the manager of the Shop & Save for thirty-eight years, and he wasn't retiring anytime soon. He had seen many faces come and go, customers and colleagues alike, but in all his time he had never met anyone quite as detestable as the lead salesman, Gilbert Smith, who only got the job because his uncle is the new district manager.
‘Smell ya later, Gramps’, Gilbert would quip in passing. Yesterday, Frank had found a sachet of hair dye taped to the outside of his locker. The day before, a brochure for a retirement village was under the front wiper of Frank’s waxed 1965 Black Chevy.
Last night when Frank was handing over to Gilbert for the night shift, he heard, ‘Fall into a grave already’, as he clocked out. Frank turned and stared at Gilbert, slouched into the doorway; Frank closed his wrinkled fist, but he held his tongue and his fingers fell loose. One of them would have to go, and Frank wasn’t retiring anytime soon.
This morning was seemingly like any other, but his head was groggy and there was a heaviness to everything. Frank ironed his green apron, pressing the hot iron down into it’s smug, spotty face. In the shower, he rang the neck of the sponge. After preparing his morning bowl of cereal, he carelessly knocked the carton onto the floor; milk pumped out and bled across the cold tiles and seeped into his floor rug. He stabbed at the sizzling bacon, fat spitting out and burning. He sliced the sandwich, savouring the moment.
The entire apartment was only just bigger than his reserved parking space at work. On his day off, Frank could prepare his Bran Flakes, brush his teeth, iron his shirts and hang them up on a rack, without leaving his bed.
It turned 6 o’clock. Frank packed his case: a fresh and folded green apron, a hearty lunch wrapped in tin foil, a spare pair of spectacles in a small black wallet, his name badge and yellow ‘be happy’ pin beside it. He tucked his grey shirt in, tightened his belt until the leather stretched about his gut. Frank checked his phone; no messages, no missed calls.
Recently, the twenty-five-minute drive to and from work, his lunch break and Thursdays when Gilbert had a day off, were Frank’s only true moments of peace. He could not relax at home anymore.
Frank looked over his Chevy, ran his finger across the paint work and inspected it. Then, he circled around the car, past the licence plate that read ‘R00-N5Y’, and then back round to the driver’s side. Frank pulled the door shut, leaned back into the driver’s seat and rested his fingertips on the steering wheel. The engine kicked into gear and purred. Frank took a deep breath and then pulled out onto the high street.
There was a smile brimming on Frank’s face. He had one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. The ride was bumpy, Frank was saddled in on the edge of his seat, his tip toes poking at the pedals, ready for any buck; poised like a sprinter ready to dash.
Up the road, the lights turned green. A fox-orange 2017 Nissan Rogue Sport sped past, through the oncoming lane, past Frank and an old, slow Ford he was stuck behind. The lights would change back any moment and this Ford, some crappy rattletrap, wasn’t making it on time.
Frank looked up the oncoming lane, looking for his moment to strike. There was a break in the traffic, Frank pulled out left, hammered his foot down and stood up in his seat with the excitement! He roared past the Ford, sliding in front as the green lights flicked to amber. He sped up a little, but then the amber flicked to red.
He stomped on the breaks, they screeched. Frank heard a metallic pop, then the Chevy’s engine murmured a weeping, breathless hiss. The brakes fell slack; Frank reigned in the handbrake. The wheels burned against the tarmac, two black streaks stained the road, through the red lines and into the middle of the intersection. The Chevy stopped, traffic flying in from the left and right.
His eyes shut, his hands fluttering around, his heart dropped out his chest and onto the driver’s seat.
A furious car horn blared out. Rubber squealed. Voices swore. The oncoming traffic made their way around Frank sitting in his steaming Chevy on the crossroad. Frank turned the keys, pleading with the ignition. It revved and revved, then hissed. He sheepishly pressed on his hazard lights; the Ford behind him, before the red light, did the same.
Late-fifties, about the same age as Frank, balding, in sports shorts, a tank top and a large slapped-on smile; the driver stepped out of the Ford and bounced over to the Chevy on his toes, raising a palm to oncoming traffic. Frank saw a teenage boy sitting in the passenger seat, reading a book.
‘Car trouble?’ muffled with a knock at the window, Frank wound it down, ‘You gave us quite a fright there, are you alright?’
‘I’m fine’, said Frank, he let the handbrake off, opened his car door and fixed a hand to his steering wheel – looking over to the corner of the road. The lights changed and Frank started marching, tick tick tick, in time with the hazard lights flicking.
‘Let me give you a hand’, said the man with a smile, who walked round to the back and pushed.
‘Mind the paint work’, Frank called out,
‘Yes, sir’,
‘No, seriously’, Frank stopped and turned about, ‘look, I don’t need your help – go back to your family, leave me alone’.
‘What kind of example would I be setting for my boys then? Let me help you to the curb’.
Frank gritted his teeth and pushed. He looked back over at the man’s Ford, the teenager’s eyes were fixed into the crease of a novel; he turned a page, glancing up for just a brief moment. They slowly wheeled over to the corner of the street.
‘Thanks, you can go now’, said Frank,
‘You’re welcome, the name’s George; you?’
‘I’ve got to get to work, can’t stay and chat’,
‘It doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere’, said George, sniffing, ‘what is your name?’
‘She’ll be fine’, Frank paused, ‘Francis, call me Frank’,
‘Nice to meet you, Frank’, George offered a hand, ‘you got cover for this?’ Reluctantly, Frank shook his hand.
‘I’ll be able to fix her up’.
‘Sure, sure, Frank’, George nodded, ‘I’ll call you a tow, I know a guy; you’re not pushing this to the nearest garage by yourself’, Frank stared at him, ‘if that is alright with you, Frank?’
‘I suppose it is okay. Thank you. I don’t know garages in this part of town, I was driving to work’, Frank confessed and George smiled bright.
He wasn’t quite sure how things turned out this way, watching his Chevy in the hands of a grease monkey get smaller and smaller through the dusty round window of a bumbling Ford. Frank now regretted feigning humility and taking the backseat, beside a young boy in a booster seat, Frank shifted about the crushed quavers in his chair.
George had offered to drive him to work. It took a lot to say yes. When Frank got in the car, George introduced his two sons, the grumpy Harry and the little Peter. Harry didn’t look up from his copy of Catcher in the Rye, whereas, little Peter didn’t take his eyes off Frank for an instant.
‘You listening to this?’ George elbowed Harry, who grunted back. George’s eyes bounced between the road and his fingers at the radio, carefully pressing a rehearsed sequence of buttons. Then, the radio played:
I heard you on the wireless back in fifty-two. Lying awake intent at tuning in on you.
‘The Buggles, 1979’, Frank smiled.
‘You know it?’ George asked,
‘Know it? This was the first record I ever bought with my first pay cheque. Still got it somewhere, under my bed maybe’. Frank bobbed his head and mouthed the words. Frank saw Harry mouthing the words, too. Little Peter patted his hands up and down with the drum beat.
The back window was rattling, ruining the song. The back seats stank of sugar and crisp, with faint gas fumes bubbling under the surface. Should the wind turn, this Ford might fall in two. Though Peter paid no mind, he brought a small red rattle to his mouth and dribbled all over it. Peter’s eyes creased with a smile as he caught Frank looking.
‘You got kids, Frank?’ George asked,
‘Yeah, two’, Frank lied, ‘they grow up so fast’.
‘You’re telling me, my oldest is nearly thirty’.
‘Thirty-eight this year’, added Frank, dismissively.
‘Next left?’ asked George,
‘Erm’, Frank began, ‘you can drop me just here, I don’t mind a little walk over to the office block; some fresh air will do me good after the morning I’ve had, I wouldn’t want Wendy – the receptionist – to see me all hot-headed’,
‘You got it, Frank’, George chuckled.
Frank stepped out of the car in front of the pet shop, Em-Paw-Ium. He waved and little Peter waved back, like his father. Harry turned a page and the Ford pooted off; with a sharp double-honk.
Apply within, supervisor needed; as Frank walked by. Adopt a puppy today; Frank fell into the two deep eyes of the poster-puppy. Two for one on litter trays; seems fair, Frank thought. Subscribe for your weekly luxury pet food.
His landlord didn’t allow pets, but Frank always had a soft spot for dogs. His grandad would drive him out into the woods with their German Shepherd, they’d walk her all across, from the lake to the Scout’s cabin.
Frank walked down the little alley to get round the back of Shop & Save. There was a torn poster on the wall, damp leaflets stuck to the pavement like chewing gum, and broken glass scattered about. Frank paused, took a breath and swept his hair back. He glanced at his wristwatch and grumbled.
Frank looked up and there he was, Gilbert, standing with the back door ajar, leaning against it, his weight rocking the door gently on its hinges.
‘Oh, you’ve done it this time’, Gilbert said, tapping his watch, ‘did you miss the bus or wet the bed? Don’t be embarrassed, it is natural at your age’, he smirked.
‘Listen here’, Frank jolted forward and took Gilbert by the collar, ‘enough is enough’. Gilbert’s eyes flared open and he let go of the door. Frank tightened his grip. The door creaked open, slowly, revealing Gilbert’s uncle standing on the other side. He wore a heavy, black suit over a pressed, white shirt and a black tie; a yellow ‘be happy’ pin fixed on his blazer’s breast pocket.
‘Mister Rooney’, he said.
‘Mister Smith, Sir’, Frank replied, startled and letting go of Gilbert, ‘I didn’t know we had a meeting this morning, I would have brought some coffee’.
‘It would be cold by now, old-timer’, interjected Gilbert,
‘I’m not here for a meeting, I was called in by the night team. You’ve got rats, Frank. This isn’t up to code, we could be shut down for something like this and it has happened on your watch’,
‘Which is, evidently, running late’, added Gilbert. Then, his uncle smacked Gilbert across the ear, ‘Hey!’ he squealed,
‘It was on your watch, too’, said Mr Smith, ‘both of you have twenty-four hours to get this place back into shape or you’re both fired’.
The district manager barged past both of them, walked across the brick pavement and got into a fox-ginger 2017 Nissan Rogue Sport, parked in Frank’s reserved spot. Its engine cackled as he whipped out of sight.
Frank plummeted into the office chair, it spins gently, and he squeezed his brow. The cash register was on the side, half way through being counted, at least seven hundred dollars just sitting there; Frank could fix his Chevy up and spend the weekend out of the city on that green.
Gilbert paced by, lingering.
‘Rats?’ Frank asked,
‘Jackson spotted it by the fruit, then a customer saw it’, Gilbert shrugged, ‘the team is in the staff room waiting on you’.
‘How did your uncle find out?’
‘I called him’,
‘Why would you do that?’
‘What else was I suppose to do?’
‘You call me, you should have called me’.
The four shift workers sat in the staff room, as Frank entered and Gilbert followed quietly behind. There was Jackson who had just finished his night shift, packing up at his locker. Then there was a very tired Daisy, her slick red hair pulled back into a pony-tail. Donovan, he was a thin, frail teenager – he usually only worked a few hours over the weekend, but he had time off college. Finally, there was sweet, old Vanessa, who worked the pharmacy.
‘Right everyone’, Frank said, ‘little problem last night and we may need to shut the store down for a couple hours today, but don’t mention it to customers and...’, Frank paused as he looked at his employees. Vanessa was listening intently, but Daisy hadn’t looked up from her Samsung, and Donovan was whispering over to Jackson.
‘Your attention, please’,
‘I’m listening’, Donovan said, ‘I’m listening good’. Daisy didn’t look up from her phone. Frank switched his focus between them, back and forth.
‘Listen!’ he rocketed. The room shook. Everyone jolted. ‘You’re on the clock. Listen to me. Daisy get off your phone or I’ll be snapping it in two. Donovan, lie again and you’re finished. Jackson, go home; now’.
Frank slumped back into the office chair, idle as life seeped out of him, and he waited on the line for someone, anyone, to deal with this.
Daisy came to the office. ‘Sorry, Frank’, she said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you’,
‘Just do a good job’, Frank forced a smile and Daisy skipped off.
Gilbert fetched the till and took it out the front. A moment later, he returned to the office, clocked out and quipped, ‘smell ya later, Gramps’,
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Frank demanded,
‘Call the exterminator, job done’,
‘An exterminator walking around the shop, that will drive sales’.
‘You. You will have to close, Frankie’,
‘Don’t you care at all?’
‘Do you really think my own uncle will fire me?’
‘I don’t know, do you?’ asked Frank, but he didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one, but Gilbert clocked back in.
Frank was ready for the shift. He put down the office phone and frowned. He put on his apron, his name badge and yellow ‘be happy’ pin. In the mirror, he forced a smile – tried to make his eyes wrinkle, too, like little Peter’s did.
On the shop floor, it was a quick start to the day, but Frank and Gilbert patrolled with a watchful eye. Gilbert slurped on a fruit shake in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. Frank paced up and down each aisle, one at a time. He carefully checked for any droppings and listening out for any faint squeaks.
‘Excuse me’, a customer pulled Gilbert aside,
‘Oh, hello, my name is Gil, how many I help you today?’
‘I’m looking for diapers, can you point me in the right direction?’
‘Certainly, the man to ask is young Frank over there’, Gilbert said, pointing, ‘he can recommend the best texture’.
Then outside, a white van with ‘Squeaky Clean’ printed on the side pulled up. Frank raced out through a crowd of people, Gilbert followed shortly after.
‘Subtle service, huh?’ said Gilbert as Frank knocked on the driver’s side glass and told him to head round the back, pointing wildly.
‘Now, these pads are really, really sticky’, said the Squeaky Clean van man to Frank and the team. Donovan put up his hand,
‘You’re not in school, Don’, said Gilbert,
‘Sorry’, said Donovan, ‘could it stick a car to the floor?’
‘No’, said the Squeaky Clean man, ‘they are only sticky on one side, so it would just spin with the wheel – any other questions? No question is too stupid’.
Donovan raised his hand again,
‘Let’s not test that theory, Don’, added Gilbert.
‘I have a question’, said Frank, ‘how long will we need to close the store for?’
‘You can’t have customers on the shop floor with these out. These will ruin a nice pair of shoes and no one wants to buy carrots with a rat squirming at their feet’,
‘So, how long?’
‘As long as it takes’.
Gilbert locked the front door and stuck an A4 sheet of paper, with ‘Gone Fishin’ written on it, to the glass. He walked back over to the main checkout, leaving a cluster of confused customers behind him. Daisy sat on the side and Donovan was watching Frank and the Squeaky Clean man walk about the store laying down the sticky pads.
The day was long and tedious. Gilbert took a nap in the staff room. Daisy braided her hair and Donovan was on duty turning customers away but taking any pharmacy orders over to Vanessa on behalf of regulars.
Frank sat back in the office, like a cold man in a fishing boat, all alone in the middle of a storm. The Squeaky Clean van man had left after checking above the ceiling tiles and finding droppings on the walkways between Shop & Save and Em-Paw-Ium; he blamed it on the pet shop.
Frank tapped his fingers on the table, watching the CCTV and counting the seconds tick by. Every ten minutes, he swept across the shop, checking every pad. Nothing yet. Then, he’d return to the office.
A sudden, tiny, piercing cry.
Frank looked about, unsure where it came from. It was a squeak like a baby in pain. Frank stood up and began to search the office. It was like a kitten with an injured paw. Frank stepped out of the office and began to look round for pads. It was like the noise a German Shepherd makes when it pulls the leash out of your hand and crashes into a ditch, whimpering, in pain. It sounded like a boy’s cry having watched Grandad end the suffering hound’s life.
There it was, not a rat at all, but a small, white mouse. It was no bigger than Frank’s thumb. Its feet were stuck on one of the pads, it struggled and struggled. Tufts of white fur on its chest knotted up and stuck down.
Frank slumped to his knees, ‘Oh, you poor thing’, he was crushed. There was an enormous weight in his chest, ready to burst through his rib cage.
The little mouse didn’t take its eyes off Frank, its eyes creased as it tried to rear its head up away from the glue, finding no success. The little mouse began to cry. It swelled. The crying pierced Frank’s heart.
‘Oh, God!’
The cry became a scream. Absolute terror. This tiny boombox-mouse, like interference blowing out the speaker.
‘It will be okay’, Frank rushed to the phone, ‘come on, come on’,
‘Squeaky clean service, how many I direct your call?’
‘We don’t have rats, it is a little mouse, you need to send your driver back and get it free’,
‘Hello, Sir? Who is calling?’
‘Shop & Save; it is just a mouse! Just a mouse! Turn your van around and get back here’. If time could crawl, like an injured dog through dry branches and loose soil, it chose this moment to do it. Gilbert turned the corner to the office.
‘Frank’, like an elongated noise, stretched out in slow motion, ‘we caught a rat out on the floo-oo-or’. All time slowed right down. Gilbert’s eyes looked to Frank, who was on the phone staring at the floor, then his gaze followed Frank’s and saw the small, tiny, white mouse at his feet.
Gilbert’s knee was up, above his waist, ‘Rat!’ his heel, shaking and sudden, dragged down. The bottom of Gilbert’s boot fell upon the tiny mouse and crushed it.
Then, everything was fast. Too fast.
‘Ahh’, Gilbert yelled, ‘Jesus!’ he stomped and stomped, the pad stuck to his boot. Red and white splattered out. His foot fell down, splatter. Gilbert threw his leg in the air and kicked. The small white corpse was trapped to the underside of his boot.
Gilbert fell off balance and brought his foot down again. The small skull popping. Gilbert squealed, he fell backwards onto his bum, kicking his leg out and out. A chunk of tail kicked off and spat into Frank’s face.
The phone fell onto the desk, ‘Hello? Sir? Are you still there?’ Frank was still, watching, awe-struck. It was all too much. Frank’s eyes glossed over. His stomach began to boil. A mounting rage, like a thunder storm stuck inside a Pepsi can, splintered the air.
Frank stood up, brought up his knee and stomped down on Gilbert.
‘Why’, Frank stomped, ‘would’, he stomped harder, ‘you’, he missed, his foot sliding as it struck a small puddle of blood and guts on the floor, ‘kill’, he cried, ‘it?’
Gilbert, under the torrent of Frank’s fury, sobered himself from the shock and adrenaline. He reached up and tucked a fist into the knot of Frank’s stomach. Frank bellied over onto his side.
‘It is just a mouse’, Gilbert gasped, shaking, standing up over Frank, ‘it is just a mouse’. His shoulders flared and his chest pumped. Gilbert drew himself out of the office and fell back into the wall. He wrestled with his laces and then pulled his shoe off, tossing it and the dead mouse through the other doorway, and into the staff room’s bin.
‘I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, Frank’, said Gilbert, ‘I’m sorry’. Frank picked himself up and rested against the wall, his legs stretched out on the tiled floor. The mouse was like spilt milk.
‘I shouldn’t have kicked you’, grumbled Frank, coughing.
‘You’re not going to tell my uncle, are you?’
‘No’,
‘You’re not going to quit, are you?’
‘No’.
‘What are you going to do, Frank?’
Frank pulled on the table and rose to his feet. He went and fetched the mop, leaving it by Gilbert. He sat back at the desk and picked up the phone, ‘If you could send your van back, we need to be rid of these pads and open up’. Then, Frank put it down. The room was silent for all but Gilbert’s panting.
‘One day’, Frank began, ‘when you’re drunk and miserable and struggling to connect with kids you don’t love, I will be retired, living out in the sticks. I will be happy. I’ll raise a pup, listen to records and take long walks through the woods. I will be happy and have peace every minute of every day.
‘I won’t need to bother with any sticky pads or stupid teens or stepped on mice. I won’t need to drive to get away from it all because I’ll be there, where I want to be, when I’m retired.
‘What am I going to do? I am going to do what I have always done; get by. Get by when your flat is cramped, but the rent is cheap. Get by when your boss’ nephew gives you stick, ‘cause this job is all that you ever had and all that you ever needed to get by. Get by when an innocent life, who did no wrong by anyone is stamped out for no reason - ‘cause this is the life I was given. So, I will get by.
‘I’ll retire and I’ll be happy, away from it all, forever, got by’.
