Kon Tikki

1 - Getting Out of the Closet The Tool Barn closet smelled better than Rob had expected, better than the personal hygiene-challenged goons who had shoved him there. The acrid smell of old paint, varnishes, vinegar screamed over the moldy tones of wood scraps, sand and dust. There was also a faint metal tang lingering, that he didn’t identify. Rob’s own head was screaming, too, the blood beating at his temples like surf waves invading the beach, then retreating like an hesitant army. A line of pain throbbed on his skull. He felt his mop of hair, his fingers coming back sticky. He must have laid there for several minutes, if his blood had the time to get solid. A scratch, probably happened when the thugs had pushed him against the gaudy yellow metal shelves he was cleaning off. He hadn’t time to register the cut as more blows came down, assorted with stern warnings that he didn’t belong here! The thugs couldn’t have been employees of the Tool Barn, decked in spotty Tees and frayed, holed-up jeans, a no-no in the confines of a*****e that catered to a larger public than the hairy lumberjack featured on the sign over the entrance. The store manager had assigned Rob to clear the shelves for the new products, a task that had prolonged his workday into the evening. The other employees had smirked as they left the store, for a “real night”, they had joked. Last week, Rob had refused to submit to a blood test, claiming it was discriminatory. He managed to get a doctor’s affidavit that should lay any fear about AIDS or Covid-19 or some unnamed illness to rest. But the store manager had retaliated today, by selecting Rob (among twelve others) for this dreary task. Working alone, he had assumed the store doors had been locked. His mistake. The thugs’ must have receded toward the back door leading to the parking. Rob was certain he had checked that door when the last coworker filed out. The back door was a steel slab, impossible to open without a key. One of the goons must had gotten a key, probably from another employee – no, associate, the store manager insisted on calling them. Rob had a fair idea which one most resented his presence, but no solid proof. He didn’t feel very solid right now. He had curled upon himself after he was pushed down, offering inly his back to the pounding feet. He had not memory of being dragged and locked in this confined space. He had lost his cell in the scuffle, and no way to retrieve it without getting out of the closet. As he rolled on his side to get up, his belly and crotch sent frantic pain signals to his addled brain. C.A.!, he thought, what if those noobs had busted his kidneys? He could die here, alone, of internal bleeding. Oh, but his sis would have his hide if he croaked! (And wasn’t that statement proof he was addled?) Robert “Bobbie” (for his sis), “Rob” (for everyone else) Sundance felt for the cold surface of the closet’s door. The faint light seeping under the sill told him the store was closed for the night. As was the whole damn mall. He grabbed the knob, using the move to prop himself erect. The rustling of his nylon apron, his harsh breathing and the scraping of his shoes on the cement floor echoed loudly in the confined space. He exerted a light pressure on the metal, hoping that the door was not locked. In the new scheme of design, very small rooms’ doors did not have a locking mechanism, so no adventurous child could get trapped inside. Rob knew this was be the case with this closet. The knob turned, a quarter spin, and Rob heard the lock engage. But when he tried to push the door out, the big slab did not budge past a millimeter or two. Someone had dragged a heavy piece of furniture against the closet door. Probably from the house appliance section. Rob tried his best to get the door to open, leaning against the surface with all of his one-hundred-forty pounds frame. In vain. That Herculean task would be more suited for his gaming alter-ego. The sweaty barbarian Cog would have make short work of the door with his redoubtable double-headed ax. But, what Rob didn’t possess in brute force, he had in patience. Each of his pushes drove the obstacle one millimeter away. As he was working, he thought about the uber-handsome blond guy who had come for his paint. That day had been rotten, except for big Stanley, appearing like a sunlight through dark clouds. Rob had met him at the store, and the tall man was easygoing and amiable, endowed with a wide, generous mouth. Of course, Rob had been smitten by the hunk; the clerk initiated small talk with him, mostly about fishing. The giant had kept it to the amiable level, and Rob got a definite sense of a diverging orientation. Today, Stan had stopped by with a young short-haired woman walking with crutches. She looked tired, and Rob had offered her to sit for a few minutes, while Stan waited for his paint. She was in her mid-twenties, clearly a stranger, clearly a tourist, and clearly… smitten with Stan, too. He had overheard her witty discussion with the Christians holding their fetus pics near the clinic next door (the clinic did not do the preg-interruptions they feared, but according to his sis, girls in trouble got there to get referrals.) The rest of Rob’s day had gone downhill from there. His letting a client sit close to the cash register did not stood well with his ramrod straight supervisor from the paint department, nor with the store manager who had been lurking around. A balding born-again Christian with a Lenin pinch, and scolding eyes, mister Leon wished Rob to get reborn as straight. Rob’s supervisor in the paint department was from a similar mix, a military-bearing jock presented as a “true patriot” by the manager. A true parrot, Rob had whispered to the kitchenware girls who stood beside him. (Mister Leon was also conscious of assigning proper role models to his flock.) Not that Rob had ever advertised his orientation when applying for the job. He had combed his unruly hair, shaved and worn a long-sleeve shirt hiding the beautiful ink on his arm. Inspired by the Wave from an ancient Japanese print, the tattoo looked innocent and artistic at first glance. Only someone peering close would notice the two devastatingly handsome males on the flatboat. That had not been in the Japanese print, but Rob estimated it had been a well-invested thousand bucks in New-York city. He had managed a hair-wide opening. Getting his eye so close his lashes brushed the metal, he could confirm that the big object was a refrigerator box, with a serial number visible. By now, he could work the door back and forth, getting more and more efficient impulse. He could now see the obstacle, a heavy-duty cardboard with an image of the Commodore-Alpha 97 model with twin doors and integrated ice-machine. You would think it was a spaceship instead of a fancy refrigerator. He kept on bearing on the door. The opening had reached about three inches when the refrigerator stopped moving. Rob pressed his shoulder and groaned, but the Commodore-Alpha 97 had returned to Immovable Object status. He racked his brains to understand what was blocking the fridge box. He was tall enough to see over the top of the box if he stood on his toes. The distance between the box and the nearest rack should have been wide enough. So he guessed the thugs had wedged another product behind the box. He sighed. Again, he rose on his toes to peer over the box’s edge. The closet was located at the back of the store, next to the employees’ break room. It opened into an alley that faced the front window. Rob could see a portion of the mall through it. The Tool Barn lights were closed, but there were lights in the mall. He could make out the bright avocado-green and pizza-red and banana-yellow and orange-juice ensigns of the fast-food outlets at the other end of the big interior plaza, a lost space. Most were open, but the apparel and clothing stores were shut down. If he channeled his inner Cog, he could still get off the closet, then back to the change room to ditch his uniform, and off the store before the mall itself closed. He snaked his arm through the opening, and waved it up and down. Maybe a security guard would see him and get him out. He would have a master key for such emergencies. He could not see much higher because the fridge box limited his line of sight, but a few changes in the light told him people were moving around, sampling the goods (urg) of the fast food joints. There were always a handful of plastic bag-laden strollers taking their time looking at the displays, a fact that gave him hope. Rob pushed his arm farther, feeling the angles bunch his sleeve and bite into his shoulder. He tried to wave in a wide angle, but the edges of the door limited his moves. “Heeey! Heeeey! I’m stuck!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. After a time, he staggered back, his head swimming in a haze. He could have a concussion. His foot struck the hairy brooms waiting there, their bristle brushing against his calf, and the rubbery cords of recently used mops.