"So, like, I'm just chillin' and minding my own business, you know, sittin' at Ernie's havin' a beer, enjoying the tunes and checkin' out the peeps, see, and this chick sits down besides me and starts chattin' me up and I think, you know, she's not bad, she's okay, I could do worse, and we're talking, ta-de ta-dum, yadda yadda yadda, and I'm thinkin' hey, maybe this is goin' somewhere, maybe this is my lucky night, you know, and she's like comin' on pretty hard, we're talkin' all sorts of interesting things, life and shit, when all of a sudden up comes this dude and he plops down right next to her, so she's like between the two of us, and now she's onto him, like bam, just like that, bitch is talkin' to him now really interested like, it was so typical, fucking cunt, they can just turn it on and off like a light switch, you know. Fucking tease. And I'm thinking, what's the deal? I'm a nice guy, right? But I'm not getting any younger and..."

"That sucks," I said. I ran my box cutter along the tape and ripped open another case of organic breakfast cereal.

"Yeah, I just don't get it. It's like the same shit from high school, you know. Same shit, different day. It never changes. You act all nice and interested, play the gentleman, buy the drinks, yadda yadda, and then right when you get to the point where you think somethin' might be goin' down, bango! They tear you apart. It's such a fucking game. I swear to God, man, it's like they're all schizophrenic inside. They pretend to want the dick and string you along and..."

"Maybe it's your approach," I said. Ralph and I were finishing up for the night. We always saved the easiest section for the final hour of our shift, circling the perimeter of the store until we met up in aisle three for the last hurrah. It was difficult for the two of us to go the whole night without conversing. By the time we convened at ground zero with our boxes of product, we were both so whacked out by our own stupid thoughts that it didn't make much difference that we actually detested each other.

It wasn't that Ralph was a sexist, homophobic cretin living in a stoned world of narcissistic reflections; it's that he was a sexist, homophobic cretin living in a stoned world of narcissistic reflection who also professed a militant veganism and tolerance of diversity as a way of keeping his job and picking up the hippie chicks who shopped the co-op. As far as I could tell, he deeply distrusted me because I was a effete college boy and I wouldn't smoke pot with him every night. That, and the fact that my late-night, get-along repartee sometimes oozed into a sarcasm so shitty and lowdown that even he could smell it on the bottom of his shoes.

Ralph was down on one knee putting up five-pound bags of white sugar while I tossed the last of the corn flakes into place. He suddenly stopped and jerked the earphones off his head and looked over at me. "Ya think?" he asked.

"Shit," I said. "I don't know. It was just a thought. I'm not a woman."

"Thank God for that," he said.

"Maybe you're expecting too much, you know," I said. "You shouldn't go into it every time thinkin' you're gonna get laid or something. It gives off a certain energy. Women can sense that shit. They can see the desperation in your eyes."

"Yeah, you might be right there," Ralph said. "But check it out, dude. I'm not a bad lookin' guy, right? At least I'm not ugly or anything. I take pretty good care of myself, I work out, my breaths nice and I make decent bank. I'm not some macho asshole. I'm just out to have a good time."

"Sure."

"It's like, I've even asked out a couple of the cashiers here, you know. The ones that aren't butt ugly. Seriously, man. And every single time, it ends up the exact same thing. It's always the same old goddamn story. We go out a few times and then they hit you with they don't want to get involved with someone they work with blah blah blah and don't dip your quill in company ink blah blah blah and they just want to be friends. Blah blah blah. Friends, my ass. The older I get, the more I can see right through that shit. It's like, all the good lookin' chicks are dykes and all the ugly ones are feminists or somethin'. There's, like, no middle ground."

"And all the smart ones are married," I said, smiling.

"Yeah," he said. "There you go." Ralph fell silent for a minute, then set the bag of sugar on the floor and looked up at me. "If I want to hang out with friends," he said, "I'll hang out with the guys. But that's like comparing apples and oranges, right?"

"Sure."

"You know what I'm sayin'?"

"Uh huh."

"It's just way too fucking complicated with women," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "Sometimes it is."

"You wanna smoke a bowl," Ralph whispered.

"Nah, I'm good, man."

He picked the sugar back up and threw it into place, frowning. "That thing you said about me changing my approach," he said thoughtfully. "Don't think I haven't tried that shit. Seriously, dude. A couple a years back I worked out this plan that was, like, try and beat 'em at their own fucking game. I decided if being Mr. Nice Guy wasn't going to work, maybe I should start givin' them a dose of their own medicine for a change. Maybe that would get 'em to finally give it up, you know. And girls, they like that shit for some reason, trust me. I've learned over the years that they actually like it when guys are assholes. It really beats the hell out of me, dude. They like the challenge, I guess. So, anyhoo, I started acting all cold and pissed, like, like I started bein' really silent and aloof like Russel Crowe or some shit, like I didn't want anything to do with them. Makin' like I didn't care, you know? I figured that might give me a air of mystery or somethin' like that."

"How'd that work out for ya?" I asked, holding back a laugh.

"Shit," he spat. "That shit don't work for dudes. It has, like, the opposite effect. Exactly zero chicks talked to me. They didn't care. They didn't give a rip. I might as well have been dead. It's like when men act how they want to be treated, that's how they get treated, but women can send mixed messages and you're expected to figure it out for yourself. What a joke. And you know somethin' else, dude, all these femi-nazi lezbos whine about the inequality of the sexes, but I'll tell you what's really unequal, dude. What's unequal is that if I show a interest in a chick, that's like an offense or something, but if she shows an interest in me, it's like some goddamn blessing, like I should feel fucking graced by it. Crazy, huh?"

"Insane."

"Fucking A, dude, you said it."

I started cutting into the last box. "So your strong and silent scheme didn't have the desired effect?"

"Hell no," Ralph said. "And I'll tell you what, man. You know what happened? You know where lettin' them come to me got me? I'm positive, I'm absolutely positive that all they thought was that I was just a fag, dude."

I looked over at him.

"Not that I'm against fags," Ralph said quickly.

"So long as they don't come onto you," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Fuckin' A right, man," he said. "Exactly. Shit, man. There were even homos in Yakima at my high school. All the new wavers were homos, dude. There was this one guy we called Peanut Butter Man because somebody said he was at a party and rubbed peanut butter all over himself and then asked this dude to lick it off. Gross, huh? We gave 'em a hard time and all, you know, but, you know, we were just havin' fun. That's the way kids are, right? And it's not exactly like homosexuals are anything new. I guess there were even fags back in Greek times."

"That's interesting," I said flatly.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "You've got to tolerate diversity, you know. Especially with something that's been around such a long time."

"Like the complexity of the female psyche," I said.

Ralph looked at me and scowled. "Complex, my ass," he said. "What's so fucking complex about wigglin' your ass in somebody's face all night like a bitch in heat and then constantly denying the pay-off? Dude, as far as I'm concerned, that's just a power trip, plain and simple. There ain't nothin' complicated about it. Hell, a whore's got more fucking dignity than your average sorority chick."

"You may have a point there."

"You're damn right I have a point," he said. "It's like, don't make no promises your body can't keep, you see what I'm sayin'? Don't send mixed messages. Don't call yourself a fucking feminist and then act all feminine and expect me not to respond, for Christ's sake. It's just animal instinct, you know? It's natural. Women pretend like they don't want it and then they do and then they don't, and I'll tell you what, I think it makes them all twisted up and crazy inside, if you ask me. They're all haywire in the head. Shit. You can take 'em, dude. They all end up a buncha lesbians anyways. Hell, half my old girlfriends are dykes. No joke, dude."

"You know," I said. "That's sort of the same conclusion Proust came to."

"Who the hell's Proust?"

"French guy."

"Yeah," Ralph said. "Well, there you go."

"He died in a cork-lined room."

"I don't blame him," Ralph said.

"Whadda ya gonna do, you know?"

"Fucking A."

The rest of the lights in the store came on. We both looked up at the ceiling. Ralph put his headphones back onto his head. I grabbed a box in each hand and bent to the shelf. Glancing up the aisle, I saw our manager standing beside the soups with a clipboard in his hand. He was waving frantically. I lifted my chin and smiled and waved back and he walked away toward the front of the store.

"Asshole," Ralph said.

"He certainly seems to need a lot of recognition," I said. Ralph pulled the earphones from his head again. "You know," he said. "I've been thinking."

I didn't say anything.

"I've been thinking a lot about what's goin' on in society and all, about all the problems we're havin' and how things just seem to keep gettin' worse and all. It's like people don't really know what they want anymore, not like they did in, like, the fifties or anything, and like if they do know what they want, they don't even know how to get it. It's trippy, man. You work, you eat, you sleep, you pay your bills. I mean, all that stuff's been goin' on since time immemorious, right? But the simple basics of life are, like, too much to ask for anymore or somethin'. There's certain things a guy deserves for bustin' his ass and votin' and not being a criminal, right? I've got all these things, you know, that should add up to something, but the more I get the more it makes me realize, I don't know, like there's somethin' missing or somethin'. Something's not right, you know? I mean, I'm not complaining or nothin'. You should see my CD collection, dude. It rocks. I've got everything I need right at my fingertips, seriously. But the more I think about it, the more confusing it seems. It's like there's all these trick questions or something." I noticed as my eyes followed my hand to the shelf that there was blood on my index finger where I must have nicked it with the box cutter. It wasn't much of a cut. I stood up, wrapping the lap of my apron around it. "Hey," I said. "I cut myself."

Ralph looked over. "Apply pressure," he said.

"Do you think you could finish up for me?"

"Yeah," he said. "Sure. Is it bad or somethin'?"

"Nah," I said. "But I'm outa here."

"Can't blame ya, dude," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I walked into the office for a band-aid. Steve was holding a long receipt in one hand and punching numbers into the adding machine with the index finger of his other hand. He lifted his head. "Yeah?" he said.

"I sliced my finger on my box cutter."

"Is it bad?"

"Ralph's gonna finish up for me, okay?"

I could see in his eyes that he was already considering the ramifications. "You comin' in tomorrow?" he asked. "I mean, are we talking stitches here?"

I grabbed my time card and ran the magnetic strip through the crevices. "You know, Steve," I said very slowly. He stopped punching numbers and looked up again. "Yeah, I don't think I'm coming back," I said.

"What?"

"Yeah," I said. "I've decided to try something else, you know. Something a little different. I'm ready for a career change."

"Are you quitting?" he said. "Are you quitting on me?"

"I think Ralph's been hitting on me, Steve." "What?" he shouted.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Things have been getting kind of intense, lately. I think he tried to touch my ass last night. I guess I should have given notice and all, but this just sort of hit me all at once and..."

"We can work this out," he said fiercely. "I'll call a meeting. We'll have a meeting."

"It's just too deep for that, Steve." I untied my apron and lifted it over my head and held it out for him. Steve looked at it for a moment and then I let it fall to the office floor. "I never really felt I was right for this place anyway," I said sadly.

"We can adjust," he said. "I'll call a meeting. You and Ralph can work it..."

"It's just too late, Steve," I said and scratched my head. "And, you know, I've just got to let you know before I leave that Ralph's been stealing a lot of gorp from the bulk bins."

"There are disciplinary measures!" Steve blurted.

"And smoking pot in the deli cooler every night."

"We can adjust!" he yelled. "We can work this out. We'll call a team meeting and..." I walked down the steps from the office cubicle and across the floor to a standing display for a local brewery and grabbed a warm six pack and then I crossed in front of the cash registers to the automated sliding doors. They hadn't been activated yet. I tucked my fingers into the crack and pulled them open. Fresh air swept over me. Birds were singing in the park across the street and I caught the smell of freshly cut wet grass. There wasn't much happening in the world yet. People were still sleeping and I felt better than I'd felt in a very long time. The sun was coming up, the earth was slowly stretching itself awake. I cracked a bottle open and took a deep breath and started walking.