Chapter Two: Welcome to Aisle Nine

Callie leaned against the customer service desk, a cup of breakroom coffee cradled in her hands, steam curling up like a warning sign. From this vantage point, she had a clear line of sight to the feminine hygiene section, which someone—probably Brenda, if Callie had to guess—had sent Eli to “straighten and front.”

It was a cruel tradition. Every new male hire, no matter how well-meaning, got sent to that aisle under the guise of “training.” Most floundered. A few fled. One once pretended to faint and was caught peeking through his fingers at a package of organic tampons.

Eli, to his credit, wasn’t fleeing. Yet.

He stood like a deer in fluorescent headlights, holding a box of maxi pads like it was a cursed artifact. Callie could practically hear the internal monologue happening behind his pale, furrowed brow.

Are these the right ones? What does ‘ultra-thin’ mean in this context? Why are there wings involved? Is that metaphorical? What is happening?

He turned the box over, eyes scanning the diagram on the back with the seriousness of someone deciphering alien blueprints. Then he put it down. Then picked up another. Then tried to put that one back and knocked over three more in the process.

Callie winced as the sound of cardboard meeting tile echoed through the aisle.

“New kid’s in Eleven, huh?” Brenda said, sliding up next to her with a packet of peanut butter crackers and no regard for volume control. “That’s just mean.”

“I didn’t send him,” Callie said quickly. “I think Preston might’ve.”

Brenda popped a cracker into her mouth. “Poor guy looks like he’s going to start apologizing to the boxes.”

As if on cue, Eli crouched to collect the fallen items and mouthed what very well could have been “sorry” to a box of super-absorbent pads.

Callie shook her head. “Should I rescue him?”

Brenda shrugged. “Depends. Do we want him to come back tomorrow?”

Callie snorted. “Fair point.”

Still, she found herself wandering in that direction after a few minutes, mostly under the guise of checking the adjacent toothpaste aisle. It wasn’t her fault the shelving between Oral Care and Feminine Hygiene had a weird gap that allowed her to peek through and observe him again.

Eli was restacking boxes with exaggerated precision now, clearly overcorrecting. The poor guy looked like he was trying to perform a surgical procedure on a shelf of pantyliners. His face was flushed, his forehead damp with effort—or panic.

He backed up slowly to assess his work and bumped into the wire rack of heating pads behind him, sending them clattering to the floor.

“Crap,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Callie stepped out from behind the toothpaste display, finally taking pity. “Hey.”

Eli flinched so hard he nearly dropped the box in his hand. “Hi! Hello. I was just—uh—straightening.”

“I can see that,” she said, eyeing the stack. “It’s… extremely neat.”

He looked at it like he wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or a warning.

She gestured casually. “You’re not required to color-coordinate them, you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” He stopped, glanced at the pinks, purples, and blues he’d sorted into matching rows, and sighed. “Okay. Maybe subconsciously.”

Callie crouched and began helping him gather the fallen heating pads. “You know, most people just front the shelves and move on. No need to build the Louvre out of Always.”

“I thought it might be more... welcoming?”

She raised an eyebrow. “For who?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I don’t know. The universe?”

She laughed. Not a mocking laugh—more of a tired, surprised one, like she hadn’t expected him to say something that stupid in such a sincere tone.

“Look,” she said, standing and tossing a pack of pads onto the shelf, “this aisle? It's the one nobody wants. Men avoid it like it’s radioactive, and most women just want to grab what they need and escape before they see someone they know.”

Eli adjusted his glasses. “So it’s the Bermuda Triangle of the store?”

“Exactly. Which means you’re not doing half bad for someone who just crash-landed.”

He smiled, crooked but genuine. “Thank you. I feel marginally less cursed.”

Callie started to walk away, but paused and turned back. “And if anyone gives you crap for knocking stuff over? Just blame gravity. Or Brenda.”

“Will do,” he said quickly. Then added, “Wait—Brenda?”

“Trust me. She’ll respect it.”

Back at the desk, Brenda was leaning on one elbow, watching like a hawk. “Did he cry?”

“Nope.”

“Did he quit?”

“Also nope.”

Brenda opened her crackers again. “Damn. We’ve got a resilient one.”

Callie didn’t reply. Instead, she found herself watching as Eli went back to straightening with a little more confidence, a little less panic. He was still awkward as hell—at one point he accidentally high-fived a shelf while trying to adjust a box—but he was trying.

That counted for something.

The lunch rush came and went in a blur of barcode beeps and coupon drama. A woman tried to argue that her expired 40%-off discount should still work because, and Callie quoted, “time is a construct.” Marcus nearly walked out mid-transaction.

It was nearly 3 p.m. when Callie wandered into the breakroom, tired and craving sugar. She found Eli sitting alone, half-heartedly chewing a vending machine granola bar that looked more like bark than food.

“You survived,” she said, grabbing a soda.

“Barely,” he said, glancing up. “I think the cardboard is judging me.”

She sat across from him. “You mean the product boxes or the granola?”

“Both.”

He pulled off his name tag and set it on the table, then slumped forward dramatically. “You ever feel like you were born to disappoint strangers in a retail setting?”

Callie sipped her soda. “Only every day.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the hum of the soda fridge and the muffled overhead announcement about a clean-up in aisle seven.

Finally, Eli asked, “How long have you worked here?”

Callie gave a low whistle. “Five years.”

He blinked. “Wow. You must really love it.”

She laughed, loud and honest. “No. I’m just really good at staying where I land.”

He looked like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it.

After a while, he said, “So… do you think I’ll make it through the week?”

She studied him—his lopsided name tag, the little patch of dust on his elbow, the wary optimism still tucked behind his glasses.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I think you’ll make it.”

He smiled again, this time without the edge of panic. “Thanks.”

She stood, stretching her arms over her head. “But word of advice? Tomorrow, bring backup coffee. Brenda’s like a gremlin before 10 a.m.”

“Got it,” he said, mock-serious. “Offer caffeine. Avoid feminine hygiene sabotage. Don’t question gravity.”

“You’re a fast learner.”

As she walked out, she glanced back once. Eli was already fumbling with his granola wrapper again, but he looked… lighter. Less like a deer. More like someone figuring out how to stand on awkward legs.

Maybe he wouldn’t last forever. Maybe he’d quit next week, or get promoted, or disappear like the guy before him who claimed he was “just here to study human behavior for a screenplay.”

But for now, Callie thought, he was trying.

And that was more than she could say about most people in this place.