“A lady called this morning and said if we reopen it, there should be ID checks,” he said. “Income verification. Limit one item per household per week. She said otherwise it’s not a shelf, it’s theft with a sign.”
I looked at him.
He looked right back.
He was maybe twenty-three.
Too young to already sound that tired.
“And what’d you say?” I asked.
He pushed his name tag with one finger.
“I said I’m an hourly cashier, ma’am.”
That got the smallest smile out of me.
Then it disappeared.
Because right then a woman pushing a stroller walked over to the chained shelf and just stood there.
She didn’t say anything.
She just looked.
At the diapers.
At the baby food.
At the locked plastic tubs.
Then she turned around and left the store without buying a thing.
I watched the doors close behind her.
There are moments when you can feel a whole country in one set of automatic doors.
That was one of them.
Joanie folded her arms.
“We’re having a community meeting Thursday evening in the old library room,” she said. “Store staff, customers, anyone who wants a say. Regional office says if we keep it, we need guidelines. Some people want sign-in sheets. Some want cameras. Some want it moved to a formal partner site. Some want it gone completely.”
“Formal partner site,” I repeated.
She nodded.
“It means somewhere nobody has to look at need while buying paper towels.”
That time she did smile.
Only it wasn’t because anything was funny.
“Arthur,” she said, softer now. “They’re going to ask you to come.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I did.
Because once your face gets attached to a thing, people start acting like you belong to the thing.
I wanted no part of it.
I wanted my pills.
My furnace filter from last week.
My quiet house.
