Fiction
Christopher Vaught
Something Else Entirely

      Once I step inside, the door charm alerts everyone to my presence and the nameless face behind the counter looks up to greet me. An meaningless greeting with business designs. But that'll change soon enough. Eventually, her smile will be genuine. And those of everyone else that works here. I'll be their friend.

      The familiarity of the store's layout is identical to the others that share its name. A cold shudder runs down my back. Suddenly, I'm on. I feel lke killing. And I have to remind myself, not yet, and I fight back the urge like choking down an overly acidic stomach. Today, I'm here to observe. Research. And possibly establish my identity. Nothing else. And certainly not to kill anyone.

      A quick head count comes up with just two employees. Typical for a Wednesday evening. Both are female. The nameless, smiling face must be the assistant manager. Assistant managers are always overweight and female. The blonde stocking inventory must be the part-timer. They usually get stuck with the grunt work. They always complain to me. I've been told that I'm a good listener.

      My senses overload from the store's trademark taupe color scheme and the signs that clearly designate each section. Music. Movies. Magazines. Collectibles and Books. But that's not the end of the signs. In order to capture the attention of the average consumer, there's self-promoting signage in all directions. Banners. Shelf talkers. Counter displays. Just in case you don't remember where you are. Or just as likely, so you don't forget once you've left. Signs asking me to reserve a copy of whatever. Sale prices. Comparisons to competitors. And of course, the Rewards program. Eight free issues of Entertainment Weekly. Sports Illustrated. This in-store promotion is the literary equivalent to asking someone if they'd like to Super Size.

      This chain and its parent company are currently locked in a class action lawsuit from customers that had agreed to the eight freee issues of one of the magazines. The catch was that issues nine and on are automatically charged to your credit card unless the customer cancels by a certain time. The plaintiffs charge that the employees didn't properly explain this detail. Granted, it's stated in fine print on the pamphlet they are handed before signing up.

      As well as banners. Shelf talkers. And the counter displays. What was it that I said about the attention span of the average consumer?

      But this isn't what has me in a killing mookd. I could care if people are easily duped. We need gullible people, so that individuals like myself can easily blend in when we must and stick out at times we like. The chain's stockholders and its work force are a different breed of monster and are guilty of something else entirely.

      Moving to the right, I find the video games in their usual spot, close to the counter to prevent theft or shrinkage as it's called in the industry. Actually, there's two types of shrinkage. The first, just regular shrinkage refers to theft committed by the public. The second comes with the distinction of being labled in-store shrinkage. This is theft by an employee. This is common.

      There are all kinds of single word labels this company uses. Subscriptions. Reservations. Loyalty. Each day this store is graded on its performance in each of these categories. Compared to stores in this district. The state. And overall. In return the individual employee is graded on their ability to push these items. Those that don't perform so well, don't get hours on the next schedule.

      So, naturally they're not explaining shit. To go into details or explain something might confuse the potential mark, or customer. Kinda sad that coming to a store to buy a CD or a Misfiits patch for your denim jacket has to come with the attachments of a used car pitch. Or answering your door to a Jehovah's Witness.

      My fingers flip through the games. (The games are locked inside an anti-theft case. Upon purchase it's removed by a key at the counter and then the alarm is deactivated by a sensor pad.) This is where I begin my count.

      One. Two. Three. "Can I help you with something?" Right on cue. The nameless face behind the counter has a voice. I've seen the employee handbook. She's following it to the letter. Oh, I don't know, can you? "No thanks." The titles of each game passes my eyes before I can register what it is I'm seeing. I turn to the nameless face and give her a smile that I've practiced hundreds of times in the mirror. "Just looking". In that, from her response, she's disarmed. In the coming months, she'll forget this moment. She won't remember, like her co-workers, just how she came to know me until the second before she bleeds.

      Actually, none of them will ever know me. They'll be on a first name basis with the identity I give them. But only if I'm asked to join the rewards club.

      The Rewards Program. You pay a fee, something like seven dollars upfront. Two weeks later you receive a five dollar certificate in the mail. Then for every hundred dollars you spend you get another five dollars.

      Not to sound like some paranoid conspiracy guy, but there's more to the Rewards Program than just trying to get you to buy more shit. In addition to pimping magazines, the company compiles data of customer purchases and then sells this information to outsources that make mailing lists. Demographics. The guy who buys nothing but Girls Gone Wild really shouldn't be surprised when he starts receiving junk mail from adult magazines. Action figures. Here comes the unwarranted issue of Entertainment Earth. Music. Hey how about four free issues of Rolling Stone?

      The membership is good for a year. I suppose they ask you to renew. I don't know, each of these charades never go long. I have eleven memberships. Eleven different branches. Each store had an average of seven employees. Every time I give a different identity. In Oaks, Pennsylvania I was Philip Campbell. I was known at the Madisonville, Kentucky store as Ronnie Cline. If the employees of the Evansville, Indiana store could still draw their breath, they'd exhale a "Hey, Stuart" upon me walking in the door. The idea is that you don't shit in your own yard. That's how Gacy got caught. I'm just an independently wealthy young man on a really long road trip of this great nation of ours.

      Getting in is simple, if you can be charming. And buying a lot at first doesn't hurt. You capture the attention of the store's manager when he goes through the weekly performance. Records of good customers. The store's manager is generally, not always, a man. Make an impression and he'll treat you right. The other employees fall right in line. Funny, but most managers are aging rockers that like to tell stories about the good ol' days. I've been told that I'm a good listener.

      He'll debate with some of the part-timers as to why the Deftones will never reach the heights of the Stones. He'll take to your ear. Bend it a little. You get access to a lot of information. The schedule kept at the counter lists each employee's full name and phone number. Hell, anyone can use a phone directory to locate a residence. If the number is a cell, those are the employees I buddy up to the most. Eventually, they invite me to a party they're throwing. Or to play XBOX.

      The back room that states EMPLOYEES ONLY, eventually becomes a barrier I can break without protest. When asked to sighn up for the Rewards program, you're not asked to show identification. I always pay with cash. The addresses I give are local, but are for homes currently up for sale that you find in any real estate listings in a rack at diners or hotel lobbies. With companies this size, there are so many departments everything gets shuffled about. So who's to notice a couple of unclaimed gift certificates, returned to sender. As long as I keep spending dollars, no questions get asked.

      I practice my smile daily. Now the selection of music is sub-par to downright shitty, but the movies, well I can't complain. Blondie tries to play off that she's straightening the Horror racks, even though her cart still has plenty of Mark Chestnutt and Dixie Chicks that require stocking. I don't make eye contact, but I can see her studying me. The lanyard around her neck says Stephanie.

      Just to fuck with her, I make contact with her baby blues. "Excuse me, Miss?"

      "Yes. Do you have a question about a particular film," she giggles.

Perhaps if I need the skinny on Julia Roberts' filmography, but I doubt you know more about cinema than me.

      "No, actually. I'm looking for an album, but I'm still digging through the movies. Would it be too much trouble to ask if you could locate it for me?"

She waves No with a grin. Helpful girl.

      "It would be under Rock. The band is Spoon. The title is Girls Can Tell."

      "I'll go check." And she bounces off.

She won't find it though. This cahin doesn't carry anything on Merge Records. Or Kill Rock Stars. Or Alternative Tentacles.

     Oh Stephanie, I'm sorry that you'll feel betrayed the most in those final seconds of life. In a flash, she'll remember how she grew to confide in me. About her roommate. Courses. How badly her boyfriend is treating her. And with that trust, one day when the store is empy, we'll sneak off to a back room and she'll go down on me right before I bend her over a cart of Disney films that she's supposed to shelve.

      I look up at the smoked bubble in the ceiling tile. The one I know doesn't have a security camera. The illusion of surveillance. Stephanie returns to tell me that I can special order it (loyalty) but that it will take four to six weeks to arrive. Or that I can go to the online store. I cut her off with a wave and a grin. "Well thanks anyway." And once I know she's not noticing my wandering eyes, I give her firm B-cups a stare. Soon. Four to six weeks? For something that a good independently-owned music store would carry as part of its backstock. The type of independent business that's forced to close its doors every day due to publicly-traded companies like this one.

      I realize that what I do is indeed criminal. And if caught, I'll find myself judged by twelve. But what about big business. John Antioco, CEO of Blockbuster has almost but completely killed of the independent video store. Or for that matter Lowe's. If Mr. Cunningham from Happy Days were around in today's time, his hardware store wouldn't be. Home Depot. Barnes and Noble. Office Max. Bentonville, Arkansas should be made to answer for its assassination of the American Dream. Free enterprise has become anything but free. Especially here in the Land of Excess.

      There seems to be a change in tide though. Most of these big companies have acquired too much debt. This chain alone has been sold something like four times in the past three years, before the original company resumed ownership. And closing several stores that performed badly. But, they won't go awy, not entirely.

      K-Mart can file Chapter 11 and continue to operate. Meanwhile, used bookstores fail. Of course, that might have as much to do with Americans only reading the occasional blurb with pretty graphics than anything else. Still.

      I fucking hate hippies. Almost as much as I detest Christians. But for those that occasionally put the bong down to own and operate a head shop, I give them their due. However, places like this that target the youth with the ever increasing question authority and pot culture, how long before they can't remain. And that's where I fit in. Murderer? Perhaps. But honestly, what's the difference. And damn it feels good to give some back. So I keep my head shaved. I exfoliate my skin often. Clip my nails. My crimes don't go under the radar. The FBI notices something like eighty unsolved homicides that are connected without a lead.

      And then there is the media. Son of Sam? I have fans. And copycats. Hey, as long as they stay out of my way, the more the merrier. They can take the bullet. Do the time. I work alone. Manson was a fool. And the rampage killers. It doesn't take a lot of skill to walk into a Best Buy and open fire. Not everyone can be committed as me, I guess.

      I'm patient. Biding my time. A lot of effort and planning goes into each of these exercises. I'm always sure. One hundred percent, that the timing is right and that everything is clicking on all cylinders before going into motion. And that each step can be done in the course of one evening.

      I mix it up. Charm my way in the front door of those I can. Break in through the back of others. Some I stage as robberies. Others as crimes of passion. Leaving no trace at this scene, a red herring at another. Eventually, the crimes are linked, but they start out as individual incidents and I enjoy leaving false leads. The tools are purchased in different stores. All with cash. And then disposed of in random locations. Regardless, it all goes down in one night. No exceptions.

      Each afternoon at three o'clock, the manager of each store has a conference call with the DM and other store managers. When there's no one to receive the call, that's a day the store isn't making profits. Most DM's are on the other side of the state, so it can be another day before he realizes that the store isn't open again. A third before the crimes are found and connected where the store remains closed. District Mangagers are not known for getting into the trenches, to roll up their sleeves. So, they might call some employees from other towns to come and work. A skeleton crew never lasts. Most of the time, the company is looking to break lease and I give them an excuse to close up. Every dog has its day, I suppose.

      Finding a few DVDs that I actually want, I make my way to the computer. The nameless face looks up from what I recognize as teh daily performance chart. They're under quota for the day.

"Will this be all?" Her lanyard says Nancy. I nod. Wait for it. She runs the barcode scanner over my movies. And it begins. "Could I interest you in eight free issues of Entertainment Weekly?" I smile. "Already have a subscription." "

"Okay," she never looks up just keeps ringing up the register. "Do you have a Rewards card?"

I feign ingornance. "Why, no."

"Would you be interested in hearing about the Rewards Program?"

Jackpot. Making a mention to the nametag, "Certainly, Nancy."

It's on. It's so on.