Chapter 1

Sedgewick stepped off the bus and began his slow walk home. The city bus pulled away in a cloud of fumes, and Sedgewick held his breath until he passed through the cloud. He paused for a moment, turning to watch the bus go and wonder why public transportation couldn't smell better.

He breathed clean air again, wrinkling his nose at the fumes, and set off for home. Despite the exhaust that burned his nostrils, Sedgewick liked riding the bus. Liked might be an understatement. He loved riding the bus.

There were so few worries and commitments about bus riding. At most Sedgewick had $15 per month tied up in his bus pass, which was subsidized by the university. If the bus broke down, another one would come. If all the seats were full, he could stand and in a few stops a spot would open up. If he missed the bus, another one would come in seven minutes during rush-hour, 11 if off-peak times. 15 on the weekends. At least for the 16. The other routes seemed to come as often, but Sedgewick didn't have the schedule nearly memorized.

Bus riding didn't require a car payment, which Sedgewick would never be able to afford. But a car payment alone isn't what kept Sedgewick from owning an automobile. Sure, there's the financial considerations. A down payment, a monthly payment larger than most he's ever had to make. There's the insurance, the gas, the upkeep. Even if he bought a used car all those conditions exist. All those expenses. $15 a month for unlimited rides seems so much simpler.

But more than all the money, Sedgewick can't stand the thought of having to pick out one car all his own. Despite being a champion of public transportation, as some might say, Sedgewick has a great love for cars, probably thanks to his grandfather. He loves the way they look, the unique styles that harken back to earlier years or evoke certain feelings. Sometimes it's a stifled laugh, but other times there's a sense of quiet awe or wonder. The few times he's ridden in a friends car he likes poking around at all the nooks and crannies, the arm rests, the glove compartment, the penny slots, the cup holders. And then the color. He'd never be able to pick a color. And even if he bought a used car where you don't have a choice in color, he's still be deciding on color. It'd be the maroon verses the marine green, not the $1,400 Toyota verses the $2,700 Ford like most people would think about it.

Sedgewick thought the color of a car really meant a lot. It gives off a certain feeling when you step inside a red car compared with a blue car. And that feeling mattered to Sedgewick. People just don't buy white cars, they settle for them. That's how Sedgewick felt anyway, deep down somewhere where he kept all these feelings to himself.

That's kind of why he liked the bus so much. They all came in a standard color, usually white with the blue and red Metro Transit stripes. But they all ads plastered to the sides, the front, the back. Interchangeable ads. One week they'd be pitching TCF bank, the one Sedgewick happens to use, another week they'd be telling him how many people were infected with HIV/AIDS. One week they'd tell him to buy a Toyota (to which he could only laugh—why advertise cars to people who ride the bus?), the next they'd be pitching a new theatrical performance downtown. If you didn't like one of the ads, don't worry, it'd probably be something different tomorrow.

And best of all, occasionally the little ads placed on all sides of the bus would be replaced by an entire paint scheme. The mostly white and boring bus would suddenly explode with color, promoting the grand opening of the new downtown Target store, or heralding the opening of the Twins' baseball season, or encouraging you to open a totally free checking account at TCF (sometimes Sedgewick wonders if it was a multi-colored bus that somehow subconsciously prompted him to open his own account at TCF).

All of these thoughts swirled in and out of Sedgewick's head as he walked home, blurring the lines of reality to the point where he felt like he was sleep walking. He didn't like it when his mind drifted like this. He slowed his pace for a moment, looking to the right and the left to make sure he wasn't being watched. He breathed in and sighed, then took a quick glance up to the blue, blue sky.

Yep. Life goes on. Satisfied that he hasn't missed too much, and committed to not zoning off again, Sedgewick continued his pace for the last several blocks home.

He thought for sure that one of these days his drifting mind would get him into trouble. The don't walk man would be flashing and Sedgewick would keep right on walking and that'd be the end of him.

The light was green at the coming intersection, but Sedgewick knew he wouldn't make it unless he hurried. And today wasn't a day to hurry. He slowed his shuffle, and his eyes fell to the strip of green grass next to the sidewalk, to the bright yellow dandelion clinging to the edge of the green.

The light turned yellow, giving Sedgewick pause to stop, but he didn't really notice. He couldn't look away from the fall dandelion, struggling against hope to make its presence felt. Something made Sedgewick want to pull the dandelion and take it home, plop it in the mason jar like he did every spring. But this wasn't spring, and he couldn't do that to the lone dandelion.

In the spring it didn't seem so bad, pulling a handful of dandelions when the stretches of green grass were just covered in them. But this was the only dandelion Sedgewick had seen in weeks, if not months. Some kind of late bloomer that had little chance for survival. The temperature was dropping at night, and any day now this little weed would freeze. Dandelions didn't deserve to be alone, but plucking it wouldn't help. A mercy killing would only kill the slight chance that another yellow flower would pop up nearby, however incredibly unlikely that might be.

The light turned green and Sedgewick kept walking.

He climbed the steps to the early 1900s sagging story and a half where he lived with his grandmother, grabbed the mail from the floor of the porch and went inside. The late afternoon October sun had warmed the porch to a summer afternoon, but inside was cooler, feeling more like an October day should.

"Sedgewick?" a voice called from the kitchen, an older, weathered voice. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Gram, it's me." Sedgwick kicked his shoes off in the entry way and joined his grandmother in the kitchen. Kitchens were more important in the 1900s, and it was large enough for a whole family to crowd together and make dinner, keeping each other warm and company. A small table sat in the corner, droopy and as old as the house. Sedgewick's grandmother sat at the table, a mug of water in front of her next to a pile of half-chopped ingredients.

Sedgewick set the mail down on the counter and sat down across from his grandmother, in the corner, the spot where his grandfather always used to sit for hours and hours at a time. Before his grandmother insisted on tearing down the decades-old wallpaper and painting, there used to be a worn spot, right at the height where his grandfather's head would rest. Sedgewick liked the head groove, though he hadn't quite grown into the spot. By now it would probably fit perfectly, but in high school when his grandmother figured he could handle a paint brush and an important job his head didn't quite line up with the worn groove. So Sedgewick didn't protest. Now he might, but only slightly. Sedgewick wasn't big on sentimentality, not that he didn't like it, he just didn't need it.

"School was good today, Gram," Sedgewick said before she could ask. She looked up from chopping vegetables and smiled, setting the knife down and taking a sip from her mug.

"And did you learn how to save the world?"

"No, not today. Not unless derivatives and equations have anything to do with it."

"Those equations can be mighty powerful."

"Maybe so. But I don't think they'd be giving the keys of the kingdom to undergrads, Gram."

She smiled, warmly, and took another sip.

"I don't think I'd want to use math to save the world anyway," Sedgewick said. "Though that would be kind of funny," he added, imagining a dorky mathematical superhero, armed with a protractor and a graphing calculator.

"The geek shall inherit the earth," his grandmother said with a slight inflection, the one she reserved for quoting those older and wiser than her. She smiled and Sedgewick did, too. He always loved these after school discussions, and was so happy when they continued into college, even if they weren't at the exact same time every day. Some days he'd take the bus home before work, if only for a few hours, just for the chance to sit in this kitchen and talk with his Gram before going to work. It'd be easier to do homework in the library and then go straight to work, but Sedgewick never liked to do what was easy just because it was easy.

"How about you, Gram?" Sedgewick asked as he got up from to get himself a glass of water. "How was your day?"

"Fine, fine," she said, brushing off his question.

"And you're feeling fine and fine?" Sedgewick asked, returning to the table.

"You know how it is, but I can't complain. I can't complain."

Complaints rarely found voice in this house.

"Do you work tonight?"

"Yep. Four to midnight."

"Oh, Sedgewick, that's so late."

"Not any later than I usually work."

"I know, I know."

"You wouldn't want me to be a bum, Gram, would you? I've got to earn my keep."

"You've more than earned this keep," his grandmother said. "But I know you need the job. It's good for you."

"Like carrots?" Sedgewick asked, taking a slice from the table and popping it in his mouth. She laughed and shooed him off, telling him he better go get ready to earn his keep.


The bus dropped Sedgewick off at 3:45 in front of the Cub Foods grocery store, giving him more than enough time to stow his things in his locker and stash his lunch in the dairy fridge next to the damaged product. He lived close enough to the store that he could really walk, and often he'd walk home after a long day of work. But he usually rode the bus to work, if only to make sure he was there on time.

He pocketed his safety cutter and checked his price gun, and wondered through the back hallways to the loading dock and the rest of the crew.

"Hi guys," Sedgewick said. Jimmy and Alex grunted and nodded in acknowledgement, hardly pausing as they unloaded the pallets and sorted the boxes onto carts depending on aisle. Missy sat on one of the half-emptied pallets, drinking a Mountain Dew and avoiding work like usual. The banter had quieted when Sedgewick came, like usual, but he could tell the guys were giving Missy a hard time and vice-versa. Some things never changed, and it made Sedgewick smile.

"All right then, should I get started on aisle five?"

Jimmy paused before lifting a case of mayonnaise, and turned to survey the room, which was quickly filling with loaded trucks.

"How about you do aisle three?" Jimmy motioned to the row of three trucks overburdened with juice and noodles. Sedgewick nodded, grabbed the handle of the truck and carted it out to aisle three. He liked doing aisle five, but it was never the first aisle. Some of the other aisles had big product, like half gallons of juice or boxes of cereal, and they'd take up seven or eight trucks in one night's load. The store didn't have that many trucks to go around, so they'd have to keep ahead of the unloading. Paper products was another first-run aisle, though those weren't so bad since one truck could only hold seven or eight boxes, and you'd be done in ten minutes. Sedgewick liked that feeling of accomplishment.

Aisle five, on the other hand, was the baked good aisle, full of small boxes and even smaller products, like spices and packages of walnuts. It took a lot more time than toilet paper, but it also reminded Sedgewick of his grandmother. The smells brought him back to her kitchen and the tastes and scents of her cooking. It was hardly work to stock shelves in aisle five.

Sedgewick started by distributing the boxes throughout aisle three, dropping or sliding each package to it's approximate location on the shelf. It somehow seemed faster to spread the boxes out across the aisle and then price and shelve each one.

He knelt down next to the first box, a case of apple juice, and reached for his safety cutter. He flicked the razor forward and sliced the edge of the box all on three sides, careful not cut too deeply and damage the product. Then he'd flip the cardboard case open with one hand and stow his razor in his back pocket with the other, grab the price gun and check the price. With a few turns of the knob he'd have the price entered in the archaic price gun, $2.79, and then would whiz up down the rows of apple juice slapping price stickers on the top of each jug. Then he'd slip the price gun into his back pocket by the handle and pick up the case of juice. In a quick motion he'd rest his leg on a lower shelf and balance the case on his knee, then start sliding jugs of juice onto the shelf.

Sometimes he had to rotate newer products to the back and bring the old stuff to the front. Sometimes a few extra bottles wouldn't fit on the shelf and he'd have to decide between back-stock and hiding it on the shelf, slipping and apple juice behind a grape juice. Depending on the product, it was usually easier to hide two or three items than put up with the hassle of back stock. More than likely the juice would sell within a day and when they went through early in the morning to face all the shelves—pull the items to the front and make everything look clean, organized, and well-stocked—they could put the hidden apple juice where it belonged.

Case after case, truck after truck, night after night. It wasn't exactly rocket science. It was retail. And that's what Sedgewick liked about it. He didn't need a job where he had to think, which actually gave him plenty of time to think if he felt like it. Or if not he could zone off into wonderland and it really wouldn't affect his ability to put a $1.79 sticker on a can of peas and put it on the shelf in the right spot.

Of course there's always more to the job. There was break time, the chance for some back and forth banter with his coworkers. Alex and Missy were both high schoolers, the every changing crew of after school workers, some who stuck around for a few years, others only a few months. Missy was fairly new, but Alex had been around for about a year.

Jimmie used to be an after school worker, but after graduation he started the transition into lifer. At least that's what the guys in the meat department said. Jimmie kept talking about college, and he'd tried taking classes here and there. He was a part time student working a full time job, on track to being a forever student, which really means it's only a matter of time. Sedgewick liked working with Jimmie. He may be on his way to a dead end grocery store job, but at least he knew where he stood. He did his job, did it well, and got on with his life. Sedgewick liked that. Jimmie didn't gripe like half the high school workers did about what a dump this Cub Foods was and how eager they were to get out of here. It's a job, and you have to appreciate your job.

Work is work. That's probably something Sedgewick's grandfather used to say. In the break room Sedgewick would listen to some of the other adults, the real lifers, and he got the feeling that it wasn't so bad. You do your job and you enjoy it while you can. You're helping people buy their groceries. It's nothing glamorous, but it has to be done.

There's always deeper thoughts about the retail world, all sorts of customer service junk, but Sedgewick left that to the Assistant Manager, Roth Maxwell. Roth was fresh out of the university's business school, eager to apply his book learning to the real world. Which meant he didn't know anything. Both Roth and the real manager, a guy who spent his time stalking the store his stiff suit and sitting outside smoking, didn't have time for anything more than berating their employees. A simple conversation about the benefits of customer service might have helped, it might have kept Sedgewick from spreading his truck full of juice across the aisle so it got in everyone's way who was still trying to shop, but nobody thinks to share business class knowledge with the part time stock help.

"'Scuse me," Sedgewick mumbled as he pulled a case of Gatorade from the floor and flattened himself against the shelf to give an elderly shopper pushing a cart dangerously down the aisle plenty of room. She smiled at him and plodded along, Sedgewick smiling in return, but not showing his teeth as his muscles strained at the weight of 288 ounces of purple Gatorade.

When the woman had passed, Sedgewick dropped the case and stooped next to it. He could hear conversation floating over from aisle one, the bread, candy, and mixed nuts aisle. A child wanted some chocolate treat and his exasperated mother didn't want to give in. It seemed pretty clever to Sedgewick to stick the candy in the first aisle. Parents have barely gotten past the produce section when their already bored kids can eye the candy and strike. The poor parents had to fight to get their kids in the door, they were lulled into thinking it might not be so bad in the colorful produce section, and then wham. Candy. The begging and pleading would begin, and with such a necessity as bread in the same aisle, there was no avoiding it. Retail brilliance.

But it had the dual-effect of exasperating any poor employee working within ear shot. Sedgewick exchanged glances with Dave in produce as the kid's pleas went a notch higher. Key change. Get ready for the pay off.

Twenty minutes later Sedgewick had finished off his truck of juice and egg noodles and was pulling the empty truck to the back room. The day's truck was two-thirds unloaded, which was apparently cause for celebration.

"Break time?" Sedgewick asked.

"Yeah, I've been here since one" said Jimmie, seated on a half-cleared pallet of dog food.

"Oh, me too," said Alex, half snickering.

"You didn't get here until 3:30," said Jimmie, "So shut up. You can break with Sedgewick in another hour or two."

The one thing Sedgewick could say for union-backed grocery work was that union breaks were enforced. For an eight hour shift you got two 15-minute breaks and a half hour lunch. Though lunch was off the clock, you were required to take it, which meant you were really at work for eight and a half hours. But from start to finish it meant a break every two hours.

Alex and Missy usually had five hour shifts, at least on school nights, thanks to state law, but they'd work eight hour shifts on the weekend or Friday nights, like tonight. For as tough and cool as Alex tried to be, Sedgewick could never understand why he worked on Friday nights. It seemed like a prime social opportunity, but message didn't always fit the hype.

Sometimes they'd all take an early break together with Jimmie and then take their breaks every two hours from there on out with Jimmie, then working a longer stretch at the end. Or taking an unofficial break, as Alex usually did. And sometimes Jimmie would save his break and take it with Sedgewick and the others, which usually meant he had an extra break and could justify sneaking off 15 minutes early.

As long as the work got done the grocery manager didn't care.