GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2024/25

NICOLE SELLEW

‘Dangerous Materials’

DON’T WEAR THE ORANGE APRON OUT OF THE STORE, they said to the girl, on her first day.

It’s just because if someone else gets the apron, then they come in wearing it, and they play tricks on the employees. They take videos.

So, leave the apron in your locker. And when you leave at the end of the summer, we’ll cut it up before we throw it out.

*

They took her to a windowless room and put her in an ergonomic chair so that she could watch mandatory training videos about sexual harassment.

The girl took out her phone and looked up the name of the store and then the phrases death coverup, death reddit, and employee death. She found a video of a palette full of patio stones falling on a toddler.

Another training video began playing. She looked back at the computer screen. She saw tiny people in their orange aprons; they smiled and waved in front of the store, next to an American flag. She imagined what the people in the video would look like if their faces melted off, maybe from the chemicals in the weedkillers they sold in the garden centre, which was her department.

The next training video was about a fund that minimum-wage employees could contribute to. It was for other minimum-wage employees who were too sick or injured to work, usually because of cancer or car accidents. She rewound the video to be sure that she understood. There were the tiny people, shrouded in orange. There was the flag, the cloudless blue sky.

*

The first week went by slowly. By Friday, the girl felt as though she had always been doing this job, and that she would be doing it for the rest of her life.

Friday morning, out by the new shipment of potting soil, Gabe told the girl that he got two hours of sleep a night. After his morning shift at the store ended, he went to a toy factory, and worked there until late in the night. He said that he was saving to send his baby daughter to college. He said that the first thing he thought when he opened his eyes in the morning, staring at the ceiling, was: thank you, God, for this day. He said every day was a gift.

The girl tried to think that the rest of the day, when she was watering the plants, when she was walking around the aisles, when she was staring at the dirty grey floor. Thank you, God, for this day. Every day is a gift. But it didn’t feel real. It felt like she was making fun of Gabe. But Gabe was impossible to make fun of. He was kind, and he had white teeth and big muscles and smooth, clear skin.

Every fifteen minutes, the girl allowed herself a five-minute bathroom break. She went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She heard the voices of phantom customers. Can you help me carry this to the car? Excuse me, I’m looking for fertilizer for my rose garden. Can you help me? Can you help me?

Then she locked herself in the handicapped stall and drank bottled Poland Spring. The bottled water was free and cold. It was one of the perks of the job. The girl tried to drink between ten and fifteen bottles of water a shift. She drank most of the bottles in the bathroom. When she finished, she shoved the empty bottles in the little plastic bins for period products. Sometimes she saw used tampons, sodden with brown blood. In the fluorescent light, the brown looked orange.

*

Every few hours, the girl let herself take a real break, around the back of the store. Sometimes Rebecca would be there, smoking a cigarette or vaping.

I used to be a ballerina, said Rebecca.

Really, said the girl.

Yeah, she said. But I got addicted to heroin. It was in Florida. Orlando. I miss it down there.

They were hiding behind empty racks of hydrangeas. The racks were full of all the plants that didn’t sell, most of them brown and dead.

How long did you live there for, asked the girl.

Five years, said Rebecca.

The girl thought that five years was a long time. She wondered if Rebecca had been addicted to heroin the whole time. Rebecca was thin, so thin that the girl could see the tendons behind her knees. Rebecca normally sat against the wall with her legs hugged into her. She was flexible, like a dancer. But she looked much older than twenty-nine, the girl thought.

It was really hard to get clean, said Rebecca. But they’re really good here, about giving people jobs.

That’s good, said the girl.

Do you want a cigarette?

The girl shook her head. I should probably get back to work, she said.

Why, said Rebecca. No one knows we’re here. Rebecca held a bottle of Poland Spring to the back of her neck. I’ve been leaving at lunch, Rebecca said. No one even knows I’m doing it. At the end of the week, I just say I’ve forgotten to clock out in the afternoons.

So you get paid for the whole day?

Uh-huh, said Rebecca.

The girl tried to imagine Rebecca on a stage in something white and glittering, her body contorted into impossible positions.

Cool, said the girl.

She left Rebecca with the end of her cigarette and a half-full bottle of Poland Spring. She looked back just before she rounded the corner, but Rebecca was obscured by the crumbling petals of dead hydrangeas.

As soon as she was back in the store, the girl regretted leaving. She could have stayed out there with Rebecca for hours, probably, before anyone noticed. She was worried, though, about being a bad worker. She felt that being a bad worker would indicate some sort of moral deficiency. But Rebecca was a bad worker, and the girl liked Rebecca. Gabe was a good worker, and he was probably a better person than Rebecca was. But that was because he had a daughter he was trying to put through college, and a kind smile with white teeth. It had nothing to do with him being a good worker, or maybe it did. The girl didn’t know. It was hard to think with the smell of synthetic soil and dust thick on the hot air. It was the hottest summer on record, every summer was the hottest summer on record, and while the girl was watering the plants other employees came up to her and asked her to spray them. She always did it, turning the dial on the hose from SHOWER to JET. The employees always thanked her, usually while they clutched crinkled bottles of Poland Spring.

*

Then she met Jacob. Jacob was an active-duty marine. He smoked cigarettes and had a tattoo of an assault rifle on his forearm. He had other tattoos, but that one was her favourite. Jacob could drive the forklift. He had a license.

Will you hold the flags, he asked. The flags were bright orange. They were the only indication of danger, the only thing standing between the customers and certain death by crushing.

Sure, the girl said.

It was hard to talk while he was manning the forklift, but they could talk while they walked to the shipment area, or while they unloaded a palette. He told her about Afghanistan.

She held the flags loosely, letting them dangle from her gentle hands with the suggestion of something erotic. She wanted him to think she was sensuous. She wanted him to follow her to the bathroom, to bend her over the sink.

Every day he asked her to hold the flags, every day she said yes. She wished he understood what that meant.

They unloaded bags and bags and bags of tiny pebbles that people dumped in their gardens, maybe, she didn’t know. They were sweating. He was so strong. She wanted him so much. They stood by the mini fridge, drinking Poland Spring. They were dirty and sweaty. When she was with Jacob, she was always busy. She was always doing important work. When she wasn’t with him, she was thinking about him.

The average person consumes a credit card’s worth of plastic a week, said Jacob.

Really? The girl felt that this couldn’t be true. Why don’t you drink out of a reusable bottle? she asked. She was flirting.

There’s no water fountain here, said Jacob. Well, there is. But we’re not allowed to use it.

Why not?

Jacob shrugged. Corporate policy, he said. Do you want to get Taco Bell?

The girl nodded.

It might be hard to take our lunch break at the same time, he said.

Really? The girl was surprised by this. She always took her lunch break whenever she felt like it. No one noticed or cared if she was gone. But Jacob had his forklift license, so it was sometimes important to have him around to put a palette up on a high shelf, or to get it down.

I’ll see what I can do, Jacob said, and then he walked off. The girl went to the bathroom. Almost an hour had passed since she had been there last. In the mirror, her cheeks were flushed. She thought she looked pretty. She put her forearms on the sink. She opened her mouth, moved back and forth. She was perfect. There was dirt on her face. She didn’t understand how anyone couldn’t want her. But he did want her. She knew he did.

*

They walked through the Taco Bell drive through, and the shift manager told them they had to come inside.

The meat comes from a hose, said the girl.

Really? Jacob was laughing, he had a pretty laugh, he had straight teeth, they were good teeth even though they were a little yellow, probably because he smoked.

Yeah, she said. Really. I used to work at the mall. And there was a Taco Bell there. And one of the girls I worked with’s boyfriend was the manager there, and she told everyone that.

Huh, Jacob said, and then they walked inside, into the air conditioning.

*

After lunch, she walked around the aisles until she felt hungry again. She cleaned up weedkiller off the ground. It smelled like bad fruit and nail polish remover. Then she kept walking.

On her way to the bathroom, she saw red on the ground. She thought maybe it was red paint, but she wasn’t in the paint department. She wished she knew where Jacob was. He would tell her what was going on. But he was driving the forklift, and Rebecca was holding the flags.

It was blood, she knew it was blood, and she followed the trail until she saw the lumber manager, and a white-faced high school boy with a white rag wrapped around his arm.

Are you guys okay? The girl asked, she wanted to know, she thought maybe she could help, she wasn’t doing anything else, but the lumber manager looked at her like she was a customer.

They looked like an old painting, surrounded by aisles and aisles of spruce and pine and fir.

Don’t worry about it, said the lumber manager.

*

She got such a bad rash that her arms turned red and bumpy. At first the bumps burned, then they were numb. She could move her arms but she couldn’t feel them.

Jacob, she said. Look. She went running up to him. He was holding a clipboard, and he looked angry. Rebecca was holding the flags. She dropped one on the ground.

Jesus, he said. What is that?

She flipped her arms so that they were palm-up, then palm-down. The rash was already fading. But it was still visible.

I think it’s from the weedkiller, she said. I cleaned up a spill.

We’re not supposed to do that, said Jacob.

Someone told me to, said the girl. She was lying.

Jacob reached out and ran his gloved hand up her arm. Everyone had to wear gloves when handling dangerous materials. Jacob had his gloves on almost all the time. The girl shivered. She could feel the heat of him, even through the thick material of the glove. It left a streak of dirt on her arm. The rash was no longer visible. Jacob took off his gloves. His hands were dirty. There was dirt in the grooves of his palms, dirt under the half-moons of his fingernails. He touched her again.

Are you okay, he asked.

I think so, she said. I think it’s fine.

If it’s still here tomorrow, call poison control. He was still touching her arm.

Okay, she said. Poison control.

*

The girl went to smoke a cigarette with Rebecca.

Hey, Rebecca said. Guess what?

What, said the girl.

I fucked Jacob, Rebecca said. And guess what?

What?

He has a huge dick. Seriously.

No way, said the girl.

Yeah, said Rebecca. Donkey dick.

They smoked in silence. It was hot and overcast. The girl looked at Rebecca’s tan body, at the tendons in her legs. There was a purple bruise on her thigh. Do you think you’ll do it again?

He won’t leave me alone, said Rebecca. He told me he wants to get married, and have babies. Not with me, but, like, in general. He’s gonna be the shipment manager for the overnight shift.

The overnight shift?

Yeah. People work all night. How do you think they stock the shelves?

The girl hadn’t thought about how they stocked the shelves. She said nothing. She drank from her Poland Spring. The water was hot. It tasted like plastic. The girl imagined someone else working the night shift, filling the shelves with bottles of weedkiller and boxes of fertilizer, the same bottles and boxes that the girl touched during the day.

I’ve gotta go, Rebecca said, and she walked off, toward the side of the building, where Jacob smoked his Marlboro Lights.

*

After lunch, which she ate alone in the break room, where there was air conditioning, the girl went to the HR office.

Hello, she said. I believe an employee has been defrauding the company, she imagined saying. Leaving at their lunch break, and then lying about it. Instead she asked why they weren’t allowed to drink from the water fountains. The HR lady said someone was coming to fix them.

When, asked the girl.

The HR lady shrugged. She offered the girl an orange water bottle, an orange notepad, an orange notebook.

What was the point of a water bottle if there was no water to drink from it?

The HR lady shrugged.

*

The girl fucked a guy she went to high school with. She gave him her orange water bottle.

Cool, he said. He worked at Enterprise Rent-A-Car. He had a tote bag, a notebook, and a gilet, all emblazoned with the Enterprise Rent-A-Car logo. He didn’t offer any of these things to the girl.

He picked her up after her shift.

Why are you working there, he asked her. His car was air-conditioned.

My dad got me the job, she said. He said it would build character.

He snorted. He had a sunburned nose.

He sells dirt, said the girl.

What?

My dad sells dirt, said the girl. To the company I work for. And then I carry it to people’s cars.

Oh, he said. He turned on the music. She could see the American flag waving against the blue sky, disappearing in the rear-view mirror.

* 

On her days off, the girl drove around.

SHACKLED BY LUST? said a billboard. JESUS SETS FREE. There was a phone number. The girl wondered what would happen if she called.

*

The girl broke down cardboard boxes and then watched as the rusted machine made them smaller and smaller. Sometimes, other people were in the trash compactor room — it was where they kept the spare forklifts — but no one ever offered to help her. Except for Gabe.

She watched as a glossy box that had once contained a fan was crushed to almost nothing. Gabe was looking at her.

Gabe, she said.

What?

Every day is a gift from God, she thought.

Then she tried to kiss him. He pushed her away, gently but firmly. She brushed against the trash compactor. Sorry, she said. I’m really sorry. Gabe smiled, shook his head. He broke down a box that had once contained a RYOBI pressure washer.

*

On her last day, Jacob took the girl to the back, where the extra paving stones were. He told her she could drive the big forklift.

Jacob was already there, his hands on the controls. She climbed in and pressed her body backwards, into his. He was more solid than steel, than soil, than paving stones. He put his hand over hers. She twirled the joystick. It was like a video game, but in real life.

You’re a natural, he said.

She climbed off the forklift, and she tripped, and she fell, and her head cracked against the paving stones. And then she wasn’t herself anymore, was no longer the girl; she was no one, she was Rebecca, she was Jacob, she was Gabe’s baby daughter, she was a keyword search for workplace injuries, she was the company, she was the American flag in the parking lot, she was SET FREE.

She wondered if she would get workman’s comp, or if maybe she would get to access the fund for employees with cancer. She remembered the trail of blood that led to lumber, she remembered that her dad sold dirt, she remembered that she was building character.

She came to with Jacob pouring bottle after plastic bottle of Poland Spring over her head, one of his hands at the back of her neck, both of his hands bare, dirty, no trace of his orange gloves.