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Angus

Val-U-Mart loomed at the far side of the parking lot, thirty-thousand square feet of produce, deli meats, and assorted frozen goods. It rose from the early morning fog like a monolithic spaceship, waiting patiently as its worker drones descended to twiddle all the dials and levers that would bring it to life.

In other words, same shit, different day.

And I supposed I was used to the routine. I'd been working the register at Val-U-Mart since college, after all, and now my abandoned Creative Studies degree was a distant memory.

The store opens bright and early for the morning rush hour commuters, which means we've gotta sweep through the place and make sure the overnight stockers haven't screwed everything up before the frantic "on my way to work" crowd starts clawing the doors like a horde of starving zombies.

In theory, punching the clock by six shouldn't be a problem. I wasn't big on breakfast, I wore the same green polyester vest every day (the one with the cheerful Val-U-Mart logo) and I lived just around the block. But not only had the sound guy been late last night—but the opening band blew right past their allotted time slot, and our drummer threw a tantrum over a misplaced drum key….

Maybe I shouldn't have even bothered going to bed. Hard to say whether two and a half hours of sleep was any better than none.

"Hey, Angus!" Barry, the world's most easily impressed bagger, was looking disarmingly alert as he greeted me waaay too enthusiastically at the time clock. "Did Hedonia play out last night?"

No matter how many times I told him the band name was ‘AndHedonia,' he insisted on dropping the ‘And.' Since the play on the word anhedonia flew over everyone's head, I no longer bothered correcting him. "Indeed, we did. What gave it away?"

"Your hair is always extra crunchy after a show."

I ran a hand through my mess of fading blue dye and styling paste to hopefully make it look more deliberate, less bedhead. Barry unconsciously mirrored the gesture, though his mousy hair just flopped right back down the way it started.

His new obsession with image had started when a grim nineteen-year-old named Colleen joined the morning crew. The harder he tried, the less she noticed. And ain't that just the way of the world? Maybe anhedonia is our natural state, and we're just not biologically hardwired to be happy.

A manager pointed us toward a pallet the night crew had abandoned half full, and Barry's enthusiasm morphed into panic. "Ohmigod. How're we gonna get this all stocked by seven?"

"Keep wringing your hands," I said. "That's really helping."

We restocked all the stuff that had been on sale last week: the corn, the green beans, the fire-roasted canned tomatoes. But just when I thought we were done, Colleen pulled a final can out of the box and frowned. "What the heck is this?"

She tossed the can to me. The label was a swirling cacophony of calligraphy in which I could just make out the word Happiness . Obscure imports were so annoying. "Who knows? Just put it anywhere."

Barry's eyes went wide. "But you'll pay for it later when you end up needing a price check. Or even worse, a return."

Not if we strategically hid it behind something no one ever bought—artichokes, for instance. Those cans are always covered in dust. If we were lucky, the oddball can would be discovered on second shift's watch, thereby becoming someone else's problem.

Colleen's frown deepened. Was she the type to go tattling to management? I probably shouldn't risk it. I was already on thin ice for failing to mention the filet mignon that rang up at 29￠ a pound and not $29.99. But hey—the guy who actually noticed and came back for another shopping cart of beef? The look on his face was totally worth it.

Yet, I couldn't help but wonder. Did his happiness last? Or had he found himself craving bologna and chicken nuggets within the week?

Colleen grabbed the can from me with a decisive swipe and squinted at the label, which only annoyed her more. "Angus might not care if his register backs up all the way to produce—but I just want to get my job done and get out of here with as little hassle as possible."

Naturally, Barry sided with her. "I'll go double-check—"

And endure another way-too-early lecture from yet another blowhard manager for bothering him about a single dumb can? Not on my watch. I delved into the pocket of my trusty Val-U-Mart vest and came up with a carefully folded accordion of contraband: a bright orange strip of 99-cent clearance labels. Management usually kept them under lock and key. But months ago, after a particularly grueling inventory, I'd spotted the telltale orange between the cocktail onions and the olives…and I'd been saving them for just such an occasion.

Barry's eyes went wide. Even Colleen looked marginally impressed.

I flipped the can around and slapped an orange clearance label over the barcode. "There. Problem solved."