Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs

dreary as it was before the remodel. A focal point is the giant trash can by the door, but no one seems to use it. The table is littered with empty soy sauce packets from the sushi counter in Deli, a half-eaten bag of chips, used napkins and, as always, the Gazette . The headline says something about a missing student, and my stomach clenches. But, thanks to Xanax, I remain calm. Avoiding the table and the newspaper, I sink on to the simulated leather couch.
    I hit voice mail on my phone. Four new messages. The first is from my father—he must think he called his doctor’s office, because he’s left an angry message about a mix-up with his medication. Delete. The second message is also from father, mumbling something about ignoring the last message. Delete. The third message is from my sister, wanting me to call my father—she can’t deal with him. He took too many meds, and now he’s on a rampage. Delete. Delete. Delete. Then, Dr. Archuleta’s receptionist—Doctor A told me to call him Marcus, or maybe I called him Marcus, and he asked me to call him Dr. Archuleta; I forget—anyway, Doctor A wants me to call his office and schedule an appointment.
    My stomach does a somersault and my mouth goes dry at the thought of seeing him alone … just the two of us. What will we talk about? What can I tell him? Anything I say will make me seem mental. I swallow, trying to generate saliva. I get up from the couch, go to the sink. After drinking two cups of water, I pop another Xanax for good measure.
    Breathe, breathe, breathe.
    “You all right, Sadie?” Wendy asks.
    “Fine.” It comes out brusquely, so I monitor my tone. “I’m fine, Wendy. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
    “I’m here.”
    She goes back to her TV program.
    I’m wondering why Marcus—I mean, Dr. Archuleta—wants to see me. Does he think I’m unbalanced, demented, looney tunes? Maybe he wants to ask me on a date, but due to some kind of doctors’ code of ethics, he needs to call it an appointment. I know he’s attracted to me. I sense it. But, I read online, seeing a patient socially can be a violation of HIPAA privacy laws. I forget what HIPAA stands for—Hot Incredible Penis or something. Okay, not that, but if Marcus asks me for a date, I’m going to accept. Only, considering my track record, maybe I shouldn’t. I delete the message, play the next. It’s also from Marcus, I mean Dr. Archuleta. A different number, and his voice, so I’m guessing: personal cell.
    How are you Sadie? I’d like to talk with you. Please call my office and make an appointment at your earliest convenience.
    I like listening to his voice, so I play the message three times. (After adding his number to Contacts) I hit delete.
    Breathe, breathe, breathe.
    My phone says 10:28 PM .
    The store closes in half an hour, and it’s time for action.
    I locate the trash cart; it’s long and deep with lots of room for stuffed garbage bags, or the average cadaver. It’s my job to go from can to can throughout the store replacing full bags with new bags. I start in Produce, move to Deli, then hit the garbage can in Bakery—my goal. The garbage can in Bakery is by the door leading to the back area where they keep the baler. Leaving the cart by the display of day-old bread and cake, I slip through the heavy plastic panel door, walk past the freight elevator, past the loading dock where trucks unload and head to the baler.
    The little shopping cart is where I left it.
    A positive sign.
    I find the stepstool and set it in front of the baler.
    I glance around, making sure I’m on my own. The process is awkward, because I need to balance on this stool while I grab the cart. The cart rolls away, throwing me off balance. I grab the handle and drag the cart toward me, but when I try to lift the cart into the baler’s chamber it gets stuck on the feed gate and crashes to the concrete floor.
    I jump from the stool and run to the door by Bakery to see if anyone noticed the commotion.