Christmas at the Marshmallow Cafe

1 Boredom among the Aisles A human being in outer appearance only, the manager of the Weston super Mare branch of Morrico was rumoured to be everything from a devil in human clothing to a closet politician. Bonnie Green looked up as the Old Ragtag bore down on her out of the colorful, brightly lit tea and coffee aisle, his bad leg scraping at the floor as he dragged it after him, his unruly hair leaping like poorly synchronized swimmers with each laborious step. His face, rather in keeping with his appearance, suggested some deep insult had been inflicted on his very being, and that someone needed to be punished. Cyril Reeves looked down at the clipboard he always carried, even though no one in living memory could ever remember him writing anything down, and then back up at Bonnie, eyes narrowing behind the 1950s horn-rimmed spectacles he wore. Crouched beneath the checkout on a chair set too low—supermarket policy; Cyril claimed it made the customers feel more important—Bonnie tried to force a smile. ‘Yes, Cyril?’ The Old Ragtag leaned on the counter then idly picked at a blemish on the stainless steel as though ordering the composites of metal and their imperfections was Bonnie’s personal responsibility. ‘I hear you were in the backroom when the music was changed. It’s November the fourth. Why did you put on the Christmas songs CD? You know store policy. Christmas songs cannot be played until November 6th. November 5th inclusive is too close to Halloween.’ Bonnie groaned inwardly, but outwardly maintained a plastic smile. ‘I do apologise, Cyril. I mistook the date.’ ‘See that it doesn’t happen again.’ ‘Of course.’ She gave him her best smile, the one she usually reserved for handsome young shoppers. ‘Good. And by the way, I prefer Mr. Reeves while we’re at work. Let’s keep things formal, shall we? I wouldn’t want to hit you with a disciplinary.’ Then, in a moment which made Bonnie wish she hadn’t eaten tuna sandwiches for lunch, Cyril winked. ‘Cyril is fine at the staff Christmas party.’ As soon as his back was turned, Bonnie looked at Jean on the adjacent till and rolled her eyes. Jean covered her mouth to suppress a laugh as the Old Ragtag stumped off into the aisles, no doubt to terrorise some of the younger staff who were actually afraid of him, as though he were store manager by day, serial killer by night. ‘Big ugly fish in a small, dirty pond,’ Jean said. ‘That we also happen to be stuck in,’ Bonnie said. ‘God forbid we allow any joy into our work lives.’ ‘You know,’ Jean said, ‘I picked up a job paper on the way out yesterday. Thought I might have a look.’ ‘Anything catch your fancy?’ Jean laughed. ‘At my age? I’d be jumping out of one fishbowl into another. Sometimes wish I’d made better decisions earlier in life.’ Bonnie nodded, understanding only too well. ‘Me too.’ ‘Oh well, at least you’re off in a few. I’m stuck with him until nine. You know he does double shifts almost every day?’ Bonnie nodded. She craned her head to see into the nearest aisle, where the Old Ragtag was berating some poor school kid for not properly lining up the biscuit packets. ‘I’m pretty sure he’d doing a fiddle there. He just likes to terrorise us.’ Jean smiled, then turned away as a customer approached. Bonnie settled back into the position she had taken for granted for the last ten years, smiling as a lady with two sulky teenagers in tow approached. ‘Gavin, can you please give me a hand with this?’ she snapped at the boy, who was leaning over a handheld video game. Then, turning to the girl, she huffed, ‘Eliza? Can you help me unload the trolley?’ With a sigh as loud as a departing steam train, the girl stomped over and began dumping food onto the conveyor with far more aggression than necessary. As Bonnie began to run up the items on the scanner, the woman gave her a smile. ‘I suppose they’re not teenagers for long,’ she said. ‘Once they hit their twenties I expect they’ll turn back into normal human beings.’ Bonnie gave her a sympathetic smile and muttered a generic reply. Sure, they will, she thought. And they’ll go off and get on with their own lives and leave you behind. As she finished ringing up the woman’s shopping, she couldn’t help but notice the clock. Five to five. She was almost done. It was so nice to be on the day shift, to get to eat dinner at a reasonable time. She had nothing planned: perhaps she’d stop by the chip shop on the way home, or even live it up a little and get a Chinese. The Peeking Duck takeaway on the high street did a great chow mein. Both the chip shop and the Chinese were shut. There was another Chinese a fifteen minute drive away, but with her little Metro and its misfiring heating system stuck in traffic, Bonnie gave up. With roadworks contributing to the rush hour mess, she didn’t get home until six-thirty. As she stumbled in through the door of her little terrace on Westing Road, she wasn’t sure she could be bothered to eat at all. She kicked away some circulars from the mat, took off her coat, and went into the living room. It was chilly even this early in November, so she turned on the heating and then slumped into an armchair without even taking off her shoes. She had already ditched her uniform at the supermarket—at one point Cyril had tried to distribute t-shirts with the company logo to be worn outside of work as a form of passive advertising, but the plan had fallen flat on its face—but she still liked to get out of the clothes she had worn underneath. They always smelled of the disinfectant everything was sprayed with, and mingled with her sweat, they were like wearing a bad memory. Without moving, she tried to remember what food she had in the house. Some pasta. A jar of pickles Debbie had brought round and left. Perhaps there was a frozen pizza, but it was months old. Working in a supermarket gave Bonnie a particular dislike for the places, and without anyone to cook for, she rarely felt the need to stock up. Perhaps she could wander down the street to the greasy spoon and gorge on a plate of deep-fried heart attack. She was almost tempted until she remembered the last time she had gone down there. Sat in the window, a lonely fifty-something woman eating fried bread and sausages, a middle-aged man in a coat far more expensive than Bonnie could ever afford had come in off the street to ask her for a going rate. She had been almost flattered before telling him where to go. Since then she had always preferred to eat at home. The TV remote was poking out of a c***k in the corner of the sofa. It required at least three steps to reach it, then the additional effort of pressing the button to switch it on. And what for? It was Tuesday. Some glossy fly-on-the-wall show where everyone was young and beautiful? At least Eastenders was so miserable it made her happy about her own nothing of a life. Perhaps it would be easier to just sit in the chair and wait until she decomposed. It had been months since Steve or Claire had so much as included her on an email circular, and even then it had probably been by mistake. They blamed her for their father’s leaving, she knew. They always had, and over the years she had begun to believe them. Fall asleep here in the armchair and never wake up. It would be months before anyone found her, years perhaps. She would be nothing more than a skeleton, or ideally, dust, so a simple vacuuming would erase her from existence. Her kids could throw her furniture out with the rubbish, and her landlord could rent out the property again. Over. Gone. Done with. BURRRRINNNGGGG— Bonnie jumped as the door bell rang. Sometimes she forgot she even had one.