Now That's A Tasty Pickle

He was so tired. Sweat dripped down his nose and onto the lenses of his glasses; he set down the knife, took them off, and wiped them on his big red loser-shirt of shame. It was 5 AM, and he was nearing the end of his shift as a night stocker at Meijer. $7.50 an hour, at the age of 30; life was devolving backward. No more money, no more sex, no more fun. This job, Saturday nights, was penance for burning all that damn gasoline over the years. One day off a week, and he usually went over to his mother's. Apply L to forehead and affix securely.

He was working aisle 6: ketchup, mustard, soup, salad dressings, assorted condiments. Up the little ladder attached to the cart to put things on the top shelf. Down on his knees, squinting at the tiny tags, trying to match the six digit product codes on the shelves to the cases of product. On his knees now, knees hurting like a bitch in fact, unable to find the slot where this stuff goes for the life of him, head pounding sweat pouring gawd I gotta lose some weight. Finally he turned to the guy working a little further down, and said, "hey, where's the polish dill hole?" Only after it left his mouth did he hear how it sounded. The other guy actually let his jaw drop in disbelief, then let out a series of guffaws. Blushing profusely, he had no option but to turn back to his work. Unintentional ethnic slander was just another part of the price he had to pay for his youthful transgressions.