Dillon popped his earbuds in, tapped play on his podcast app, and grabbed the pallet dolly loaded with cereal boxes so high it towered over his head. Dillon liked the night stocker position; he didn’t have to interact with people (especially customers), he stayed caught up on all his favorite podcasts (Welcome to Nightvale), and he was completely justified in sleeping all day no matter how much his mom yelled.
Dillon walked backwards towards the swinging doors leading to the grocery floor, leaning into pulling the pallet dolly. A sudden tap on his shoulder caused him to jump, dropping the metal arm of the pallet dolly, which clanged against the cement floor.
“Dude,” Jack from the canned goods aisle threw up his hands.as he stepped back.
Dillon popped out an earbud, “hey, man, wha’d’ya need?”
“Have you seen Emily yet?”
“Are you still angling to take her out to eat?” Dillon swung a playful punch at Jack’s shoulder.
“Nah,” Jack shook his mop of hair sheepishly, “I haven’t seen her yet and she’s on the schedule.”
“Did ya check the organic/global foods aisle?” Dillon shrugged, popped the earbud back in, and resumed his trudge to the cereal aisle. Overhead the lights flickered on and off; long, short, long, long, short.
Dillon always joked to Cheryl that the lights were sending a message that everyone was ignoring. “Dillon,” she always replied, rolling her eyes, “they just don’t like the 40% power setting. It takes time for the lights to adjust.” Cheryl, as the night shift manager always had to take everything seriously.
Dillon paused, frowning as he peered down the pasta aisle. The shadows created by the flickering lights made it look as though a snake was slithering down the aisle.
Dillon grunted as he parked the pallet dolly in the middle of the aisle. He liked to start with the bottom shelves when he stocked. As a tall dude, the floor was further away for him than for most people, so he liked to plan his shift to end with the easy part. Lost in his podcasts, inching along the aisle, he missed the colored lights flashing against the ceiling until he stood up to stretch and survey his progress. Puzzled, he pressed pause on the podcast. Sounds of dance party music drifted over the aisles.
Dillon walked to the front of the store, looking both ways at the line of checkout registers. To the right, near the entrance of the grocery store, where a coffee shop enticed customers on their way to the bakery, a crowd of people were dancing and laughing. Shoving his earbuds in his pocket, he trudged toward the crowd. Everyone was there; Jack, Emily, Brandon, Dave, Shari, even Tasha.
Emily caught his eye and reached out to grab his hand.
“Dillon,” she shouted with enthusiasm, “it’s a rave! Come dance with me.”