The Things That Bother John Ferris about his job at Target
A list. [Fiction] Stories From The Spectrum #4 of 12
Look at him.
This is John Ferris.
Look at his gut, or what he affectionately calls his “dad-bod” or “father figure,” his father-in-law likes to say. The red polo shirt makes him ten pounds heavier. He looks down, runs a hand over his gut, mutters, “Probably look 220 in this shirt.”
Okay, he’s not that fat. Not that anyone’s counting, but he’s three pounds shy of 200.
All he does for exercise is go to the gym, walking the track at a leisurely pace eight times, looking longingly at the pool, shaming himself for not getting in the pool because he knows that’s the only way he’ll get down to his healthy weight of 170 pounds. Whenever he passes the pool, he uses the excuse that there are too many people in the lap lanes not to swim. Then he curses himself for taking so long to leave the house and go to the gym. His mind is excellent at making excuses and complaining.
Obviously, John Ferris is bored and depressed.
When he gets off his shift, he takes a moment to sit at Starbucks and write out everything that bothered him that day. It’s all so that it doesn’t bleed into his home life, where, again, he’ll have to pick everyone up from their places of work.
He purchases a canned double-shot of expresso and a muffin that is way too large and takes a seat at the window.
Retrieving the Field Notes branded pocket notebook and a Pentel 0.7 Energell ($4.99, Aisle 18 in school supplies—3.99 for a pack of three with his employee discount.) He begins to list his daily grievances.
People walking across parking lots face down in their smart phones.
People who are dumber than their phones.
Drivers who text while going down the highway at 75 mph.
Idiots who ride motorcycles and their kids who ride bicycles without helmets.
Bumper stickers.
Especially anyone detailing “Let’s Go Brandon” or Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes pissing on something, or the stick figure family.
Anyone who calls themselves a Hoosier.
The Indy 500.
Indiana and Ohio—really all of the midwest except Michigan and Illinois.
Dog owners who don’t pick up after their dogs.
People who don’t trim their trees.
Subdivision housing authorities.
Middle-aged guys who say “that’s fire” or “lit.”
People who wear camo when not in the woods.
Goatees.
Mullets.
Anyone who says “ya’ll.”
Infantilizing terms for personal passions like “special interests.”
Anyone over the age of 70 who wears flip-flops—you might as well call them scrape flops.
Anyone older than 30 who uses TikTok. Anyone younger than 40 who uses Facebook or Twitter.
John looks at the two pages filled with his screed of complaints. His watch says it is 4:06 p.m.—ten minutes until he has to do all the pick-ups again. He can’t get a job that pays him what he’s worth, and so the family can only afford one car.
“Look at my kingdom!” he writes. He did all this to find a better job than the visiting professorship he had at Skidmore College back home. At this time, he will be finishing his office hours. Instead, he is the oldest person—the only one with a Master’s degree—working the early shift at a Target outlet in a mall in Bobtown, Indiana. He packs up his gear, muttering, “I do not prefer this,” and leaves.
His father, Bart Ferris—dead two years from COVID—responds to his youngest son—“The universe does nothing else but change, John.” John walks across the wet, slick parking lot to the family SUV.
In the car, he pulls out his phone and scrolls his Camera Roll to the last photo he took of his dad, a FaceTime screen capture, a wire under his dad’s nose to help him breathe. They had to say goodbye to his dad over FaceTime because they wouldn’t let the family in the hospital room, spreading the virus.
“Your life, John, is opinion,” his dad said, “and that can change any time you want.”
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Things You Dislike.