“I heard the people up front say they were going to push; they said they were going to grab all the bags.” A small woman with thinning hair sniffed. “That’s not very Christian.”

“Consumerism’s not Christian,” a man with a trucker hat told her.

A woman pushing a baby stroller to the end of the line overheard them and added, “Sure it is. Y’all ever hear of Presbyterians?”

The queue wound from the front doors of the store through the parking lot and into the adjacent playground. Workers in purple uniforms patrolled to make sure the gathered people remained in line.

“No overtime for this. Ridiculous,” a worker growled. He readjusted his nametag. Tim, it said.

“Do we get one of those bags?” his coworker asked.

“I haven’t even seen the bags. Where do they keep them?” Tim asked.

His coworker shrugged. “I haven’t seen much of anything. This is as much of a grand opening for us as it is for them.”

Tim and the others in purple uniforms continued patrolling. It was still dark and nearly cold enough to be dangerous.

The line was for a gift bag full of secret items. Those waiting speculated about what treasures they might acquire if they were one of the first one hundred customers to enter the new store.

“It better be more than coupons,” a woman with teased hair and inflated lips said. “I didn’t get here in the middle of the night for coupons.” She stroked the dog she carried in her oversized purse.

“It can’t just be coupons,” a man with a neck tattoo replied. “They can’t promise gift bags and then put some paper in them.” He shook his head. “Gift. That implies an object from the store.”

After some moments of silence, someone asked, “How big are the bags anyway?”

“Huge. I saw some on TikTok.”

“Where on Tik Tok, though? I bet the bougie towns have the swaggy bags. We never have anything nice here.”

“It’s amazing they even opened a branch here.”

A man puffed on a cigarette and looked at the sky. “They haven’t put up the sign yet. No one would even know what this store is.”

“Only if you’re not on Facebook,” the woman with him said. “They’ve been promoting it on Facebook to the neighborhood group. They said they wanted us to get first dibs on the bags.”

A solitary light came on in the parking lot and the doors to the store creaked open.

“One at a time,” a worker ordered and the line advanced slowly.

“I smell something,” the woman with the smoking man said. Naturally, he smelled nothing.

“This used to be the site of the old rendering plant,” he informed her, stomping out his cigarette in preparation for entering the store. “There might be a lingering smell.”

The progression of the line picked up pace. The closer to the entrance, the stronger the smell. It was pungent and sweet and rotten at the same time.

“Wait,” a worker on a walkie talkie ordered. The doors to the store closed with one-third of the line inside.

“Was that it? Was that one hundred people?” someone asked.

“No, can’t be. I’ve been counting. That was nowhere near one hundred.”

The sound of a motor could be heard and people speculated that there must be issues with getting the heater running.

Before long, the doors creaked open again and the line pushed forward.

The smell nearly assaulted those closest to the doors.

The dog in the purse growled.

“I bet it’s only coupons anyway,” his owner said and left the line for her car.

The man behind her shrugged. “Good. More for the rest of us.”

People filed into the store one by one, thanks to the purple-shirted workers on patrol. No one shoved, no one grabbed.

Once inside, they realized the store was empty.

And dark.

The door creaked shut behind them.

Then, the floor opened.

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.