This of course was pure projection. Although management and so, the enemy, Camila's femininity made it difficult for him to see her as The Man: beautiful, with black hair and dark skin, he found her relentlessly arousing. The fact that, despite only being a few years older than him, she was his boss added to his excitement in a way he found uncomfortable.
At first, because of her background, he made excuses for her. What choice did she have? She was poor. Just another exploited Hispanic, forced like him to work for an evil corporation. But surely deep down she shared his desire for social justice. And so, in a misguided attempt to impress her, he wore his Che shirt to work one day and even went so far as to show her his roach clip - which, he claimed, had once belonged to Bob Marley.
But, to his surprise, it had the opposite effect: although hardly a Lothario - his only real experience with the opposite sex being a bit of drunken groping at a party several months ago - Pete could tell from the glint of contempt in her eyes that his chances of having sex with her were now nil. And so his lust for her was transformed, curdling into a passionate hatred he told himself was political.
"No chance there," Dale declared. "She's as frigid as the North Pole. Either that or a rug muncher."
He should know. Besides insufficiently appreciating his porn, she had rebuffed him on several other occasions as well. Claiming that the air con in the projection booth was broken, he had spent several days working in his underwear, certain that the sight of his muscular body would, sooner or later, have the desired effect. But, oddly enough, that too had failed. Must be a Lesbo, he thought, certain that no straight woman could refuse him.
"Certainly not!" Oscar exclaimed. "That would be wrong."
Indeed it would. Lord only knows what Pastor Wilcox would say about that. Lustful thoughts were bad enough but about your boss? There must be a special prohibition against that. Unfortunately, the Bible, for all its profundity, rarely referred to office etiquette. Oh sure, some saw Jesus as the ultimate executive, a spiritual CEO who excelled at managing the assets of others - what was the parable of loaves and fishes if not a textbook example of compound interest? - while those lower down the corporate ladder saw Him as one of their own, a meek and mild financial advisor, struggling to make sense of the numbers. Go long, He'd say. Eternity is always a good bet.
"Liar!" Pete snarled. "Always acting so holy when really, you're just as bad as the rest of us. I saw you looking down her dress."
"It was an accident," Oscar insisted. "I dropped some chocolate bars and she helped me pick them up."
"Yeah, right."
"That old trick," Dale said. "Done it a million times myself."
"She probably did it on purpose," Louise added. "The slut."
"I didn't see anything," Oscar assured them. "I blocked it out."
"Bullshit!"
"It's true," he explained. "Pastor Wilcox taught me how. Like on TV, with the fuzzy patch, when they hide people's faces."
"I fuckin' hate that," Dale said. "That and when they cut out the cumshot. What's the point?"
"You think you're better than us, don't you? Just because you've been here for years and don't come to work high."
"No, no, not at all."
"You probably don't even steal."
"Certainly not!" Oscar replied, horrified.
"You can't trust a man who doesn't steal," Dale declared. "He'll rat you out every time."
"Brownnoser!"
"Snitch!"
"Teacher's pet!"
"And to think," Dale said, descending into self-pity, "I shared my whiskey with you. Me! A union guy through and through."
"You can't go on like this," Pete informed him.
"Like what?"
"Riding the fence, being everyone's friend. Sooner or later you're going to have to choose."
"Choose what?"
"Which side you're on."
"Damn right," Dale said. "You know what they say: if you aren't part of the problem, you're part of the solution. And we can't have that. Not now. Serious shit is coming and you'd better be ready."
"For what?"
"Union action," Dale answered. "I'm gonna file a grievance."
*
The next few days were difficult. Oscar could tell his fellow employees were angry at him but couldn't understand why. Several times he replayed the conversation in his head, as much as he could remember anyway, but each time some new element intruded until he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Even Barkie made a brief appearance at one point, coming out of nowhere to sniff Pete's butt in a vain attempt to ascertain the truth. As far as he could tell, he hadn't done anything wrong but, despite that, they all gave him dirty looks. Neither Pete nor Louise would speak to him, not even to say hello. She did, however, continue to serve him popcorn, albeit densely speckled with ash. Only Dale was willing to talk but only in a drunken monologue, rambling on about strikes and scabs and how he was going to slash Oscar's tires - which would've been a very valid threat had he had a car.
This Oscar found deeply distressing. All his life he had been likeable, largely because of his passive personality, which most people saw as unthreatening. It was also because, as an orphan with no siblings, he had received a great deal of passionate pity from several church members, many of whom had informally adopted him. Fearful he might be scarred by the benefits of a secular education, they had kept him hidden from Child Services, passing him from one to another like a runaway slave and home schooling him to the best of their abilities. As such, there were numerous gaps in his education, made worse by a learning disability no one had quite been able to pinpoint. Never mind, Pastor Wilcox had declared. You don't have to be a genius to serve God. On the contrary, Jesus seemed to prefer simpletons. And why not? They never caused any trouble. Just believed what they were told and got on with their lives. Not like those eggheads down at the university who, when they weren't doing drugs or seducing students, actually encouraged people to think for themselves. For themselves! Like you could just fabricate a faith, taking a bit of this and that from the buffet of belief to make up your own religion instead of blindly adhering to the Bible. In his mind, Pastor Wilcox saw a bunch of students lined up with trays. Give me a bit of Buddhism, one said, to go with my Spinoza. Free will was all fine and well but only if you chose God. Otherwise it was just another way for Satan to pull you down.
Confused, Oscar turned to Camila.
"It's because you care," she explained, "and they don't."
This Oscar found hard to believe. Surely everyone was just as devoted to the Palace as him. What was it Mr. Johnstone always said when trying to persuade them to do something unpleasant? We're a family. Exactly! How could anyone say no to a family member?
"You'd be surprised."
Indeed he was. Oscar knew his co-workers weren't perfect but that they were actively sabotaging her was a shock: besides refusing to use soap, someone had slashed her tires, dosed her tea with LSD and taken a dump on her desk. All signs pointed to the projectionist but proof was lacking. The others, whatever their feelings, lacked the gumption for such aggressive action. Recounting her troubles, Camila came close to tears, which made Oscar all the more eager to help her.
"There's something else," she said, dabbing her eyes.
"What?"
"I hate to say it but I think one of our cashiers is stealing."
"Impossible!"
"So you say but something doesn't seem right."
"Really?"
"The receipts match up but... call it a hunch."
"What can I do?"
"You're always up front. Could you keep an eye on them?"
"Certainly! You can count on me."
"I thought so."
*
"You?" Oscar asked. "You're the thief?"
"Shh," Pete replied. "Not so loud."
Convinced of his innocence, Oscar had decided to confide in Pete. Surely it was a mistake, a confusion of coins or a few misplaced bills, which had somehow fallen be
hind the counter or into Pete's wallet, entirely by mistake. But no: he was guilty. What's worse: he openly admitted it, oddly unburdened by shame or remorse.
"But... why?"
"Why do you think? For the money."
"But it's stealing!"
"So is five bucks for a Jumbo Tub."
"You don't have to buy it."
"What choice do I have? Sit in my booth and starve?"
"You could eat before work."
"I'm not hungry then. Besides, if I spent my money on food, how would I buy drugs?"
"You don't need drugs."
"No drugs!" Pete exclaimed. "What are you, crazy?"
"What about Camila?"
"What about her?"
"She knows someone's stealing."
"So?"
"It's just you and Tom and he's a Christian."
"Bloody Christians. Always messing it up for the rest of us."
The son of a freethinker, Pete had grown up largely without religion - except for the time a classmate took him to an unofficial Bible school in the house of an old man who wore wool socks year round and always faintly smelt of urine. At first, unfamiliar with the material, he thought it was just another cartoon franchise, like Disney or Warner Brothers, and was surprised to learn that millions of people actually believed such stories to be true. The story of Jonah in particular disturbed him: how could someone be swallowed up by a whale and live? Let alone be spit out several days later? It just didn't make sense. There were, however, several things they didn't believe in, many of which his teachers taught him at school. Confused, he asked his mother about it. It's because they're crazy, she answered. Infected with the fever of Jesus. Well, could be. Besides being bug-eyed, the guy had an unfortunate tendency to spray them with spittle whenever he got excited, which was often. In the end, turned off by the absurdity of it all, he found a different hobby, judo, which he quit after a couple classes since, as far as he could tell, it was just being thrown down onto the floor, over and over again, and he soon tired of that.
"Besides," he continued, "what do I care? It's a shitty job."
Oscar was aghast. "How can you say that?"
"It's true. You want to spend the rest of your life there, go ahead. But I sure won't."
As someone who was both young and convinced of his greatness, Pete looked down on lifers. A career was one thing but to waste your life working at some shitty job for low pay and less respect was just sad. Fortunately, he didn't have to worry about that. Not him. He was going to go out in a blaze of glory. How exactly he had yet to determine but one thing was for sure: he wasn't going to end up some fat old hippie with a pathetic ponytail filling boxes in a factory because he lacked the courage to be a junkie.
"So, what are you going to do? Rat me out?"
Oscar hesitated. "I don't know."
*
For the first time in his life, Oscar faced a dilemma - on the one hand, his friendship with Pete; on the other, his loyalty to the Palace - and it confused him. Ever since he was young, he had believed that right and wrong were obvious and all answers easy. Untroubled by doubt or contemplation, he had sailed through life on a wave of certainty - an approach fully encouraged by Pastor Wilcox, who considered thinking a sin. If God had wanted us to use our brains, he declared, He wouldn't have given us the Bible. Well, what would Barkie do? Grab Pete by the scruff of the neck and shake him hard to teach him a lesson? Oscar could hardly do that. Nor could he establish dominance by peeing in the box office. If anything, that would probably only make matters worse. Unable to decide, he evaded the issue by watching Pete to see how much he took and then topped up the receipts with money from his own pocket.
"Oscar," Louise said, her sucker pointing to the washroom like a divining rod. "Take over, willya? I gotta pee."
"Certainly."
"Bladder infection," she informed him as their paths crossed.
Oscar waited until she was gone. Then, reaching into the box, he grabbed a few kernels and dropped to the floor.
"Rupee," he whispered.
A pair of eyes appeared in a hole beneath the counter. Oscar took a kernel from his hand and held it out.
"Here you go."
Rupee crept forward, sniffed the kernel carefully and then, taking it with his teeth, held it between his paws and nibbled quietly.
"Oscar."
Startled, Rupee dropped the kernel and disappeared into the hole. Oscar quickly threw the rest of the popcorn after him.
"What are you doing down there?"
"Nothing."
"Where's Louise?"
"She went to the washroom."
"Okay. When she comes back, come see me in my office."
"Okay."
When Oscar entered Camila's office, he found her studying the previous day's receipts.
"Do you know anything about this?"
"About what?"
"This," she said, showing him the receipts.
Oscar looked but the numbers meant nothing to him. Math never did. He could add and subtract simple digits but larger numbers eluded him; like goats on a mountain, they briefly bounded about before disappearing into the fog of his confusion.
"Is someone short?"
"No, over."
"Really?"
"Yes. Every day, the last few days. At first I thought it was an accident. But then I got this."
Camila showed him a note that read: I hope this is enough. Sorry.
"This is your handwriting, isn't it?"
Oscar looked at the note. "Could be," he admitted.
"Look, I understand he's your friend and you want to protect him but there's nothing you can do. He's stealing and that's totally unacceptable. I have to fire him."
Dejected, Oscar slumped down in his chair. How had it come to this? The Palace was a family, the only one he had, outside of church, and now it was breaking up.
Feeling sorry for him, Camila decided to let him in on a secret.
"Take a look at this," she said, unrolling some blueprints.
"What is is?"
"The plans for the new Palace."
"New?"
"Yes. Ziniplex didn't just buy the Palace. We also bought the buildings around it. We're going to tear them all down and build a big mall with a multipurpose entertainment center. Isn't it exciting?"
Oscar was shocked. "But the Palace... it'll be gone."
"The old one, yes. But a new, better one will take its place."
Unable to believe his ears, Oscar sat stunned and listened to her describe the coming complex. Her lips moved and sounds came out but all he heard was the tick of the clock behind her. Tear down the Palace? Impossible! You might as well blow up Big Ben or the Pyramids or some other wonder of the world. Surely she understood that the Palace was special and so, should be preserved, not destroyed. But no: like so many people without a heart, all she thought about was money.
Pete's right, he thought. She's a monster.
*
Martin was unhappy. A retired farmer, who had long since moved to the city to be near the hospital, his principal pleasure was his garage sale, which he hosted every week, weather permitting. At first he had done well, with whole carloads of people emptying out onto his lawn to examine his belongings. Soon, however, the best items disappeared and, far from fighting over his objects, people turned their noses up at them, dismissing them as so much trash - which, in truth, most of it was. Not only that: cheap bastards that they were, they found his prices too high and balked at paying top dollar for the detritus of his life. This is a garage sale, a fat woman with diamond-shaped glasses said, not an antique store. Some people even tried to bargain with him but he wouldn't budge. No one was going to tell him what his stuff was worth. He had tried spicing things up by tossing some odds and ends, dust balls and bent nails mostly, into paper bags and writing Surprise! on the front - the surprise being the utter worthlessness of everything inside - but only one person bought one and even he returned a little later to ask for his money ba
ck. Not that Martin gave it to him. A deal's a deal, he believed. Buyer be gone. Eventually, of course, word spread and the cars stopped coming. Now, instead of chatting with friendly strangers, who came and went in a constant stream of sociability, he sat alone on his lawn in a torn camping chair and watched the cars pass. Eager to lure people back, he began patrolling alleys in search of things to sell but his neighbours were so stingy, refusing to toss out their valuables and sometimes even selling them themselves. Recently, however, he had hit upon the idea of badgering local businesses for their leftovers and spent his days going from store to store in search of surplus. His usual gambit was to pose as a potential customer to gain their trust and only after reveal himself as a junk vulture.
"What's the discount for seniors?"
"Buck off," Oscar answered.
Unable to believe his ears, Martin blinked. "What?"
Assuming him to be hard of hearing, Oscar cupped his hand into a mini-megaphone and repeated himself, only louder.
"Buck off! Buck off!"
"But I'm a senior!" Martin thundered. "Show some respect!"
Indeed he was. Most people dread getting older. Not Martin. The day he turned sixty was the happiest of his life because it meant that he would never have to pay full price for anything ever again.
"Where's your manager?" he demanded.
"Over there," Oscar answered, pointing at the office.
"Hey Oscar."
Oscar looked at Louise. A sucker stick, wet and limp, hung from her mouth like the chewed leash of a crazed animal.
"Take over, willya. I really need a smoke."
"Okay."
Cigarette in hand, Louise dashed for the door.
Oscar looked around. Then, reaching into the popcorn box, he plucked a kernel from the pile and held it in front of the hole.
Moments later Rupee appeared. Oscar gently picked him up, placed him in his palm and put the kernel in front of him.
"Oscar!"
Startled, Oscar dropped his plump pet into the popcorn box.
"Did you swear at this man?"
"Of course not!"
"Liar! I heard him. Several times."
"Well?"
"He asked about seniors, if there was a discount, and I said yeah, a buck off."
"I see."
"That's it?" Martin asked. "You aren't gonna fire him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"But I'm a customer and the customer is always right!"