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Trouble ahead, trouble behind,
and you know that notion just crossed my mind
—Casey Jones
GRATEFUL DEAD
SUPER-SAV-A-LOT-AND-MORE MART,
EL CAJON, CALIFORNIA
11:59 A.M. PDT/HEAD-CLONE ‘B’
“Delmer,” SENIOR ASSISTANT EXLEY SAID, “there’s a turd needs your attention in the Men’s and— good god, what have you done with that ice-chest?”
You might not know it, but that was one zinger of a question.
You see, the truth was that Billy Joe Schade, impersonating an idiot-savant janitor under the alias Delmer D. Pomes, was in the sporting goods aisle of the El Cajon Super-Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart completing a hermetically-sealed, fusion-powered genetic-replication tank from an Igloo 96 party-cooler and some plumber’s glue for the purpose of transporting a nearly-functioning clone of Billy Joe’s head— Head ‘B’— that he’d grown from a stem-cell-injected pimento bologna loaf purloined from the Super-Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart meat department and that, upon full maturation, Head-B would be grafted to Billy Joe’s shoulder and central nervous system in a position to observe and react to threats from a rearward position . . .
But you can’t just tell somebody that, especially not a person like Senior Assistant Manager Howard Exley, an adulterous, narcissist focused on climbing the Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart management hierarchy to a cushy desk job in Pine Rock while diddling every last warm-blooded female in his employ.
Exley’s bulbous, pore-cratered nose floated over Billy Joe’s shoulder, the man stinking of cigarettes, ambition and cheap cologne.
“Delmer, you have ruined a perfectly good Igloo 96 Mark III Party-Cooler—”
Actually, a Mark IV, but you think Exley’d know that?
“— by glueing whatever that is to the lid—”
Two modified head-gaskets for a big-block Cleveland 351 found in Automotive, but since females never worked there, Exley hadn’t set foot in Auto since orientation.
“— and then cutting a hole in the top, you moron, you’ve ruined this ice-chest. You’ve gone and sawed a hole in the lid, you nitwit.”
Nitwit? It’s not a hole, moron, anybody can see it’s a time-stasis-lock . . . Not only does it keep things cold, you ignorant corporate suck up, it protects the contents from contamination if someone reaches in for a cool one, and not only that, idiot, but if you read Science America instead of Boob Bonanza you, cretin, might even know that it also slows the space-time continuum in addition to keeping that beer cold.
Of course, in Billy Joe’s case, the contents was not a cold beer but a quasi-sentient pimento-loaf. Again, though, Billy Joe realized it unwise to confess the truth or even sufficiently explain the mechanics of meta-biological constructs grown from lunch meat or Igloo-96-based time displacement units so that Billy Joe was again forced to simply to blink slowly and say with exaggerated difficulty, “I’m sorry Mister Exley. I was just trying to make the company money. Ain’t that what you say? Everyday everbody needs to think up ways to make money for the company? That if we got moneymaking schemes to bring them to you. I was just trying to help is all.”
Right now, Billy Joe Schade’s problem was that, if unassailably the smartest man in the world, he d still let that smarmy little assistant manager Exley sneak up on him like some kind of Viet Cong using the Debbie Cake display for cover. Billy Joe hadn’t even heard him until Exley knocked over the box of snacks, which made him think he might need to inject some stem-cells into his ears, bump up his hearing a little bit. Or maybe over-augment Head B’s hearing . . .
“Mmm-hmmm. Just like that.” Smugly, Exley nodded at the open can beside Billy Joe’s foot.
“Did you find the gasket sealer just like that, too?”
A good point. Especially given the fact Billy Joe had pink gasket-sealant on his hands; he’d been in a hurry and thought Exley was busy with Wanda Enright over in Children’s Wear.
“Delmer . . . why are you putting that gasket on the ice-chest?”
Billy Joe feigned considering the question. Then, in his slowest Delmer D. Pomes voice, said, “I wanted to make it stay colder, Mister Exley. If no one opens it, the ice won’t melt. I thought the company would like it. You always say to think about what’s best for the company.”
“You re saying you did this for the good of the store? As an invention?”
Billy Joe nodded solemnly.
Exley ran a finger across his bulbous, pore-cratered nose. “Delmer, if it worked, who would you tell first?”
“You, Mr. Exley. Is that wrong?”
“No, no it s not wrong at all. Loyalty is good.” Exley crouched down a little closer, checking over his shoulder; his nose wrinkled a little. So did Billy Joe’s; Exley smelled of the cheap, swap-meet cologne he kept in his desk. “Did you hear Mr. Givens say anything more about the . . . er . . . situation we spoke of? About—” Exley pantomimed a basketball attached to his stomach “—you know . . .”
“About Wanda being preg—”
“Shhhh,” Exley said, frantically waving, “you don’t need to yell it.” He glanced around, but the only person in the aisle was an older woman looking at the Igloo 32, a nice big cooler with a tray for keeping vegetables out of the melted water. Shining his intense little weasel eyes on Billy Joe, Exley said, “Now . . . did Givens call Corporate when you were working in his office?”
Billy Joe nodded.
Exley frowned. “He did? What did he say?”
“That he had some suspicions about you and Wanda but he thought it might be a false alarm. That he was gonna watch you for a while just to make sure.”
“He said that, did he? Hmmm.” Exley smiled, showing his porcelain-capped teeth, then cocked his head as Lily Jackson called his name over the store PA, requesting Exley’s attention in Home Furnishings; Lily Jackson was Exley’s squeeze on the store’s west side. Wanda Enright, two-months pregnant in Children’s Wear, was strictly east side.
“I need to handle this,” Exley said, rising. “Now take that ice-chest into back-stock and go swamp out the Men’s— Mr. Givens says there’s a huge turd overflowed onto the floor in Stall Two been sitting there for over an hour and the last thing the Store needs is for someone to slip on a turd and break their neck. He also wanted me to remind you that there’s been a wad of gum in the urinal now for two days and waaay too many pubic hairs. Shaking his head, Exley said, “If you want to move up in the company, Delmer, if you want to work here more than two days a week, You’re gonna need to be more vigilant to things like that."
Billy blinking slowly and adopting the dopey, burned-out look he’d perfected in Daytona Beach.
Glancing around to ensure they were relatively alone, Exley said, “Not schemes, Delmer. Plans. Opportunities.” He eyed the Igloo with puzzled distaste. “What exactly have you made for the company, Delmer?”
Billy Joe grinned dopily. “A beer cooler that keeps beer cold for two days on only four ‘D’ batteries.”
“Four D’s?” Exley got that look he always got when Billy Joe presented him with a new invention he could show to Corporate while claiming as his own. It reminded Billy Joe of a rat eying a chunk of unclaimed cheese. “How long, on four D’s?”
“24 hours. And with six, I can even make it deep-freeze.”
Exley showed his porcelain teeth. “Ah, ha hah, my little idiot savant, yes . . . Well . . .” Exley paused to ensure the coast was clear, before saying, “Listen, Delmer, why don’t you bring it by my office after Johnson goes home. I want a demonstration.” He leaned in and winked. “How about we keep this between ourselves until I can get with Old Man Greeley, no sense bothering him with the corporate people here, right?” Exley studied Billy Joe like a man measures a child. “You understand what I am saying, don’t you, Delmer?”
“Oh, yessir. Secret, secret, always keep it secret.”
Blink blink.
Hey . . . No one here but us morons . . . Nope, just a big dopey moron here, nothing to worry about except working out the genetic chaining sequence for the protoplasmic transition chamber . . .
Well, that and the turd in the Men’s.
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