The Secret Billionaire in Aisle 9

Callie Ruiz showed up to BuyMore Store #147 ten minutes early with a cold cup of coffee and zero illusions. She’d worked here long enough to know that optimism was for people who hadn’t seen a raccoon fall through the ceiling in aisle five. Twice.

The automatic doors groaned as she walked in, already halfway through her mental checklist: open the registers, reset the snack display Brenda kept rearranging into a smiley face, check if Mr. Preston had remembered to do the schedule (he hadn’t), and pray that none of the new hires quit before lunch.

The air inside was already heavy with burnt popcorn from the breakroom microwave and the unmistakable tang of cleaning solution that never quite masked the smell of old floor wax. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they, too, were trying to quit.

“Morning, Callie,” Marcus called from behind Register Three, wearing his usual expression of suspicion. “The registers were blinking at me again. I think they know I know.”

“They know you’re late every Tuesday, that’s for sure,” she said, walking past him. “Try not to fight the machines before we even open.”

Brenda, perched on a stool in the breakroom with a half-eaten granola bar and a gossip magazine spread open on her lap, gave her a nod. “New hire’s supposed to show up today. Another seasonal. You wanna take bets on how long this one lasts?”

Callie gave her a look. “Let the poor guy get through orientation first.”

“He already tripped over the curb and spilled coffee on his shirt. He’s in the bathroom drying off,” Brenda said, chewing loudly. “Looks like a baby deer in a name tag.”

Callie sighed and kept walking.

The stockroom door creaked open, revealing Mr. Preston staring blankly at a wall of overstock toilet paper. He jumped when he saw her, clutching his clipboard like a security blanket.

“Oh! Callie. Good morning. Did you see the new inventory? We got forty-two boxes of grape jelly. We don’t even have shelf space for—”

“Mr. Preston. Breathe.”

He blinked. “Right. Breathing. Got it.”

The man was one mild panic attack away from turning into a paper towel roll himself. Callie gently pried the clipboard from his hands and skimmed the page. “Okay, you marked these boxes for seasonal display, but we haven’t had a seasonal display since Valentine's Day.”

Mr. Preston blinked again, looked down at the clipboard, and nodded slowly like she’d just explained astrophysics.

“Maybe we could make a... grape-themed endcap?” he offered weakly.

Callie didn’t even dignify that with a response. She handed him back the clipboard, pointed him toward the receiving dock, and said, “Just make sure the jelly doesn’t end up on the floor again. Last time, Marcus almost died slipping on it.”

“That was cranberry sauce,” Mr. Preston said, as if that made it better.

By the time Callie returned to the front of the store, the “baby deer” was emerging from the bathroom. Tall, floppy-haired, with wide eyes and a name tag that read Eli. His khakis were stained, his collar was damp, and he looked like he’d barely survived the ordeal of existing.

He spotted her and straightened. “Hi! I’m Eli. First day. Sorry about the coffee thing.”

Callie nodded. “You’re fine. Welcome to BuyMore. If you survive until Friday, you get a sticker. If you survive the month, you get sarcasm immunity.”

Eli blinked. “Um. Cool?”

Brenda snorted from the breakroom.

Callie handed him a laminated schedule and a map of the store. “Stick close to Marcus today. He knows the register system better than anyone.”

“Really?” Eli asked, glancing at the guy who was now staring down Register Three like it had just threatened his mother.

“No,” Callie said. “But he’ll be too busy mumbling conspiracy theories to yell at you.”

Eli gave a nervous laugh.

They didn’t even get five minutes into the opening routine before chaos found them. A loud thunk echoed from the back, followed by Mr. Preston’s unmistakable voice: “Oh no. Oh no.”

Callie bolted toward the sound. The breakroom. Of course.

She pushed through the door and immediately regretted it.

One of the fluorescent panels had fallen from the ceiling, crashing into the vending machine. The machine had retaliated by spitting out three bags of Funyuns, one of which now lay crushed beneath Mr. Preston’s shoe.

“I was just trying to restock the napkins,” he said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t even touch the ceiling!”

Callie pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re haunted. That’s the only explanation.”

Brenda peeked in, still holding her granola bar. “You think it’s the raccoon again?”

“Don’t say the word,” Callie hissed. “You’ll summon it.”

By the time they wrangled the damage, reopened the vending machine (with a crowbar, naturally), and got Mr. Preston to stop apologizing, it was ten minutes past open.

A small crowd had already gathered by the doors, peering inside like they were trapped in a snow globe of capitalist dread. Callie took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her jeans, and gave Marcus a nod.

“Let’s do this.”

He hit the button, and the doors slid open with a groan that sounded like a dying whale.

Eli took one look at the incoming tide of early-morning bargain hunters and whispered, “Are they supposed to move that fast?”

“No,” Callie said. “But if you ever find out how to stop them, let me know.”

And so began another day at BuyMore Store #147, where the floors were sticky, the staff was underpaid, and they need to deal with different types of shoppers...

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Callie Ruiz had seen her share of fresh meat walk through the automatic doors of BuyMore Store #147, but something about Eli made her pause.

Maybe it was the way he hovered by the endcap with the posture of a haunted scarecrow, limbs uncertain, eyes wide behind slightly crooked glasses. Or maybe it was the way he stared at the shelves in Aisle Eleven—her least favorite aisle—with a look of pure existential dread.