RE: Trailer Trash, 65 pt 4 (Patreon)

    Claudia and Shirley sure are nasty pieces of work, Mrs. Moore thought to herself. But, otherwise the bakery really isn’t too bad!

    This department had a foul reputation among the other Food Lion workers, but after that initial day of stress and anxiety, in her second shift she found things tedious but uncomplicated. Claudia didn’t trust the new hire to not muck up any of the real work—anything to do with proofing or baking, and they insisted she just ignore the cacophony of oven timers whenever they went off.

    Which was constantly.

    Over the course of the day it became apparent to Mrs. Moore that the older bakery ladies here had gotten together to discuss all of the work they didn’t want to do, and then promptly divvied all of those tasks up for Mrs. Moore to handle instead. Anything to do with all those pesky people who kept bothering them throughout the day was fobbed off onto her; answering the phone for cake or catering orders, helping customers over the counter.

    Those were to be Mrs. Moore’s priority, and the rest of her time would be filled with systematically cleaning all of the areas and going through the ‘break out’ checklist. Which meant her job turned out to be keeping an eye on the front area, sweeping, cleaning and wiping down everything in the entire bakery, and then constant trips into the nearby freezer room to pull out and portion dough to thaw for tomorrow.

    While all of the bread and pastries were baked here, nothing was made from scratch. Dough for everything arrived in shipments, unorganized stacked heaps of boxes which lined the walls of the absolutely jam-packed walk-in freezer. The shipping labels detailing their individual contents had tiny print and were often on the inaccessible sides of the boxes—opening them and pulling back the plastic liner revealed piles of pale, frozen lumps that could have been mistaken for oblong chunks of ceramic. The department’s breads, buns, rolls, bagels, and donuts all came in frozen and just needed spaced out on one of the broad baking sheets atop parchment paper in preparation for tomorrow. These were then to be slotted into one of the rolling racks to pull across the store into the back proofer later on. Even their sheetcakes arrived by the stack and only required the department to spread on icing and decorate them.

    The longtime bakery employees hated to be in and out of the cluttered, claustrophobic, and absolutely frigid walk-in freezer, and they loathed having to deal with the heavy boxes of frozen food for daily break out. None of that was much of a bother for Shannon, however. She was here to work, and having a cleancut list of basic work to do made things rather straightforward. Going down the checklist to count out everything Claudia wanted pulled for tomorrow and place it all on sheets for the rolling rack was easy, mindless work.

    Without any customers lingering by the counter area or a phone ringing, Mrs. Moore spent the rest of the time bundled up in her coat back in the walk-in freezer. The small enclosure was positively choked with an excess of boxes, and the wall to manage on her side was sometimes three units deep and required shifting a lot of product around back and forth a lot to find what was needed. She had no earthly idea why this was the case however, because many if not most of these boxes were either half-full or almost completely empty, and in those cases the boxes were often torn or partially crushed by the weight of other boxes.

    Well SOMEONE needs to do something about all this! Mrs. Moore thought, trying to wring the chill out of her hands.

    For the top case of frozen donuts, she immediately pulled out the plastic liner containing less than a dozen remaining apple fritters, twisted the bag neatly closed, and transferred them to share space in the box of chocolate donuts. Jelly-filled, maple, cinnamon, and crullers left over from other already-opened boxes joined shortly after, which meant she could remove and flatten five entire boxes from the overstuffed freezer room right away.

    One entire row clears out, just like that, Mrs. Moore thought with a wry smile.

    She took the black sharpie used for jotting down cake orders and simply wrote the donut names on the outward face of the box in large letters. Digging down another layer of boxes, she was likewise able to combine twists with blueberry into the glazed donut box. The bagels were next to consolidate, because they were also all easy to tell apart even when many different types had their liner bags moved into the same box. The rolls weren’t quite so easy to discern from one another when they were all still frozen blobs of dough—at least not for a new worker on her second day, so Shannon left them alone.

    There was no way anyone would confuse the dark pumpernickel dough with the sourdough or rye, however. So, she worked her way down that stack, shifting bags of frozen goods into a single merged box and then scrawling the different names onto the cardboard. By the time she realized there were only fifteen minutes left of her shift, it seemed like she had cleared a huge portion of the walk-in freezer. All of the opened and partially spent boxes of product on top—there had been several dozen of these—were repacked into seven now very weighty boxes. Heavier even than the unopened boxes of product along the back, but she saw no reason to fuss around with those. 

    Taking in the sight of the now much more roomy and better yet organized walk-in freezer, Mrs. Moore allowed herself a proud harumph that turned into a cloud of vapor in the air before her. She hadn’t ever understood the satisfaction and relief her daughter must have felt in the past six months when Tabitha was going around like a girl possessed cleaning and organizing things. Now it felt like she really got it, she empathized on a deep level.

    Even if those old bakery crones would never thank me or show any hint of appreciation, Mrs. Moore decided to herself, I know what I got done. And, my job will be even easier tomorrow, having done this!

* * *

    Far across the other side of Springton, almost the whole way to Fairfield Mrs. Macintire was also at work, shoving her office chair back from her desk and allowing its natural tilt to pull her into a lazy spin. The Safety Plant’s offices here were a large shared endeavor with everyone’s desks and computers and the rows upon rows of filing cabinets they had yet to digitize in the systems upgrade making the workplace here feel disjointed and chaotic. Her bosses were all engineers, and they spent their days clicking away at CAD with little thought towards anything else but the specifications and material tolerances of linemen's belts and harnesses.

    As two of the few women working in the entire company, Sandra and Marcy kept their work stations next to one another, and this frazzled, mousy-looking blonde with her thick glasses by default became the person she chatted with the most. Marcy looked like what Sandra would consider a ‘college nerd,’ but she had this absolutely vicious acerbic humor—delivered with deadpan stoicism—that made Mrs. Macintire think of the woman as more of a cranky old aunt, even if in reality they were the same age.

    “Marcy,” Sandra remarked. “I’m thinking about putting Tabitha in therapy. What do you think?”

    “Therapy?” Marcy hummed, looking up from her computer. “Geez, is it that bad? You getting a lot of, uh, warning signs?”

    “Yes,” Sandra nodded, paused, and then shook her head. “...No. I don’t know. Maybe? She’s just so—strange. Half the things that come out of her mouth just make me go—”

    Rather than finish the sentence, Sandra performed a face with her brows all the way up and her eyes wide in an alarmed, judgemental stare.

    “How old is she, again?” Marcy asked with a half smile.

    “Too young for some of the things that come out of her mouth,” Sandra groaned. “Fourteen. Recently fourteen, mind you. Like, the candles on the cake are practically still friggin’ smoking.”

    “Hope you’ve got birth control for her,” Marcy commented—her expression was half snide and teasing and half serious concern. “Oh, brother.”

    “God, no, no—it’s not like that, blegh!” Sandra made a show of gagging. “I hope? No, it’s really not. She’s just like—she’s like a miniature adult. In the weirdest ways. While at the same time being, well, the dumbest girl. Kind of. Not dumb, but like—I don’t know how to explain it.”

    “So—she’s a teenager,” Marcy nodded, returning her attention to her keyboard. “Sandy… ya can’t therapy your way out of that. She’s just gotta grow up, you know? Get through it. Teenagers are miniature adults, ya know? While also sorta being children. It’s their whole thing. The lucky ones grow out of some of that. Many never do at all.”

    “No, it’s—aggh,” Sandra groaned. “I was thinking this would be like. Like taking her in with us would be this great trial run. Of how to deal with having a girl. A girl that’s growing up, you know? The way to do things right. Because, once we got off on the wrong foot with Hannah, it was so damn hard getting our uh, our parenting back on track. You know? You know?”

    “I told you and told you,” Marcy shook her head in dismay. “You can’t spoil a child rotten and then just unspoil them. Once you have them expecting the sun and the moon as if that’s the normal, then—”

    “Right right right, and I couldn’t fix that,” Sandra said. “But—but Tabitha could. She did. She was just the right person to come in and—I don’t know. Have this different other perspective, to be fresh out of poverty and just be full of appreciation for all the little simple things Hannah took for granted. Hell, that hubby and me took for granted! She’s been so great!”

    “But, you also think she needs therapy?” Marcy arched an eyebrow. “Even though you trust her so much with Hannah?”

    “I don’t know,” Sandra admitted. “Maybe? She’s such a weird one Marcy, I swear.”

    “Yeah, and you’re just the most normal woman I know,” Marcy teased. “A regular Abbie Normal.”

    “She’s disturbingly self-aware,” Sandra explained. “To a fault. While also being completely blind about certain things about herself. But, she recognizes that, too. And she’s always, I don’t know, groping around for the answers, for the fixes, desperate to—to—I don’t even know. Structure something? She’s so weirdly structured. Organized. Her brain is. It’s so baffling. Kids aren’t like that.”

    “Surely some kids are?” Marcy chuckled. “You’re already leaning on her for Hannah. Maybe you’re the one who needs therapy, Sandy. Have you been venting to her about all your problems and struggles?”

    “No, I—okay actually I guess a little?” Sandra paused. “I guess some, I’ve been relating my issues to hers. That’s normal, though. Right? Just—whew boy, does she have issues.”

    “So I’ve heard?” Marcy drawled. “Yeah, I think that’s completely normal, still.”

    “I think you need to meet her,” Sandra sighed. “To really get what I mean. How crazy structured her mind is. She’s more grown up than most of the grown ups I know, Marcy. In some ways, at least. But then, the rest—”

    “She grew up in poverty,” Marcy summarized with a thoughtful finger upon her lip. “Parents were a mess, from everything you’ve said. Absent, or unstable, or too caught up in their own sink or swim struggles to do anything about their own kids drowning in problems. So this Tabitha girl grew up in chaos. Without a life jacket. So, then in turn she craves order, structure. Fixates on internal regulation, I don’t know. She got a front row seat in how to drown yourself in misery at a real young age, now she’s obsessing on how to like, not do that.”

    “I really want you to meet her,” Sandra said again. “I know you don’t want to—”

    “I’m not a therapist anymore!” Marcy reminded her with a tight smile. “Even thinking about it again makes me feel all burnt out. All over again. It’s—yep, there it is. My anxiety is rising. Skyrocketing. Thanks for that. So, no. No way, José. Everyone’s in crisis now, here have some pills. Take a prozac. It’s the nineties, everyone is leading lives of quiet desperation. Medicate yourself into oblivion, there you go. Problem solved, right?”

    “I don’t think she needs to go on pills or anything like that,” Sandra said. “I feel the same way you do about—”

    “Then, you’re already a better parent than most!” Marcy said. “Sounds to me like she just needs someone who’ll listen to her, and you’re listening to her. She already has a therapist; you.”

    “Yeah, but—” Sandra groaned. “I really feel like I don’t have all the answers when I should. I don’t understand what’s going on in her head the way you would. I don’t—”

    “Then, just keep listening?” Marcy suggested. “If even one percent of our problems had simple, straightforward answers, we wouldn’t all be in this total mess we’re all in! That’s just life. From what all you’ve told me, this girl was drowning, and you became her life jacket. You’re doing fine. You’re doing great. Keep doing that.

    “Just, don’t ever go expecting Hannah to grow into the same issues Tabitha’s having in the first place, because she won’t. At all. Hannah is a completely different monster. Actually, I should ask already—have you ever put your foot down with Tabitha? Established a firm boundary? Had to tell her a firm no about something?”

    “No… not really,” Sandra admitted with a sheepish look. “I can’t even imagine ever having to, with her. She’s not like Hannah, like you just said! She’s—”

    “Okay, well,” Marcy sighed. “Great. You’re gonna have two monsters, then, Sandy. There you go. More monsters of your own making. I salute you.”

    “I really want you to meet her,” Sandra insisted.

    “What would I even say?” Marcy made a face. “It’s honestly so bizarre to me that you think I, of all people can fix anyone’s problems. When you know for a fact I can’t even handle my own problems! The last time I was on a date, the damn—”

    “You’ve done more for me than the literal psychiatrist I went to ever did,” Sandra said. “I trust you more than I trust—”

    “Your psychiatrist was a quack!” Marcy scowled. “He wasn’t even listening to you. He wasn’t observing basic—”

    “Exactly! Exactly,” Sandra groaned. “You do listen. You listen and understand. Whereas I just listen, and… don’t know what to make of most of it. I feel like I’m floundering, and the idea that I might ever let this poor girl drown in what’s going on with her terrifies me. Because I don’t understand what’s going on with her, not like I should. Please please please Marcy, just meet her? You’ll like her! I promise. You might love her. In a lot of ways, she’s like a… a little, miniature you.”

    “What a terrible thing to say,” Marcy scoffed. “You go on and on about her, but I’ve never heard you just flat out insult the poor girl, until now. Wow! Wow.”

    “When she called me mom, for the first time—” Sandra said. “It was like she reached right into my chest and tore my heart out. Yeah, I’ll listen to her. I can’t not listen to her, not when she lets herself be more vulnerable with me than she did her own fucking parents. When that happened, I really became her mom—which. I don’t even know how to put that into words. But, at the same time, I do know enough to know when I’m getting in over my  head. I really want you to just meet her and listen to her. I’ll pay you?”

    “She doesn’t need me,” Marcy said. “At best she needs someone she can better relate to—older teenager, or a girl just out of high school. A role model figure, not some random fucking other clueless mess of an adult who she doesn’t know, and has no reason to trust.”

    “I’ll pay you!” Sandra insisted again. “Please.”

    “Stop saying that!” Marcy scoffed. “S’not about the money? I just don’t do well with kids, Sandy. They’re their own whole separate field of study in the first place, and I was—”

    “Okay, well she’s having a get together with some of her friends at my house tomorrow,” Mrs. Macintire said. “I just know hubby is going to use that as an excuse to fire up the grill for everyone. So—come by for lunch? At least? I just want you to meet her, I won’t ask you to—”

    “Grill—grilling what?” Marcy finally appeared to be letting her resolve be worn down. “Burgers, hot dogs?”

    “Steaks, porkchops, sausages, you name it,” Mrs. Macintire promised with a grin. “We can do burgers, sure. He flew off to the grocery store and piled up a whole damn cart full the moment he was up and about again.”

    “Ughhhh fine,” Marcy threw her hands up. “There better be beer, Sandy. I’m not a real therapist anymore!”

    “Just… meet her,” Mrs. Macintire said. “Listen to her a bit, I don’t know, watch her. Observe. There’s something I’m missing there, I swear, and that scares the shit out of me. I was terrified that she was being abused, remember? I—I don’t know what to do, or what’s going on with her. Every time I think I do, she says something else, and just confuses the heck out of me all over again.”

    “She’s a teenager, Sandy,” Marcy repeated. “They’ll do that, that’s normal. You’re probably just overthinking things?”

( Previous, 65 pt 3 | RE: Trailer Trash | Next, 65 pt 5 )

/// Sorry for the delays. This section may have been written more for me than it actually is in service to the story, because I've been so furious at my own mother lately and how immature and irresponsible she is that it's been genuinely hard to write anything without the content veering off into wild tangents. So instead I write a cathartic bit of tiny growth for Mrs. Moore, and then add yet another character in for what is already shaping up to be a whole huge mess of characters to write.

I promise I will wrestle this story back on track somehow or other however!