Family Store

Half the lights in the store remained off in the middle of the day. A few patrons stalked the aisles for remnants of ingredients. The freezers sat along the far wall, dark shelves sparsely filled with corrupted cardboard. Beside it sat the meats: discolored steaks, chicken, and seafood in a dimly lit case, no worker to help weigh your disease. The dried goods looked like a mad rush of people had stormed the shelves, but they didn’t; there was no crisis; it was the middle of July. The lone employee behind the register in a red, stained apron used a calculator for the total, punched it in the machine, and handed me a yellow receipt.

No. 126

Free

Fresh succulent cuttings grew out of an empty pinot noir case. A hand-written note rested on the side for any neighbors interested in replanting or regrowing them.

A lemon tree plump with fruit grew in the front yard of a house. A cardboard sign reading “Do Not Take Lemons” was tied around the trunk with a thick, layered rope. The lemons glistened in the afternoon sun.

A collection of plates and bowls, cheap and plastic, sat atop a wrinkled tarp. Ants from a mound beside it crawled over the dinnerware.

Neighbors left a couch blocking half the sidewalk. The wooden bones of the structure looked solid and well-made. The cushions could be thrown out and replaced, and the furniture would be good as new.

No. 075

Invoice

Upon receiving the invoice for the repair, Spencer nearly lost his appetite. It arrived on time in a damaged box, a rip running the length of the cardboard. The total cost came out to a quarter of his monthly income. Credit cards already maxed, there was little he could do.

On Fridays, different departments in the office catered meetings. When these finished, messages went out to the rest of the building, so that no scraps of food went to waste. It became a ritual for Spencer to wait for these messages, and to take the free food as a reward for his patience and frugality. When he most needed financial reprieve, no such messages came. The office, in fact, was sparsely populated. Stomach rumbling, he arrived at a last resort.

Outside the office stood a sandwich and salad spot, a common choice for his coworkers. He knew they placed their online and mobile orders on a double-shelf, letters affixed to aid in finding your name. He knew, too, that no employee of the restaurant checked for a receipt. Do anything confidently and you can get away with it.

His watch flagged an elevated heart rate as he exited the restaurant. Tearing open the brown paper bag, a leafy green salad greeted him. The disappointment wasn’t strong enough to mask the emptiness in his stomach.

No. 051