"Snowball in Hell"

Joe Lichtenstein stood behind the cash register one day in the men's clothing section of Stacey's Department Store in West Jamestown, New York. Joe looked at his watch. It read 10:45. It was still two hours and fifteen minutes until his lunch break. Without moving from behind the counter, Joe looked around on his floor, the eighth of ten floors at Stacey's. There were no customers on the floor, as far as he could tell. The only other person he could see was Sue Feldon, behind her counter in the maternity clothing section. She was applying polish to her nails. Joe glanced at the door behind him. Through that door was the supply room, with file cabinets, extra supplies, and a photocopying machine. Also in that room was a table and some chairs, and on that table was a pot of coffee and the morning newspaper, which Joe hadn't read that morning, since he overslept and was a half an hour late for work anyway. Joe knew it was against company policy to take coffee breaks, and that the coffee and newspaper are strictly for those people who report to work early.

Joe looked around the floor once more, which this time appeared to be even more barren than before, and then he looked at the door to the supply room again. He looked at his watch, which now read 10:49. Joe ran his hands up and down his face and through his thinning hair. I desperately need a break, he thought. I've done pretty well this month, if I do say so myself. I think I've earned one. Besides, there's nobody on this floor. It'll be a while before I make any sales, anyway. With that thought, Joe left his post and opened the door to the supply room. As he walked in and the door shut behind him, a family of four began to get off the escalator on the eighth floor.

A while later, Joe had just turned to the sports section of the newspaper and was extinguishing a cigarette in a nearby ash tray when Paul Adams, a model employee, walked in to the supply room. Earlier that morning, Paul had given Joe a lecture when Joe came into work late.

"Mornin', Paul," Joe said.

"Oh, hi, Joe," Paul responded. "Don't mind me. I'm just here to get a pad of paper."

"Oh," Joe said as he took another sip of coffee. "Cigarette?"

"No, thanks," Paul said. "I didn't expect to find a salesman drinking coffee this late in the morning. How long have you been here, Joe?"

"Oh, I don't know, I guess about thirty, forty-five minutes maybe. Why do you ask?"

"You must be making a lot of sales and piling up a good income."

"Oh, I'm doing all right. I could do better, but. . . oh, I get it, Paul. Back on that old 'time is money' kick, right?"

"Not back on it, Joe. Still on it."

Joe lit another cigarette. "Don't fret, Paul. I know what I'm doing. I'll handle myself all right."

"Another cigarette, Joe? Those things are awfully bad for you, you know."

"Paul, don't worry."

At this, the manager of the store, Bob Platt, walked into the supply room, carrying a box. At the sight of Joe smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper, Bob's eyes widened. "Lichtenstein! What do you think you're doing?"

"Well, business was slow, Mr. Platt, sir, and I . . ." Joe stuttered

"Slow?" Bob said. "Slow? What are you talking about? In the past twenty minutes, Sue in maternity has sold over four hundred dollars worth of clothing! Who knows how much you could have sold!"

"Well, Mr. Platt," Joe began, "I . . ."

"You shut up!" Bob yelled. "I can't believe you, Lichtenstein! You come strolling in here thirty minutes late, and now I find you sitting in here reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette!"

"But, Mr. Platt," Joe began.

"But nothing!" Bob continued. "I've had it, Lichtenstein. I have had it! You're fired! You have exactly one hour to gather your things and then get out of my store!"

"But," Joe began again.

"You heard me, Joe," Bob yelled. "Get out!"

Joe ran out of the supply room. Paul, who had remained in the room, looked at Bob and shrugged. Bob's eyes widened once again. "What are you staring at, Adams? Get to work!"

"Yes, sir," Paul responded and ran out of the supply room, leaving just Bob, who immediately sat down and began to read the newspaper.

Fifty minutes later, Joe walked out of Stacey's and to his small, two-door, powder blue Honda Civic that he knew he would eventually have to sell, just to make ends meet. He opened the door and threw into the passenger seat a cardboard box that contained a pad of paper, an address book, and some pencils that had "Save at Stacey's" written on them. Then Joe got into the car, started the ignition, and left Stacey's parking lot. As he slowly drove to his house, where he knew he'd eventually have to tell his pregnant wife that he is now unemployed, Paul's words to Joe kept repeating in his mind, haunting him. Time is money. Time is money. Time is money.

"No, no, no!" Joe screamed as he drove through a red light. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

Just then, a huge eighteen-wheeler traveling at a very high speed plowed through the Honda Civic, and Joe got his wish. It stopped.

 

 

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