Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett

my brain with Zoloft. My doctor in the psych ward concluded I had insufficient serotonin, so he prescribed me a “selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor”.
    So, when Bernice asks me what I think should be my Cognitive Behavioural Therapy’s main focus—what I think my biggest challenge is—it catches me off guard completely.
    Finally, I tell her I’d like to work on my confidence. I want to be able to navigate social situations without second-guessing everything I say, and without wondering whether some hidden meaning lurks beneath what others say.
    I tell her about a few examples—like worrying that my co-workers know I was a psych ward patient—and we start working through them. In the middle of that, though, I blurt out with: “I feel like I am making progress at work.”
    She raises her eyebrows. “How so?”
    “I’m not sure what it is exactly I’m making progress with, but—well, I’m actually enjoying stocking the shelves, and stuff. I never would have expected that. It just feels great, you know? Having something to focus on.”
    Absurdly, a lump forms in my throat, and I’m in danger of crying.
    “I think…I think Mom would have been proud.”
    I have to take a few moments, then. A few deep breaths. Bernice waits.
    I tell her I’d like to return to writing. I think that’s also a confidence issue. Since Mom died, I’ve been too afraid of screwing up to even start writing anything. Without someone to tell me I do good work, my fear is more effective than any writer’s block ever could be.
     
    *
     
    The second time I work the order Ralph is on too, taking cartloads of frozen overstock out of the walk-in freezer and checking to see if there’s room for it on the shelves. He finds some frozen pizzas that are past their sell-by date, and he’s about to throw them out when I say, “Wait. How far past the date are they?”
    “A little over a week.”
    “Well, don’t throw them out. I’ll take them.”
    He shakes his head. “Store policy. Gotta chuck ‘em. Sorry.” He tosses all four in the trash compactor.
    I push a cartload out to Aisle Five. Gilbert is there, perusing the chip selection. “Have you seen Ralph?” he says.
    “In the warehouse.”
    I restock taco kits, three different brands of popcorn, and ice cream cones. I turn the cart around and head back for another load. Gilbert’s still near the chips, and as I pass he grabs a bag and tosses it onto the bottom level of my cart.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Shut up. I need to sneak it past the cameras.”
    “I’m your accomplice, now?”
    “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more an accessory.”
    The first hour of using my new method goes well, but after that I get a few cases that take a while to stock. The little cans of tomato sauce, for instance—they don’t fit into each other like other cans do, and I keep dropping them.
    Ralph notices I’m taking only five cases at a time, and asks me why.
    “Well, it’s working for me.”
    “I know. I saw your case count. But why five?”
    “Five cases don’t weigh you down like 10 do, so you can move faster. It’s also easier to find five from the same aisle, which reduces the distance you travel. Plus, fewer boxes to flatten.”
    “But you’re making twice as many trips back and forth to the warehouse.”
    I shrug. “I think the benefits outweigh the one drawback.”
    “Come with me.”
    We walk to his desk in the warehouse, and Ralph finds a calculator. He adds up my cartloads. “You’ve put out 110 cases so far, and it’s been two hours. 55 cases an hour—nearly a case a minute. That’s good work.”
    “Thanks.”
    He picks up the phone and presses the intercom button. “All Grocery personnel to the warehouse, please.” He hangs up.
    Within a couple minutes, Gilbert, Ernie, and Brent are standing with us around Ralph’s desk.
    “We’re trying something new,” Ralph says. “Sheldon’s been experimenting, and he’s found that bringing out five cases at a