Working as a floor associate at Wall-Mart isn't exactly what Craig had in mind when he posted his overly-qualified resume on Indeed back in January, but then again he never thought he'd ever do something so stupid that would compromise his cushy office job that practically spat money at him just for keeping a seat warm, either.
Three months have passed since Craig willingly exiled himself from East Denver and what feels like an eternity since the last of his company-subsidized Prime subscription ran out. While initially he thought he'd be better off than had he simply apologized for causing a scene and stayed, the rotating shifts, brain-dead customers, and nonexistent health insurance options have since made it glaringly clear that he was very, very wrong.
Clyde assures him every morning that better days are ahead, usually between bites of lukewarm leftovers from the night before with his back against the fridge, but Clyde's not the one working for $10.25 an hour. Maybe Craig should've asked Tweek if they were hiring instead. Surely the tips aren't that bad, and hey, it'd be like working weekends through senior year at Tweek Bros again. Unless Kenny spilled the beans about his favorite post-work hideaway spot and how to find him—then the place might as well be radioactive.
No—this is fine. Stock shelves, deal with customers, listen to music. Hell, if he switches to the night shift then there goes the customer issue. Plus he'd get a whole extra dollar an hour.
It's a shattered jar of salsa that has him seriously contemplating walking out and never coming back when an unfortunate reminder as to why he's there in the first place suddenly rounds the corner in a pair of blue jeans and a faded Broncos t-shirt.
"Craig? What are you doing here?"
Craig has been lectured twice this month about his attitude. About how as an associate, he's essentially the face of the company, and therefore should strive to be more amiable and responsive to the customers and their needs—or at least acknowledge their existence. But Stan is not a customer, no matter how much shit he currently has piled up in his arms like some sort of Neanderthal who's never heard of a shopping cart. He is the bane of Craig's existence, the never-ending source of suffering that Craig thought he'd managed to escape once and for all.
"Craig? Hey, Craig, it's me—Stan! Remember?"
Craig sidesteps the puddle of glass-laced salsa to grab a handful of paper towels from a nearby cleanup station. Stan goes to follow but stops short when Craig suddenly whips back around and starts sopping up the mess.
"We worked together? At the office?"
Craig tosses the dripping paper towels into a pile and tears off another handful, mindful to pick out and set aside the larger shards of glass to better soak up the salsa.
"With Kyle?"
Craig hisses as he slices his thumb. "What the hell do you want?"
"Is this… where you work now?"
"What does it look like?"
They stare at each other in silence, Craig nursing his small but stinging cut while Stan readjusts the 30lb bag of dry kibble tucked up under his left arm. Craig scowls when he notices what brand it is.
"Unless you're trying to kill your dog, put that shit down."
"What?"
Craig doesn't elaborate, but Stan still obediently follows him six aisles over into the pet care section nonetheless. He yanks the bag of dog food out from beneath Stan's arm and replaces it with something half the size and twice the price. "Here."
"Okay…?" Stan blinks. "Well, um. Thanks, I guess."
Craig turns to leave.
"Hey—hold on. What are you doing here?"
"I thought we already established that this is where I work."
"No, I mean this isn't where you're supposed to be, dude. You should be back at the office."
Craig couldn't agree more. "Yeah, well, there's just one problem with that."
"What is it?"
"I can't."
"Dude, what are you talking about?" A frozen family-size lasagna nearly topples out of Stan's hold when he gesticulates in confusion. "What do you mean you can't? You mean, like, commute-wise? 'Cause this place is literally on the whole other side of Denver."
Stan has a point. According to Clyde, they've been working at the new location since about six weeks ago, which supposedly is even closer to their apartment than the old one; not that Stan knows where they live. Clyde says the new office is nice, with functioning heat and air conditioning on every floor and a freshly-serviced elevator that doesn't evoke the fear of God. It's also just a five minute walk to the café.
"And hey, it's not like you were fired if that's what you're worried about. I mean shit, dude, all the stuff you left in your desk is still there."
Craig furrows his brows. "Really?"
"I think Kyle's hanging onto the idea that you might come back. He's pretty much refused to hire your replacement even though Cartman's been riding his ass about it." Stan snorts. Craig doesn't visibly share in the amusement, but he can't deny the tiny scrap of gratification he derives from this information.
"Speaking of Kyle… I know you guys never, like, figured things out or whatever between you. I dunno—he doesn't like to talk about it, but he's been pretty bummed out since you left. I think it'd really cheer him up if you came back to work."
Craig's attention drifts to a row of brightly-colored chew toys as he squeezes his bleeding thumb in a fistful of his shirt.
"Come on, Craig." Stan sighs. "Okay, fine. You don't have to come back, but would it kill you to at least go and talk to him? He doesn't deserve this, dude. Put him out of his misery so he can stop waiting around and move on already. You owe him that."
Craig would rather chew and swallow the entirety of the broken salsa jar than ever admit that Stan is right. He can't imagine Kyle being as bent out of shape as Stan insists he is, though; not when Craig hasn't gotten a single call, text, email, friend request, carrier pigeon, or smoke signal from him since the day he left. Then again, Craig did have something of a dubious track record when it came to responding to Kyle's communication attempts in the first place. Perhaps this was punishment for his dry texting crimes.
He recalls the last time he saw Kyle—really saw him, back on New Year's Day when Craig had woken up next to him in the middle of the night, groggy, half-naked, with evidence of the most recent line they'd crossed dried on his shirt. Sometimes he mourns his previous decision to run rather than to spend an extra minute or two mapping Kyle's body for later. He wonders if Kyle ever thinks about that night—or at least what he remembers of it. The notion that he might—perhaps even fondly, if what Stan says is true—causes a sudden warmth to bloom in Craig's chest.
Standing here in the middle of Wall-Mart, on the other side of town with a sliced thumb and no health insurance, Craig wonders for the first time if maybe he had overreacted. Maybe there could've been more of those nights in their future. Sober nights, and lazy Tuesday mornings, and rainy Thursday afternoons. Office parties, birthdays, anniversaries. Maybe if he'd stuck around instead of choosing the nuclear option, everything would've been fine.
"So?" Stan asks. "Will you talk to him?"
The mental image of Kyle perking up, eyes bright and brows high over the prospect of his unannounced arrival threatens to crack Craig's stoic facade. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss that tamped-down, anxious enthusiasm that Kyle always seemed to exude during their weekly one-on-ones, back when Stan didn't exist and Kyle's doting could've been mistaken for self-preservation rather than attraction. Simpler times. But just because there's no going back doesn't necessarily mean they can't go forward. That is, if it isn't too late.
"Fine," Craig says, "but that's it."