Que-Linda Takes the Rite Aid

Que-Linda sells cosmetics to housewives and teenagers at the Rite Aid. She wears a stiff blue apron over her pretty clothes and smiles a lot and hands out perfume samples and baby-size tubes of lip gloss. She makes the best of things. She does what she can.

Naturally, her name tag says only Linda. Mr. Jennings doesn't have a sense of humor, and it's amazing that he hired her at all, seeing as she used to be (or, if you want to get technical, still is) a man.

•

Mr. Jennings slithers by the cosmetics counter on his hourly patrol, watching Que-Linda over the rims of his plastic bifocals, pursing his lips like he's tasting something sour. He makes marks on his clipboard and pretends to be surveying the stock. Maybelline, Cover Girl, Revlon. Then, just like that, he's gone, off scrutinizing Javier the stock boy, who is Mexican or checking up on Benny, who is a Jap. There are mirrors around the ceiling of the store, tilted at an angle so that Mr. Jennings can sit in his office when his rounds fatigue him. He can sit in that cubicle and look up through the tinted glass at his mirrors. He sees what's going on. He ain't no fool.

According to him, there has been theft, increasing numbers of troublemakers and hooligans who come into the Rite Aid, just waltz right in like they own the place, snatching batteries and Kodak film, soda pop, sacks of candy.

And while someone dials the cops, Mr. Jennings stands outside the automatic exit, shaking his fist as they run away, their baggy pants and windbreakers billowing as their legs pump down the sidewalk. Degenerates! He screams. You 've got some nerve. Then to whoever is listening, No wonder this fine country is going down the shitter!

Que-Linda watches, unemotional, from the cosmetics counter. She doesn't think thefts are really increasing. Theft seems to be a natural, if not daily, occurrence at the Rite Aid. And she ought to know, she's been there for seven years. And she doesn't think the U.S. of A. is going down the shitter. It seems to her it's been there all along.

•

Mr. Jennings rounds the corner by the shower caps. Que-Linda doesn't have to wear a watch to know that yet another mindless, pathetic hour of her life has been squandered. She puts down the nail file and Teen Beat.

Mr. Jennings mmm-hmms when he sees the magazine, the front pages curled back and bent out of shape. It is no longer fit for sale. He eyes his clipboard and makes a mark on a form titled infractions.

Then he tries to snatch the magazine away from her. But Que-Linda is quick; she flattens her hand on it, pressing it hard into the countertop, her fingertips turning white.

And just like that, as if he cannot control himself, Mr. Jennings slaps her hand. Hard.

In her shock, she relinquishes it and for a second they just stare at each other and neither of them says a word. She looks at his face. His mouth is one tight, pinched line.

After he leaves, the skin on her hand still smarts and it blushes pink as she tries to rub his slap away.

•

"Mr. Jennings was married, you know," she says.

"No shit." Benny is eating potato salad out of a deli container. He picks around the bits of green onion.

The three of them, Que-Linda, Benny and Javier, are huddled behind the dairy case, in the walk-in refrigerator, crouching on empty milk crates. They have on their coats. This is where they hide out to hold their meetings; this is where they work on their plan to destroy Mr. Jennings and his Rite Aid.

"Once upon a time——" she begins.

"If you're gonna tell it, tell it." Javier has heard this story a thousand times already. Benny hasn't done as much time.

"Her name was Rachael, but everyone pretty much referred to her as Poor-Rachael. As in, 'Poor-Rachael ran out of food stamps at the grocery store' or 'Did you hear what that bastard did now? Poor-Rachael!' "

Que-Linda pauses for a moment. She is a master storyteller.

"And Poor-Rachael was good people. (continued on page 148) Que-Linda (continued from page 118) Everybody liked her. They couldn't figure out how the hell a woman like her could get all wrapped up with a loser like him. I mean, we all fall in love with the wrong people. We've all been there at one time or another, right? You don't have to tell me about that."

Que-Linda smiles knowingly as Javier feels a pang for Tabitha, a pathological liar with double-D breasts, and as Benny conjures up an image of Mrs. Smith, the local librarian in her straight tweed skirts.

"The people in town felt for her, they really did. But they had lost patience with Mr. Jennings altogether. They saw him on the streets and they looked at him like he ... like he was ... well, a lying, thieving scumbag. And what can I say? They were right.

"So, one day, Mr. Jennings comes home to Poor-Rachael and their kids: Timmy and Tommy, the twins, and Rhiannon, for the song. The electricity had been shut off—the bastard refused to pay his bills—and the kids were playing checkers by candlelight, poor babies. Mr. Jennings waltzes in wearing a brand-new velour jogging suit and a hat, one of those soft, white fedora things. With a bright red band.

"Poor-Rachael takes one look at that hat, feeling her insides heat up. Feeling the rage start to boil, deep within her soul. And while Mr. Jennings is in the shower, rinsing off cheap perfume and God-only-knows what else, Poor-Rachael lights the place on fucking fire, using kitchen matches and a bottle of gin she had been saving for a special occasion."

"No!"

"Yep. And—get this—she flies into some sort of rage herself and just takes off, right then, dragging Timmy, Tommy and Rhiannon along with her.

"So, Mr. Jennings is in that shower a long fuckin' time, and when the big, strong beefcake firemen finally wrestle down the blaze, the paramedics standing by, Mr. Jennings is pruned all over and shivering, crying for his mother like a little bitch."

Benny blinks a few times before going hysterical.

"I love that story," says Javier. "Tell it again."

•

Que-Linda leans back against the rows of chilled milk and wonders if time does heal all. That Mr. Jennings and Poor-Rachael business was a long time ago, and now he says he doesn't touch the stuff anymore. Whatever that means.

She knows for a fact that he doesn't go to AA or NA because she does and he isn't ever there. She doesn't go to these meetings to solve her own problems, to collect little medallions applauding her hard-won sobriety. She goes there to pick up men.

Some very attractive individuals collect at those venues. Clubs, their attendees call them, in hopes of making them seem more social, more palatable, more ... optional. And these individuals are irresistible to her. She finds their pathetic determination simply adorable.

Talk about falling in love with the wrong people. Que-Linda first laid eyes on Ricky Famone at a club meeting, an Italian stallion who, in retrospect, was sooo emotionally unavailable. He didn't know what the hell he wanted out of life. Dick or pussy, dick or pussy: It's not really that hard to make a decision. He could have just said both!

•

Incidentally, Mr. Jennings never did hear from Poor-Rachael again. Or die kids.

Friday morning Que-Linda tosses about restlessly in her Egyptian cotton sateen sheets, toying with the idea of calling in sick. She stayed late at the Gold Diggers' Club last night and her nerves are still rattling and rolling beneath her skin, and the bass is still knocking around inside her skull.

She almost calls Mr. Jennings. Almost. But thinking of Javier and Benny, she peels off her eyeshades and hauls herself out of bed.

First, she wrestles what she has come to refer to as her "dinosaur" (for it is her last surviving male part) into Lycra tap pants. Then she slithers into fishnet hosiery and a pair of kitten-heeled suede pumps. Finally she buttons a scarlet silk blouse over her leopard-print brassiere. She bends in half and adjusts her silicone breasts, watching her reflection in the full-length mirror. (As her great-aunt Mimi used to say, cleavage is always in style.)

In the bathroom, guided by a surge of creativity, Que-Linda tosses her auburn tresses into a daring, impromptu flip. She clips on dangling rhinestone earrings that nearly sweep the tops of her shoulders.

•

When Que-Linda arrives at the Rite Aid, she parks in Mr. Jennings' spot, as she sometimes does when she's feeling naughty. Benny and Javier are outside by the Crystal Fresh water-dispensing machine, devouring jelly doughnuts and drinking watered-down hot chocolates. They greet her with co-conspiratorial grins and compliment her choice of footwear. Then all three of them go inside to feel the vibe.

Feeling the vibe has to do with sensing the atmosphere. The atmosphere is due largely to the unpredictable mood swings of Mr. Jennings. Some days he's riotously, inexplicably angry, and others there's a false calm over the place, a deceptive quiet that means Mr. Jennings is feeling crafty and can be found crouching in the aisles, spying on customers, nosing around employee lockers. And then there are the days when he is buddy-buddy with everyone, trying to weasel out information on other employees, bribing them with discounts, plying them with free merchandise.

All of these moods, his employees agree, are dangerous.

Today there is no vibe at all because Mr. Jennings is out sick, reportedly with some type of potentially contagious infection.

Trinket Rosetti is the assistant manager, it says so on his name tag, and he is behind the one-hour-photo-drop desk, reveling in the responsibility of being in command. All of his chins quiver with excitement.

Benny and Javier and Que-Linda grumble to one another. Being subjected to Trinket Rosetti is almost worse than a day of cat and mouse with Mr. Jennings. Que-Linda gives Trinket a daggered glance as she moves down the Eyes and Feet aisle, then she turns and blows him a kiss.

Que-Linda was there the day Trinket was hired, straight out of the can. Some petty crime got him time inside, but he didn't have the attitude for prison. He wasn't a tough guy or a criminal mastermind. Rumor has it that he was some big man's trinket in the joint and the name just stuck. You'd think he'd want to ditch a name like that.

On his first day at the Rite Aid, Trinket's parole officer accompanied him to meet Mr. Jennings and go over the particulars, like a parent dragging his kid in by the ear to discuss matters with the school principal. Trinket just stared like he was used to being humiliated. Like it was OK with him.

•

Throughout the day, Trinket tries to uphold the Jennings standard by creeping around the store, keeping an eye on everybody. It's laughable.

•

A little later, Que-Linda sneaks a peek around a rack of romance novels. Trinket is on the phone at the photo-drop desk, winding and rewinding the cord around his finger. He has been talking for 40 minutes, painstakingly describing to his mother the details of Que-Linda's general bad manners. "Nobody respects me," he whines into the phone, stamping his foot. "Nobody!"

That said, Que-Linda takes the opportunity to lift a bottle of cheap champagne from the Liquor aisle, tucking it into her armpit, making her way to the black plastic double doors that lead to the dairy case. It is almost lunchtime and she suspects Javier and Benny are already waiting for her.

Then out of nowhere, Trinket is blocking her path.

"Oh, fuck. What do you want now?"

"Mr. Jennings is at home and needs you to come by."

"Ex-cuse me?"

"He forgot some papers in his office and would like someone to drop them off."

"What do I look like, your errand girl? Why can't you do it?"

"I'm in charge here, Linda. I can't abandon my post."

•

Que-Linda sips champagne through a tall plastic straw as she drives to Mr. Jennings' house. The directions are written in Trinket's knowing hand on a piece of crisp, white paper. In a way she's happy for the errand because even though it is a semi-nice day, it's still cool enough for her faux ermine Eisenhower. If she didn't look so fabulous, she might be in a bad mood.

Mr. Jennings' street is a suburban culde-sac, and at the end, where the road rounds, there are small children on Big Wheels, supervised by two overweight mothers wearing stained sweat suits. The mothers watch Que-Linda as she pulls up in front of Mr. Jennings' house; their stares are cold as she gets out of the car, hooking her purse over her wrist.

A shoulder-high black iron fence edges what appears to be Mr. Jennings' property. On the gate hang two different signs, fastened to the iron rungs by wires: keep out! says the first one and the next: beware of the dog. The latter features a menacing, apparently rabid German shepherd, saliva dripping from its exaggerated fangs.

Que-Linda is surprised to find the gate unlocked. She stands in the yard, expecting to be mauled, but there is no dog. She waits a little longer, but the dog does not come.

She turns back to find that the mothers and the children have vanished. One of the Big Wheels has been overturned and the pedals are still spinning.

•

The front room is small and dark and obnoxiously tidy. There are family pictures on the walls and knickknacks on the side tables—things normal people would have lying around. Que-Linda can't believe she's here. She can't even believe that Mr. Jennings has a house. Before now he just seemed like a ghost, like a bad dream, an evil spirit that lived at the Rite Aid.

Mr. Jennings is in bed, holding the covers up to his chest like a teenage prude. He's pale and looks different without his glasses.

"No dog?" she says.

"Dead."

Que-Linda flings the manila file folder onto the foot of the bed and turns to go.

"Linda——"

"What?"

"You look nice today."

She fingers her flip. Straightens her blouse. "I know."

"Do you want to stay for a bit?"

He pats the space on the bed next to him. His face is changed. He looks almost——

"I have cancer," he says suddenly, his eyes becoming moist.

She swallows and shifts her weight.

"And there's nobody for me to tell, if you can believe that. There's nobody left to talk to. Could you?"

Mr. Jennings pats the bed again and for a second she thinks, I have turned hard inside. So she sits. And crosses her legs. Tries to find a place for her hands.

"I'm so—lonely." He sounds almost relieved to admit this. In fact, he smiles a little at this confession.

"Everybody's lonely." She can't think of anything else to say.

There is a black-and-white photo hanging over the bureau, a young, dark-haired woman wearing a pale dress. Mr. Jennings nods, swinging his head sadly. His eyes, however, are still flat and focused.

•

On her way back to the Rite Aid, Que-Linda is so angry her mascara smears. Her temperature is above boiling. She feels like her face is going to melt right off her head.

Javier and Benny are waiting for her, playing jacks on the floor of the Children's Interests and Games aisle, ironically the only aisle that cannot be completely surveyed by the slanted ceiling mirrors. They stand up as she approaches, like soldiers greeting their general.

"What was it like?"

"What happened?"

Que-Linda isn't sure which part to tell first. She could begin with the striped bed sheets, the missing glasses, the cup of cold herbal tea on the bedside. Or maybe she should just get right to the part when Mr. Jennings put his hand on her thigh, Are you lonely, too? Is that it? How he slowly, calmly ran his hand up her leg to her crotch. Well now, what do we have here?

"He's worse than we thought," she says instead. "He's the worst."

Benny looks at Javier.

"What did he do?" Javier is obviously worried.

Que-Linda stands up straighter

Who do you think you're foolin'? You aren't a woman at all. His hand was on her wrist, his knuckles turning white. She tried to shoot up and get away, but his grip held her. He pulled her closer so she could smell his breath. You're nothing but a joke, a freak——

"We have to get him," she says. "Today's the day."

They have been planning this over countless lunches huddled in the dairy case, and now they are ready.

•

After Javier and Benny help Que-Linda reapply her makeup in the bathroom, they show the rest of the employees and the pharmacists to the door. Everyone gathers their things, leaving without question, not wanting to spoil this rarity. Under Mr. Jennings' regime, they never get afternoons off. Then Que-Linda, Benny and Javier go after Trinket. He is easy to subdue, and once he's scared enough, he's relatively quiet and obedient.

In no time they are into the safe that Jennings keeps in the office.

There are things in the safe that can and will get Mr. Jennings into trouble. Surprising things. And there is money, too. The armored bank truck comes at 4:00 every Friday, so at 3:30 that afternoon there is more money in the safe than there has been all week. No outrageous fortune, by any means. But it'll do.

They pack the money into a plastic bag and Trinket says, "You won't get away with this," like he's starring in a Batman episode. Que-Linda can almost see the lit-up Bang! Pow! and Wham! overhead as Benny and Javier lay into him.

By 3:45, they have what they want.

A ravenous fire is burning in the front of the store.

Now the overhead sprinkler system has been triggered and everything from beach balls to toilet paper is getting sooty and soggy. Everything is on its way to being ruined.

Hooligans and degenerates have come out of the woodwork, seeming to sense the Rite Aid's imminent demise. They are streaming through the automatic doors. They fill knapsacks and pockets and shopping carts with the things they have always dreamed of stealing. Everywhere it is pandemonium and Mr. Jennings' Rite Aid is a sinking ship.

•

Que-Linda is behind the wheel with Benny and Javier next to her. Trinket is hog-tied in the trunk, right where he belongs. They can hear him thump against the spare tire as Que-Linda burns rubber out of the parking lot, mercilessly whipping around the corner at top speed.

If this life were a musical, the three heroes would break into glorious song.

Playboy's College Fiction Contest Winner

By Morgan Akins / University of Southern California

In honor of Playboy's long and unique tradition of using illustrations to accompany features—both fiction and nonfiction—we pay special attention to the winner of our College Fiction Contest. At New York's School of Visual Arts there's a competition in Marshall Arisman's illustration class to produce the art to accompany the contest winner, which this year is Que-Linda Takes the Rite Aid, by Morgan Akins. Akins recently graduated from the Masters of Professional Writing Program at the University of Southern California and is working on a collection of related short stories called Tales of Transformation. Congratulations to Benjamin Marra, who won the illustration contest. We also tip our hat to the half-dozen second-place finishers, whose provocative work is featured here. Clockwise from top left, the artists are: Patrick Dorian, Meg Ripley, John Hendrix, George Boorujy, Woo Jung Ahn and Fawad Khan.

Second prize winner is Jannell Cross, 23, of Colorado State University, for The Funeral Bells Are Ringing. Third prize went to Matt Valentine, 23, of New York University, for Deep Under Texas.