The Cart Pusher
by Frederick Frankenberg
part 1
That girl has a round bottom only thirteen-year olds have. I’d say she’s much more attractive than the wrinkled, weathered mother. I’m such a libidinous old man. The girl’s golden hair drapes down her thin shoulder blades. Her face is a triangle with a pink opening for a delicate mouth, a sharp nose, and rounded eyes. Enough! Enough! I need to think of something else. God help me!
Pinch my wrist. Ouch!
God, if I thought I’d be happy doing a menial job and collecting Social Security, philistine me would want a lethal injection. I’ve gained so much in sobriety. It’s so nice having a job! I’m doing service for the community! Pushing carts for Fairweather Markets gives me a sense of accomplishment.
Not many people talk to me. I can’t quite listen to music on my headphones with all these customers, but that’s okay. Customers wheel carts at me and exchange pleasantries.
A smoky haze blankets the air over this parking lot. The red sun glows like I’m on another planet. Good thing I quit smoking. A fire burnt down a whole forest in Canada. Mother nature must be rebelling against humanity. The weather here is cool and pleasant.
I put on my suntan lotion, my jet-black shirt, my tazarotene, my benzoyl peroxide gel, and my tan jeans. I combed my thinning hair and brushed my teeth with whitening toothpaste this late morning for my afternoon shift. Are these accoutrements of self-care or weapons in an arsenal?
Pay attention to the pitter-patter of the plastic pallets panging — that’s quite an alliteration! — against the cart as it rolls over the rough, uneven cement. I’m attuned to the force and in a moving meditation. My thoughts ease me. I get paid to clear my mind and live in the moment. Bliss.
The sliding doors on the right are a little broken and sometimes don’t close, but the other ones work all the time. I’m in. Wheel the carts with great force into the corral.
A woman catches my eye, and she lets out a coquettish smile at me. I never paid attention to this stuff, and I could never figure out body language. I’m investing a lot of thought to compensate. The minute there are two people in the room, I get lost in trying to read them. I was a bad Texas Hold-’em player in my pot-smoking days at university.
She goes into the store. She looks my age or slightly older. Maybe forty or really late thirties. Stout figure. Decent looking. Her skin glows probably from some sort of fancy makeup and not my hallucinating.
I’m super stable these days, and my empathy is somewhat altogether without all the mania. The Invega and lithium are working. The schizoaffective must be in remission.
A different model-like lady exits the store, talking to her friends. I have no idea what she’s referring to, but her voice is commanding. She has a slight wrinkle around her mouth. Her white teeth fit nicely inside the sideways slit of her thin lips.
“He talked about marshmallow cereal,” she says.
She’s so pretty. Just perfect. She turns around towards me and unleashes a real smile. I must be gazing at her with adoration like a forsaken animal chained to a telephone pole in a blizzard. I wish I desired to talk to her instead of running away from her. No need to look at a feelings sheet; it’s obvious she terrifies me! If only I didn’t spend so much time in a psychotic drugged stupor, feelings and social blah blah blahs wouldn’t perplex me.
Lonely, oh so lonely. I must be decent-looking at least. Too bad I’m so sick.
The coquettish woman from before has a cart and puts it in front of me. She takes the paper bag brimming with groceries out of her cart. “I can leave this here, right?” she says.
What a dummy she’s acting like! Of course the carts go here. How pathetic she’s looking for any reason to talk to me.
“Sure you can, ma’am,” I say. “No problem.”
It’s going to be the most trafficked time of day soon. I suppose they’ll send someone to help me.
There he is! Here’s my help! Let’s go to him and split the parking lot with him. Wave at him. He’s so short and boyish. He’s like a blur so far away. Come here, boy.
I’m in kissing distance from him. His black hair is combed forward. His very-thick black hair. He’s a bit scrawny, like me. So wonderfully wiry and young, I could limn him in an epic canto. There’s a luster in his dark eyes that enchants and possesses. His gangly body suggests a lack of understanding of himself as well of his power over me. His healthy lips lock together as I feel an involuntary smile at him.
“Where do you want to work, kid?” I say.
“Wherever you want me to,” he says in a deep voice.
“Hmm... alright, I’ll take that side.” I point to the left. “You take the other.”
“Sure.”
We split ways. I wish there were some more reasons for me to talk to him. I could at least try to strike up a conversation. He’s a mystery.
There’s a lot of carts on my side. Too many. I know! I’ll bring in three carts to his side and explain to him what’s going on. The customers are thinning a bit. We could have a good intimate chat.
Giddiness. He’s walking past me. And he’s looking at me. Checking me out? I hope so.
“There are too many carts on my side, s-so I brought some to yours.” I’m nervous.
“Oh, okay,” he says. He grins.
He has an earphone in his ear. He doesn’t worry about doing a poor job. Carefree person. He has a muted look while he works as though he isn’t as enthusiastic as I am. Poor kid. I used to be the same way. I’ll help him.
I put the carts inside. He’s sitting at a bench with both earphones on. He’s not busy; now’s the time.
I wave at him and approach. He takes out his headphones and gazes at me with wide puppy eyes.
“Tough job. A lot of walking, eh?” I say.
I can’t keep my nervousness under control. He’s looking at my hands. Nothing there. I’m not married. Not even close. He never smiled like that all day! His teeth are straight unlike my overbite, and the metal bar of a retainer covers his top teeth. Gasp! A retainer! How old is he? I better not ask. I don’t even want to know. Maybe I’ll ask him later.
“It’s a simple job,” he says. “Not that hard.”
He’s no idiot. I better be careful of him. “Yeah,” I say. “A lot of good exercise.”
“Yup.”
“I’ll be back at my side. Have a nice shift, kid!”
“Thanks!”
He puts his headphones back in as I saunter away. The horned angels are pulling my frozen heart out of the tundra and putting it onto the mantle of the fireplace. Next time, I’ll ask him what he’s listening to and talk to him about music! I want to write a romance about him. Or maybe a pornography...
* * *
This is the third day I’ve seen him. I don’t know if this angelic boy’s name is different from his nametag, so I’ll just ask him. There he is in the vestibule! Pushing two tiny carts.
“Hi, my name’s Tommy,” I say. “I never got your name.”
“Nick,” he says and points to his name tag on his reflector vest. He moves his finger across it as he sounds out the words like I’m a dummy. “N-Nick.”
“Oh. You want to take the other side or what?”
“I’ll take the other side.”
More and more carts to push.
I’m still working, not at the end of my shift. I have to wipe down the recycling machines, sweep and mop, and change the garbage. I’m outside to follow this customer for his cart. Better look away, to not look like I’m stalking him.
Nick is in the passenger side of a Toyota SUV. His shift ended before mine. He’s frowning like he’s unhappy to be around whoever’s driving him. Poor kid. I would treat him right. They, too, are lower middle class, given they have their kid in braces and drive a new model car and live in New Paltz.
If I went out with him and he was eighteen or nineteen, I wouldn’t want to see his parents. I’m probably as old as they are. They would hate me for corrupting their baby. If they even care about him. They probably do if they are driving him to work.
* * *
I’m early. Nick’s shift ends soon, and he’ll be in the breakroom with me. There’s Andrew, a big tall mop-headed likely-underage boy, sitting there at a table looking at the wall. I wish he weren’t there, so it would just be me and Nick. I’m hoping that “16” next to Nick’s name on the schedule doesn’t mean he’s sixteen, now that I know his name. It might just do. I’ve got to ask him. Lightly and not forcefully. Not castigating, too. Act as if I’m trying to clarify things with him to understand my job better.
He walks in wearing his yellow reflector vest. There’s not a single dark spot on his face. He has not a bit of stubble growing on his cheeks either. The commanding luster in the glint of his dark eyes from the bright lights of the supermarket reveal his fey nature. Neither bushy nor thin eyebrows are below his wrinkle-free forehead. I want to put my arm around his boyish, developing shoulders to pose in a picture with him and post it on social media, to show off.
“So,” I say, “does the number next to your name on the board mean you’re sixteen?”
“It does,” he says. “I’m sixteen.” He speaks in a somber low tone as if he’s ashamed of it. He stares downward and shifts his attention back to me.
“Oh...” I must sound disappointed, but I can’t control it.
“But I turn seventeen very shortly.”
I feel a smile. I want to silence the conversation and keep Andrew, the talky, extroverted cashier, out of it, but my response here is important. He could spread damaging gossip. Nothing over the top like sexual harassment needed here. The company really hates that.
“That’s good.” I put my hands together and stare downward meaning the conversation is over. No need for Andrew to hear my criminal desires. People may not like it, but there’s nothing they can do once he turns seventeen.
And how flattering! Nick can get with people without bald spots, little bellies, and widow’s peaks. He’s an opportunity that will escape me as I grow older and lose further what looks I have.
* * *
I’m trying to read Game of Thrones, but he’s glued to my mind. Just thinking about him gets me hard. This reminds me of my time with Trevor. But maybe we’re meant to be. He doesn’t seem like a sociopath like that manipulative Trevor. He’s approaching his prime, and I’m leaving it, going into middle age if not there already. That’s why I got this job so easily; it was fate to meet him. Actually, it was more like destiny. He’s the one. I forgot to take my evening dose last night just thinking about him. I’ll be alright.
I wonder what “very shortly” means, exactly. I don’t want to ask him. I’m terrified. I could be grooming him with that question. I could give him my phone number, but what if he calls me? That leaves digital evidence. He seems to be a nice, misguided kid, but I’ve got to be careful. I’ll know when I see it on the board.
Maybe if I only spent time with him, I would prevent him from finding someone else. He’s a good-looking kid, I think.
I’ve got to call my sponsor. If I have a good idea, I should speak to my sponsor next time I see him; if I have a great idea, I should call him immediately. There’s another wrong I haven’t told him. Start off with that one.
He’s on my recent calls from last week. “Matt R.” Here we go. Talk to him in the car going to work. He’s a pastor in a Protestant church; he gives good spiritual advice. Three rings.
“Hey, Matt! Are you busy? It’s very important I talk to you.”
“My wife got me a cake for my birthday, and we ate it. I can talk.”
There’s no such thing as a happy birthday as I age more and more to approach death.
I’m speaking: “The blessings of recovery. I’ve got some wrongs for you. Not quite any resentments.”
“Go on.” His voice is soothing.
“I lied to the dentist to get emergency dental work. I said I was in pain when I wasn’t to get a filling changed out because it hurt for a little while before. I didn’t like lying to him, but no harm done.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s no grave sin.”
“But that’s like a gunshot in a nuclear war compared to what I’m going to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a sixteen-year old boy I’m in love with. Or, most likely lust. He’s so—”
“Stop right there. Have you done anything with him? Spent time with him?” His voice is more authoritative.
“I must have exchanged two pages of dialogue with him. I really want to take him to a movie and learn more about him. He says he’s turning seventeen.”
“That’s statutory rape.”
“It’s not; the age of consent is seventeen in New York State. No one could have me arrested.”
“He’s still a kid. You can’t expect to remain sober doing that.” I’ve heard the exact same thing about giving Trevor adderall for almost having sex. And he was twenty-four though I thought he was sixteen. I didn’t stay sober from that. Sixteen is a magic number.
“But he can consent to it.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-seven and seventeen? Do you really think that’s appropriate?”
“Ummm. Depends on how people view it.”
“Having sex with children is wrong, Tommy.”
How can I possibly argue with that? “You’re right. How do I deal with him?” It hurts. I’m corrupt. I’m saying this, but do I really believe it?
“Don’t say anything flirtatious when you have to talk with him.” As I suspected. “That’s my advice, and keep me informed about how this goes.”
But I really crave talking to him. I’ll see what happens when I see on the board that he’s seventeen. Either way, he’s sixteen right now, and the law is clear about this.
I don’t think I’ll have a needle in my arm while torrenting child porn again if I date him when he’s legal.
* * *
My AA homegroup is gathered in this bright church basement with high ceilings before the anniversary meeting starts. Henry and Gary are celebrating a grand total of sixty years of sobriety. Old Henry can still walk at eighty and will celebrate fifty-five years of continuous sobriety. I’m chairing the meeting.
Matt’s white hair shines. He’s a fitness enthusiast and his old chiseled body makes outlines in his tight shirt. He’s talking with Gary, who happens to be his other sponsee. I say hi.
“Coins before cakes?” I say.
“Make sure to introduce me as coin giver to Gary first, because he has the least time. The newcomer is the most important. What about the problem we discussed?”
“I didn’t see him today,” I say. “But I’ll likely see him eventually.”
Gary overhears and comes closer. He’s a strapping tall construction worker who can probably sling bags of cement over his shoulder with one arm. To take his inventory, he said, “Pedophiles should be shot.” He’s the last person that needs to know this. Nice guy nonetheless who I could tell this to, because he could be trusted. I don’t know how he’d react, though. Despite his defects, he’s really sober and living a life beyond his wildest dreams with his hot Chilean wife and baby daughter.
“Do I have to beat someone up?” Gary says. “Is someone messing with you?” He’s kidding.
“You should beat him up,” Matt says.
It perplexes me. Maybe Matt shouldn’t say that out loud, but he’s right. I’m the one wrong, not Nick. Is this shame? I’m the villain who lusts to victimize a child. Smile and walk away.
* * *
I’m futzing around on my phone in the break room. FIFTY FIFTY, what a heavenly eighteen-year old K-pop girl band. Cupid is so dumb. My shift starts in ten minutes. My sponsor agreed with everything the social worker said.
Oh, I’ve got to take a picture of the new schedule. Time to get up. There’s the back of someone’s black-haired head looking at the table to perhaps write a note in the leave book for a day off. It must be Nick. He’s facing the exact opposite from me as if he’s trying not to talk to me or let me talk to him. He must have discussed this with someone, and he’s compensating for it like I am. He must know it’s sick.
I want him to want me. It hurts. What feeling is this? Rejection?
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Frederick Frankenberg
