the bag on the shelf

cheryl was at the register when i found a bag with my name on it. it was sitting on the pickup shelf between a turkey sandwich and a drink nobody had claimed, folded at the top and written in black marker, burt.

i did not order anything. i checked the receipt first, because paper is less likely to lie than a person, and the receipt said one tomato basil blt, no onions, paid in cash. i hate the tomato basil blt. i hate the bread, the name, and the way the bacon makes the bag greasy before it has done anything useful.

cheryl looked at the bag and said, "maybe you ordered it earlier."

i had not. i was holding the receipt from my own lunch, which was soup, and there were no onions in that either. i opened the bag. inside was the sandwich, a napkin, one packet of mayonnaise, and a small brass key.

there were a hundred and six black marks on the napkin. i counted them twice. they were not letters, just little lines made by somebody pressing the pen down and lifting it again. on the back, somebody had written burt in the same hand as the bag.

i asked cheryl if there was a lock anywhere in the store. she said no, then pointed at the office door.

the key fit the lock.

inside the office, the lights were off. the safe was open, the payroll drawer was empty, and my sunbeam toaster was sitting on the manager's desk with its lever going down