Bentley Little - The Store

Ginny pulled into one of the empty parking spaces on the street in front of Hair Today. A bearded, obviously homeless man, wearing torn jeans and a filthy flannel shirt, walked directly in front of her car, and she pretended to look through her purse, waiting until he had gone before getting out of the vehicle.

She was a little intimidated by the vagrants. Most of them simply sat in empty doorways or on raggedy blankets under trees, but the bolder ones staked out specific spots in order to ask passersby for money. She knew she should be more understanding, and in an abstract, intellectual way, she sympathized with their plight, but on an emotional, personal level, she was slightly afraid of these people. She did not like seeing them, was uncomfortable around them, and she did not know how she was supposed to act.

So she tried to avoid them as much as possible.

She was the only customer in the salon, and Rene was the only stylist, and the two of them coexisted in uncomfortable silence while Ginny's hair was washed, then cut and penned. She would have liked to have talked -- about anything -- but Rene was obviously in a bad mood, and Ginny let her be.

Afterward, she left an extra-large tip of ten dollars.

Rene smiled for the first time, touched her hand as she placed the bill on the counter. "Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Ginny nodded, smiled back.

On the way home, she saw Sam on the sidewalk, heading away from her new house and toward the highway and The Store. She stopped to offer her daughter a ride, but Sam looked at her and gave her a cold smile. "I don't accept rides from strangers," she said dismissively.

She kept walking.

"Sam?" Ginny called out the car window. She thought at first that it was some sort of joke, but when her daughter would not look back, continued on at the same even pace, she knew that it was not. "Samantha!" she called.

No answer.

Ginny moved the car forward, pulling next to her. "Honey? What's the matter?"

Sam kept walking.

"Get in the car. I don't know what the problem is here, but obviously we need to work it out."

Sam stopped. "There's nothing to work out. Fuck off, Mom."

"What?"

"Fuck. Off."

Another car drove by, and Samantha flagged down the driver. It was a man, someone Ginny didn't know, and before she could call out, before she could say anything, Sam was in the car and off to The Store.

She thought of following, did for a few blocks, but then she thought better of it and turned back toward home as the other car turned onto the highway.

She made it all the way into the drive before bursting into tears.

4

Shannon stood against the wall with the rest of the employees, legs spread to shoulder width, hands clasped behind her back in the official Store stance.

Mr. Lamb walked slowly back and forth in front of them. "The new uniforms have arrived," he said. His voice was low and seductive. "They are beautiful."

Shannon felt uneasy. She thought of the trip, of Encantada, of the people in that town all wearing Store uniforms.

Mr. Lamb smiled at her, and she thought of _Sam's bloody panties_.

She looked quickly away, feeling cold and sick.

"You are all going to wear your beautiful new uniforms today. You will wear them proudly. For you are the elite, you are the chosen."

He walked into the dark doorway of the small stockroom to the left of the elevator and emerged with one of the new uniforms on a hanger. It was leather, black leather, and shiny. Holding the hanger with his left hand, he used his right to pull off and display the uniform's top, a strange-looking article of clothing that to Shannon resembled a straitjacket. Next, he held up the pants.

"They're tight in the crotch," he said. "You'll love them."

There were a few nervous giggles from some of the employees.

There was a cap as well, a leather beret with a silver-studded insignia, and matching leather underwear: a codpiece for the males, French-cut panties for the females.

"And you all get boots," he said. "Knee-high storm troopers. They're perfect."

He stood there, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, looking up and down the line, grinning at them. Neither Shannon nor anyone else seemed to know what came next -- what they were supposed to do or say, how they were supposed to react -- and they stood there dumbly, looking at each other, looking at Mr. Lamb.

"All right," the personnel manager said finally. "What are we waiting for?

Strip!"

Shannon sucked in her breath, not sure that she'd heard correctly, praying to God that she hadn't.

Mr. Lamb clapped his hands. "Come on! Hop to! Take off your clothes! All of them! Now!"

Joad Comstock was next to her on the right, Francine Dormand to her left, and she didn't want either of them to see her naked. She had a big red pimple on the left cheek of her buttocks, and more pimples on her shoulders. Her breasts were too small, much smaller than Francine's, and despite all the dieting her stomach was still too big. She hadn't shaved her legs, either, not for over a week, and the stubble looked really gross.

She didn't want _anyone_ to see her naked.

Around her, the other employees were perfunctorily taking off their clothes: removing their shoes, unbuckling their belts, unbuttoning their tops.

"Throw your old uniforms into the center of the corridor," Mr. Lamb ordered.

No one was balking, no one was complaining, no one was talking. There were no jokes cracked, and even the youngest employees did not giggle as their coworkers stripped.

Jake was somewhere in line, Shannon thought.

"Shannon Davis," Mr. Lamb said loudly, warningly, staring at her.

She began unbuttoning her top.

"These are _our_ uniforms," Mr. Lamb stated. "They are the uniforms of The Store and they will not leave this building. You will keep them in your lockers, and you will put them on when you arrive and take them off before you leave. You will wear your uniforms only within the confines of The Store." He paused. "If you wear your uniform outside of this building, you will be terminated." He paused again. "If you are scheduled to work and do not wear your uniform, you will be terminated."

A wave of cold passed through Shannon as she pulled down her panties. Mr. Lamb's peculiar emphasis of the word "terminated" was extremely unsettling. She knew that was intentional, knew he wanted them to pick up on the double meaning of the word, but that did not make it any less upsetting.

Following Mr. Lamb's directions, they filed naked into the small, dark stockroom. They'd lined up alphabetically, and boxed uniforms with name tags attached were piled in the same order, illuminated by a single recessed bulb in the ceiling. Shannon kept her attention focused on load's head in front of her, not wanting to see his exposed back or legs or hairy buttocks, not wanting to see any part of any of her coworkers' bodies.

She hoped Francine was doing the same behind her.

Picking up the box with her name tag attached, Shannon carried it out to the assembly corridor.

No one was yet putting on the new uniforms. They all stood, holding their boxes, at attention. Somehow, in the few brief moments it had taken her to walk into the stockroom and out again, all of their discarded clothes had been piled in the center of the corridor.

"It is time," Mr. Lamb said, when the last employee emerged from the stockroom.

They burned their old uniforms -- and their underwear and their shoes and socks -- in a ceremonial fire. Mr. Lamb made them walk around the flames, holding hands, singing The Store's irritating commercial jingle.

Or, as Mr. Lamb referred to it, "The Store's Official Anthem."

Still naked, they were herded into the chapel, where one by one they were each required to kneel down before the massive painting of Newman King.