Fiction.

Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts? 

                                                                       -Juliet                                                                                                                                 

The Taste of Charity

The can fell from the fourth shelf, thudded against the hardwood floor of aisle seven. The noise startled Payton awake, 0637 in the morning, mop in hand, cleaning up what was already spotless. The can continued to roll, stopped just before a holo of Benny Bonez, the adorable puppy zombie. Music began to play, the score of Halloween, before turning off just as suddenly.

Besides Payton, the aisle was empty. There had been no earthquake, no malfunctioning buddybot, no cause for the can’s movement. For a moment, the whole scene felt eerie, as if Payton had witnessed the act of a phantom or some déjà vu tear of reality. Then he imagined a fellow employee, customer perhaps, tip-toed and stretching, only capable of placing half of the can on the fourth shelf, and for it to fall right there, with only me to see, and so I start thinking of ghosts, ha, ghosts, of all the things he knew there was something beautiful about the can, Benny Bonez, everything.

Again, the music started, and again it turned off.

“Dear valued employees,” a peppy voice spoke over the intercom, "we are aware the sound system is malfunctioning. While we appreciate your input, please refrain from using the suggestion box for the time being. We have a buddybot on the case and should have it fixed in a jiffy!"

That was Shirley Surls, the LuxWalmart’s general manager. A half year back, Payton overheard her complain about her daughter’s kindergarten costs, so he bought Dudley Elementary, anonymously of course, and waved tuition for all students. Fortunately, Dudley, AL was home to the largest retirement community in the USA. Other than the few residents who had children, no one else seemed to notice. But Shirley was good at what she did, like they all were.    

He crossed over into aisle eight, ducking under festive cobweb, triggering the boo! of a jolly Frankenstein, all while mopping the floor. It didn’t matter that a buddybot had finished waxing at 0600, Payton did as he was told, much as he loved working for Walmart Corp., much as the town of Dudley had kept him hidden from his rabid fans, the hoard, as he called them. Having finished, he paused, taking in what was but was not his reflection in the shiny floor.

And again, the music started, and again it turned off.

“Dear valued employees, looks like I jumped the gun. The issue’s a little more than we can handle. Just waiting on corporate to approve the buddybot upgrade. Please note, we will open at 0800 hours as scheduled. You can start making your way to the conference room for our morning meeting. And get a move on! We’ve got Deborah’s beignets waiting for you!”

Over by the help desk, Mary Grace, head of customer relations, started cussing up a storm. From the rafters, a utility drone descended, took hold of Payton’s mop, and whisked it away, a soft wup wup sound trailing behind. With a light jig in his step, he headed for the conference room, no longer thinking about ghosts. Instead, he had another surprise in mind.

***

“Everyone,” Shirley pleaded, “at least you still get to wear a costume!”

“It’s unfair,” Dr. Watkins commented. “Not our fault Minneapolis got a little risqué.” 

“Don’t blame me!” Shirley shouted over the grumbling. “Blame Jackie ‘the bodice’ Ripper. And Minneapolis wasn’t the only one.”

“I’ve been here seven years,” Dr. Watkins continued, “seven years of excellent service, I might add, and always we’ve been allowed to choose our own costumes. You know, I just might take my talents elsewhere.”

Deborah, baker extraordinaire, snorted, “You, you think you’re so special. I know three, three physicians right now over at PG&J Birmingham that’d fill, fill your shoes in one, one blink of a job post.” 

“How dare you insult me!” Dr. Watkins responded.

Mary Grace, always apt to add fuel to the fire, mocked Deborah’s stammer, “You you you you don't even bake your pies. You get the buddybots to do everything. And your beignets are overrated!”

Marcus, head of digital security, leaned toward Payton. They were seated in the back next to the breakfast spread. “I’m always impressed by our coffee. Just bitter enough.”

Payton didn’t hear the man, his attention focused on Darrel, head of auto, wiping away Deborah’s tears with his flannel sleeve. Witnessing the act very much made him want to cry ah, I must do something for him too, but what? and as Payton’s eyes beamed, he could feel his heartbeat, the thumping in his chest, the blood coursing beneath what was and was not his own skin.

“Come on guys, can’t we all just get along?” Shirley begged.   

“I’m not the one, one who needs a, a scolding,” Deborah retorted in between sobs. 

Dr. Watkins stood, pointing his finger, “You started it!”

Payton loved them for who they were, faults and all, knew their lives were difficult in ways non-LuxWalmart employees could never understand. Dr. Watkins, for instance, graduated from John Hopkins with honors, spent five years in ER, five more working for the Red Cross down in the swamp that was Florida wasteland. He was chosen over 5,000 other applicants for the position of Dudley LuxWalmart Physician. And they were all like this, all eleven of them, the human employees of the half million square foot LuxWalmart, top of their fields, best of the best; except for Mary Grace, a beneficiary of nepotism, the niece of Edna Walton-Flemming, great-great-great-grandniece of Bill Walton. But for any LuxWalmart employee, it took but one slipup and nice knowing you, bye-bye, a replacement found in seconds. Sometimes the pressure got to them, as it would anyone.

“Mary Grace,” Darrel said, “you take back what you said. Deborah’s beignets are as scrumptious as they come.”

Marcus nodded. “Better than most.”

"You two don't know a thing about pastries," Mary Grace scoffed.

“And you do?” Dr. Watkins questioned.

“Sure thing. Been to France plenty of times.”

“Yeah, on your, your auntie’s dime!” Deborah bawled out. 

Marcus turned to Payton, a look of concern on his face. “Carl, not sure how to put this, but I think there’s something wrong with your nose."

Payton did not immediately recognize the name, his name, still contemplating maybe I get Darrel a fancy go-cart, one that looks like his old racecar but when he did recollect what was and was not his name, his hand instinctively reached up and touched his nose. He felt the loosening skin, a little squishy like a handful of boiled oatmeal.

“I have a condition,” he lied to Marcus, before quickly standing to his feet, leaving for the restroom.

***

Payton took the needle and slid it into his jaw, releasing the serum. In the mirror, he watched the bubbles form, pop, and reform; his cheeks hardening, nose and lips pulling into place. It was Carl’s face, not Payton’s, staring back at him, and it still looked squishy. “39% functional,” his datalens read.

It was after his third facial reconstruction, having been found again by the hoard in Kamloops, BC, that Payton Pfeiffer, the 17th wealthiest individual in the world, had grown tired of running, thought it might be better to give up, leave breathing behind. “I call it the Helm of Hades,” L-99 explained, having created a suit that allowed Payton to look like someone else. He’d met her at KOAN, the tech company behind the k$ dollar, where he’d worked his way up from junior accountant to CFO. When he asked why she’d made it for him, she’d replied, “I was bored.”

Payton had renamed the suit second skin, much as he didn’t like the idea of the Lord of the Dead hanging about him, and a few months back had requested more of the serum, his initial supply having begun to run out. But L-99, who never left her lab, who had no friends save her robots, was not one prone to answer calls let alone return a message, and to chance visiting her out in California would risk the hoard noticing. For the time being, Payton had no other choice than to ration; his dread, a pot of water boiling over, hoping as he was to remain hidden, to keep working at his beloved LuxWalmart.

***

Payton plodded along with a buddybot, gathering the leaves that had fallen across the Serenity Trail. The pair dumped their pile into the compost bins behind the greenhouse; just one of the many tasks assigned to the maintenance specialist that morning. A blue jay fluttered down and started pecking away at the leftover produce deemed insufficient for the LuxWalmart Food Bank. With his datalens, Payton took a photo for Mara and turning to the massive LuxWalmart itself, the sun cresting above the domed roof, the surrounding forest brilliant with color, he let out a contented sigh so robust it triggered a response from the buddybot, “Beep boop.”

From across the street, mariachi music began to play; Texas Taco opening for breakfast, the music mingling with the wind, the sounds of autumn. Payton ordered the buddybot to search out and eliminate pests in the pumpkin patch, making sure this time the instruction only involved insects; the prior week’s pile of dead squirrels had proved a most difficult experience. Glancing down at his wristwatch, whistling along with the blue jay, he grinned only half an hour to go!

***

Standing by the espresso machine, Payton nibbled on a piece of synth-salami, waiting for the chime to signal the end of first break. When the noise came, he did not follow his coworkers but pretended to tie his shoe. Finally, the last of them, Marcus hobbling out on his cane, exited through the glass doors.

In the corner, above the hot towel and mud mask rack, Payton eyed the camera and held up his wristwatch; a little green light flashed in his datalens, signaling the camera was now inoperable. Payton hurried across the break room, around the employee gym, into the locker room. From his uniform, he pulled out a QR card, loaded full of $k, two decade’s worth of salary. He needed to move quickly, had only a few minutes to spare until a buddybot investigated the malfunctioning camera.

Margot, in charge of beauty, had been out the whole week prior. Her seven-year-old son was being treated in PG&J Atlanta after having been run over by a taxi, the accident deemed his fault, PG&J Insurance refusing to pay. Prosthetics did not come cheap, but especially so for a growing boy who had lost his leg. Reaching Margot’s locker, Payton dropped in the QR card with a little digi-note to catch her attention: “For the health of your child.”

Rushing from the locker room, he nearly tripped over the massage pool would’ve been tough explaining why I was all drenched! but made it out just in time, just as a buddy appeared in the hallway. Payton took a quick right, music blaring on and off again, and walked into the warehouse, into an army of buddybots and drones going about their duties. Passing through the androids, all politely pausing for him, he headed out the back of the building and did not stop until reaching the employee gazebo.

While he had given plenty of anonymous gifts to his coworkers, when he overheard the gossip about Margot’s absence, he’d grown so excited, so distracted, that he’d left the irrigation running overnight, nearly ruining the pumpkin patch. Those working at LuxWalmart did not normally have the needs that thrilled him to remedy. Sure, the school had been fun. And when Sparkles, Dr. Watkin’s fifteen-year-old cat, died, the man seemed pleased with the kitten that showed up on his doorstep. But years back, Payton had spent months hidden from the hoard in the flooded cities of Miami, Fort Myers, and Punta Gorda, living with scavengers, those left behind, those who truly needed help. Sparkles just wasn’t the same thing. Margot’s son, on the other hand… 

For at least a month or so, Payton knew he would need to stay cautious. Too many extravagant gestures of goodwill brought attention. But that was something to think about later. Everything had gone as planned. And breathing in the cool air, his heart no longer racing, he gazed out across the oak forest of the Serenity Trail, thinking of Margot and her son, basking in the exhilaration of the moment, the sun bright above.

***

Payton munched away at a salad, watching customers through the windshield of his old compact car. While the rest of his coworkers took lunch either in the break room or at Texas Taco, Payton always ate alone in the parking lot.

Even as a child, Payton preferred his own company, but it wasn’t until middle school that he experienced the thrill of giving; a school fundraiser for families displaced by the Florida Wall. He raised more than any other student, even donating his weekly lunch allowance, even selling his prized possession, a pair of electric LVMH roller skates, and would’ve sold even more had his parents not forbidden it. But just like back then, after the fundraiser ended, it wasn’t long until he was left wanting of even just a taste of charity, emptied as he did feel.

Finally, Payton spotted an opportunity, an elderly man carrying his own groceries. Bolting from his car, he jogged across the parking lot.

“Sir!” Payton offered. “Would you like some help?”

The man raised a wary eyebrow. “Already did this dance with the buddybot.”  

Payton, but an arm’s length away, reached anyway.

“Get back!” the man yelled.

“I’m only trying to help.”   

“I said, get back!” the man yelled, swinging one of the bags.

The bag smacked Payton in the face, knocking him to the ground, immediately triggering his datalens: “Facial structure compromised.”

“Serves you right,” the man said walking off in a huff.

 Payton, on his stomach oh no, oh no, oh no tried his best to keep his cheek from sliding into his chin. With no other option, he pulled out the needle and, glancing around, making sure no one was watching, drove it into his jaw. Rolling onto his back, above, a single cloud floated past the sun.

***

With its black swans, pedal boats, and spouting fountain in the center, the pond was the crown jewel of the Serenity Trail, but a real pain in the rear for Payton, considering how often the fountain quit working, resulting in a gaping cement eyesore for all the trail walkers to send in complaints about. “We’ve got flying saucer delivery drones but can’t figure out a stupid water fountain,” Shirley always bemoaned. That afternoon, he’d already spent three hours alongside a buddybot trying to fix it. Considering his encounter with the ungrateful customer, lousy as he did feel, Payton was quite ready for his evening ritual of a hot cup of chamomile and an episode of his favorite feed show, Cats R’ Us.

After checking the fountain’s water pressure, Payton had followed the breadcrumbs of evidence from drain to drain, until eventually discovering the issue; the fresh body of a raccoon floating in the filtration system. The buddybot reached in, pulled up the carcass by the tail, and laid it solemnly on the grass. Payton stared at the dead animal so peaceful, like it’s only taking a nap until he could no longer, had to look away. And the day entirely lost its luster. Naked branches would soon replace the color of the trees. The birds, full of song and life, would leave for warmer weather. Even the swans would be shipped to the LuxWalmart conservatory at Goat Rock Lake. Payton sighed, and again the buddybot responded, “Beep boop,” but this time in a way that made the moment all the more mournful.

In the distance, at first Payton didn’t know what he was looking at, but there was Marcus zipping along the trail in a scooter. 

“Carl!” the man yelled, slamming the brakes, rubber wheels squealing. “I mean, Payton…I mean, Mr. Pfeiffer?”

Payton’s head and shoulders slumped at what was his real name. “Payton’s fine, Marcus. I guess the gig is up.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry. I had another camera installed in the locker room after the first kept…well, you know.”  

“No need to apologize,” Payton shrugged, “just doing your job.”

“The others plan on splitting the prize money.”

Payton looked at him curiously. “Not you?”

“Shirley kept saying we have a guardian angel, but what do you know, it was Payton Pfeiffer.”

Payton couldn’t hold the man’s gaze.

“I felt you deserved a heads up before all the chaos starts,” Marcus continued. “I owe you anyway. You’re the one who kept leaving cocoa sprouts on my desk.”

Payton smiled shyly, extending his hand. “You don’t owe me anything.”  

Marcus grasped it firmly, “Now go. Get out of here. They’re all hiding at the entrance behind the cantaloupe pyramid.”

And just like that, the fountain began to work again.

***

The thought crossed Payton’s mind that perhaps he should have given his coworkers a chance at keeping his secret. If push came to shove, he could’ve bribed any who began to falter, easy as it would have been for him to top the hoard’s k$10 mil collective reward for discovering his whereabouts. But even before he reached the end of the walking trail, Payton spotted Mary Grace sprinting at him, yelling out the awful, nonsensical words, “Pollywolly oxen free!” that shout that haunted his dreams. All she needed now was a half-minute datalens’ clip, and the prize would be hers and hers alone. He was saved by Darrel and Deborah; the pair barreling out from the side entrance and tackling Mary Grace, providing Payton just enough of a distraction to slip unseen into the greenhouse.

Hidden within a dozen or so drooping monstera, he pulled out three full doses of serum, all he had left, and in went the needle and again and again. The second skin suddenly felt lighter, breathable in the best of ways, as if he were in his own skin, nothing synthetic about it. Tapping his temple, he activated the menu of his datalens. Scrolling through, he chose camouflage.

Holding up his hands, he watched as his fingers and palms began to disappear, replaced with a digital rendering of the monstera behind them, until all of him had vanished. Payton then took off his shoes and uniform, folding it all into a neat pile for someone to find later, like they always did.  

Peeking through the glass of the greenhouse, one of his now former coworkers must have spilled the beans, for a raucous crowd had already gathered by the front entrance of the LuxWalmart. Some held signs. Others chanted, “Pollywolly oxen free,” the noise mostly drowning out the still playing mariachi music. Two feed drones hovered about and, up in the sky, a rover circled around and around. It no longer amazed Payton how quickly the hoard arrived on scene. Give it another hour and thousands more would be milling about, joined together in fellowship over their cruel game, over having almost found Payton Pfeifer, of KOAN fame and wealth, the loveable, shape-shifting man who did not want to be found.    

He felt cold, naked as he was. Warmth and the second skin did its trick, the temperature now as if it were May and not October. Shoes and the bottom of his feet hardened. Stepping from the greenhouse, smoke rising from the parking lot, someone having set his car on fire, he whistled out Halloween before opting for the tune of the blue jay. He then walked off, heading west, toward the now setting sun.