In the Course of Human Events. Mike Harvkey

he was joined by a black woman. “I’m Walmart,” they said together, and on like that. A young guy that looked Mexican, a dark woman with an accent Clyde had never heard, a few retarded people. Yeah, I see it, everybody’s Walmart, we’re all in this together, quack quack quack. “Through our commitment to low prices,” one of them said over shots of people from all over, “we are bridging the global gap and bettering the lives of millions. Congratulations. You are a part of that effort now,” someone else said, then everybody who’d called themselves Walmart showed up again. “Welcome to our family,” they shouted, all of them smiling like it hurt. Then it cut to static.

      The noise washed over Clyde. What a load of shit. He made no move to shut it off. He’d been very fortunate to get on at Mr. Longarm in his senior year in high school. That was very clear now. Even though he’d had to join the union to work there, nobody had ever confused workplace with family. He hadn’t been somebody’s corporate kin, he’d been a highly skilled worker, paid accordingly. That stint at Longarm had allowed Clyde to witness the end of an era that would never happen again in America, he suddenly realized, looking around this room built out of the cheapest materials—gray cinderblocks; brown linoleum; white dropped tiles; buzzing fluorescents. He tried to read one of the inspirational notes pinned to the corkboard by corporate and couldn’t from where he sat. Probably best, given his frame of mind. Clyde had never been in prison before, but he figured this was what it felt like. The static surrounded him, he shut it off; he needed this goddamn job and decided he’d better try to get along.

      In the manager’s office Wilson was at his desk. “Finished?” he said, eyes down.

      “Yes sir.”

      “Good, good,” Wilson said. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

      “I’m Walmart,” Clyde said. That made the manager look up.

      Wilson paraded his new hire around for introductions before bringing him to Pets, where Esther was singing to a bagged goldfish, sunglasses covering her from hairline to lip. She had a sweet voice, actually, and for a moment neither Clyde nor Wilson said a thing. Then the manager cleared his throat and Esther practically jumped into Clyde’s arms. “You hired him!” The bag rolled in the aisle behind her.

      Mr. Wilson blinked and marched off and Esther rested her head against Clyde’s shoulder. Her hair was rough and smelled of cigarettes. “Be gentle with me, Clyde. I ain’t slept a blink.” She asked him to run to Starbucks for a venti drip. He was worried about leaving so soon after getting there, but Esther assured him that Wilson wouldn’t even notice. His ass was planted in his chair for the next half hour while he worked on the morning’s “challenge.”

      Clyde checked his wallet. He had four bucks. He’d never gone into a Starbucks before and crossed the lot with the low sun on his face, waited behind a dozen people, some who’d brought their own mugs from home to be filled here. Clyde wondered about the effort of bringing an empty mug to a coffee shop. He ordered Esther’s cup and said, “You’re shitting me,” when the woman in green gave him the price. He did not think the whole pot he made for his uncle every week cost three dollars. When he went out he couldn’t help but bleat like a sheep at the people in line.

      “I love you long time,” Esther said, blowing across the coffee, fogging her glasses. “You didn’t get one?”

      Clyde shrugged. “Couldn’t afford it.”

      “Clyde,” Esther whined, her mouth hung open. “I woulda given you some money.” Clyde dismissed the idea with a gesture. She held the cup out. “We’ll share it.”

      “Nah,” he said. “You have it. I don’t really drink coffee anyway.” Though this morning he would have, happily.

      While he worked to make Pets presentable, Esther nursed the coffee and entertained Clyde with tales of the party she’d been to the night before. Deep in the woods, it had ended near five when the bonfire spread to the trees and she’d failed a three-way in a mound of damp hay. “I’m so humiliated,” she said.

      Before opening, Wilson came on the P.A. with the morning’s challenge. It was, Esther said, a team-building exercise. Employees cheered, and Esther yelled, “Brownnosers!” She deflated immediately. “I think I’m gonna barf.” Someone yelled from another aisle wanting to know who’d said that and Esther got behind Clyde. “Protect me, Clyde.”

      “Nobody here but us fishes,” Clyde said in a pinched voice that made her laugh.

      Today’s challenge came from a personal conversation Wilson once had with Sam Walton, “the nicest, decentest, most down-to-earth man you could ever know.” The challenge was to define the spirit of Walmart. A few minutes later Wilson appeared in Pets with a clipboard. “So?”

      Esther raised an imaginary gun and said, “Low prices! Take that, high prices. Ka-blooey.”

      Wilson smiled stiffly. “That’s a great point, Esther, and I like your enthusiasm, but it’s not what Sam Walton said when we talked. I hope you’re not wearing opaque lenses when we open.” He turned to Clyde and waited.

      Clyde tried to remember the terrible video. “Community,” he said.

      Wilson’s face flushed pink. Clyde could tell that he’d hit a home run. “I’m gonna have to keep my eye on you, boy,” Wilson said. “But. It’s not exactly correct. What Sam Walton said when we spoke is that people think of us . . . as an old friend.” He spread his arms. Clyde thought that “community” and “an old friend” were, more or less, the same damned thing. He also thought that nobody in a million years would guess “an old friend,” so the challenge had been set up to be unwinnable. Bullshit.

      “Weird,” Esther said.

      “No, not weird, Esther. Use your cabeza. Who do we call in our times of need?”

      “Ghostbusters!” Esther said.

      “You call on your old friend.”

      “Jesus is my old friend.”

      “And I bet you call on him in your times of need.”

      “He’s not my emotional tampon, Mr. Wilson. I call on him in all my times,” she said. That was all Wilson needed to march off with his head in the clipboard. Clyde felt worn out and the store hadn’t even opened yet. Barely there two hours and he’d already been screwed. Esther must have sensed his mood; she slipped her arms around him from behind. “Ciggie break?”

      Outside she said, “Watch me smoke,” and French inhaled, looking up with bedroom eyes. “Is it sexy?”

      Clyde nodded and took the cigarette she offered him. He didn’t smoke, but one wouldn’t kill him. Esther dragged hungrily on her Marlboro Light, burning an inch of paper, closing her eyes and resting her temple on Clyde’s shoulder. When she finished she waved her hands in front of her face and looked at the sky. “I’m sorry, darlin, I swear that’ll be my last one.” She slipped her arm through Clyde’s and waited for him to finish. A sick sweat rose to the surface of his skin. The lot filled with cars sliding around each other silently, rocking side to side as drivers sprang out. Clyde wasn’t sure he was ready for human interaction. Maybe he wasn’t made for work of this sort, with the public. He did not think, no matter how hard he might try, that he could buy into this “we” team-building crap, but Wilson, you could tell just by looking at him, bought it all hook, line, and sinker. Anyone who wanted to climb his corporate ladder would have to do the same thing.

      Esther held her hand up in Clyde’s face and fingered a gold band on her thumb. Clyde sank with disappointment. “Who’s the lucky sum’bitch?”

      Esther laughed. “My dad,” she said, slipping it from her thumb to her ring finger. “I promised him I’d remain pure till my wedding night.” Clyde looked at Esther for any sign of a grin but none came. Obviously Mr. Hines didn’t know the first thing about his daughter.

      Before they finished their cigarettes a black couple drove into the lot, got out, and made their way to the entrance. Esther squeezed Clyde’s