Chapter 9: The Buy More
"Okay, so — this is a barcode scanner." Chuck held it up with the specific energy of a man who knew he was overqualified for this explanation and was trying not to show it. "When a customer brings something to the register, you scan the tag, it pulls the price and product info into the system—"
"Chuck." Simon looked at him. "I've used a self-checkout before."
"Right." Chuck set the scanner down. "Right, yeah. Let's skip ahead."
They moved to the next aisle. Chuck walked with one eye on the floor and the other on the middle distance, like he was listening for something Simon couldn't hear.
"Can I ask you something?" Simon said.
"Sure."
"You seem like you don't want me here."
Chuck opened his mouth immediately. "No — that's not — I don't have a problem with you being here—"
"Is it because of Mia?"
The word landed and Chuck stopped walking. Just for a second — barely a beat — but Simon caught it.
Simon exhaled. "Chuck, I'm sorry. I didn't think about how this would land. If me showing up here is bringing back stuff you'd rather not think about, I can talk to Big Mike and figure something out. Genuinely."
He meant it. He'd heard the story secondhand from Mia, years ago — enough to fill in the outline. Chuck had been at Stanford. Someone he trusted had set him up, got him accused of cheating on an exam, and Chuck had been expelled before anyone bothered to hear his side. The fact that a Stanford-educated computer engineer was now fixing laptops at a retail counter in Burbank wasn't a career choice. It was the aftermath of someone else's decision.
"No." Chuck turned back toward him, more solid now. "No, don't do that. I want you here. It's fine. It's good, actually." He ran a hand through his hair. "I just — it's been a weird week. It's not you."
"Okay."
"It's really not."
"I believe you." Simon gestured ahead. "Electronics section?"
Chuck almost smiled. "Electronics section."
They spent the next two hours working through the floor — cameras, home theater, laptops, tablets, the difference between the extended warranties that were worth buying and the ones that were essentially a donation to the company. Chuck knew the inventory cold, explained it clearly, and seemed to relax by degrees as the morning wore on, as though the simple act of talking about something he understood steadied him.
Simon didn't bring up Mia again. He didn't bring up Stanford. He just listened, asked reasonable questions, and let Chuck be the person who knew things.
By noon, Chuck seemed almost like himself.
"Thanks for all of this," Simon said as they headed toward the break room. "Seriously. You didn't have to make it this thorough."
"It's fine." Chuck waved it off. "It's actually nice to talk to someone who isn't asking me to fix their printer."
"I might ask you to fix my printer."
"At least you'll do it with context." Chuck poured himself a coffee from the machine in the corner — the old drip kind that tasted like it had been sitting since the Clinton administration. "Hey — can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Are you still around here? Like, living in the same neighborhood?"
"Same house," Simon said. "Parents are mostly offshore. It's just me."
Chuck nodded. "I moved back in with my sister. Ellie." He said it with a self-deprecating tilt that suggested he'd made peace with it but still noticed it every day. "It's good, actually. She's good. It's just not exactly how I thought things would go."
"For what it's worth," Simon said, "I'd take family nearby over independence any day. I haven't seen my parents since the Fourth of July."
Chuck looked at him. "I'm sorry, man."
"Don't be. I'm used to it." Simon poured his own coffee, took one sip, and quietly decided to never do that again. "Hey — completely different subject — what are you doing two days from now?"
Chuck looked at the calendar on the wall. "I — it's my birthday."
"I know. Mia used to remind everyone." Simon looked at him levelly. "What are you doing for it?"
Chuck blinked. "I wasn't really planning anything."
"Let me come by. Bring Meg. We'll figure something out."
Something moved across Chuck's face — surprise first, then something quieter underneath it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Can I — is it okay if Morgan's there? He'll be there regardless, I just want to—"
"Of course." Simon leaned back against the counter. "The more the better."
Chuck nodded slowly, like a man accepting good news he'd stopped expecting. "Okay. Yeah. That'd be great actually." He almost said something else, then stopped. Then: "Thank you, Simon."
"It's a birthday. Don't thank me yet — I haven't figured out what to get you."
The afternoon shift started, and Simon found out what kind of salesperson he was.
He was, it turned out, unfairly effective.
It wasn't something he planned. He just knew the products — Chuck's morning crash course, combined with years of working on machines himself — and he could read what a customer actually needed versus what they thought they needed, and he knew how to close the gap between those two things without making anyone feel sold to.
He was demonstrating a camcorder to a woman in her forties when he realized three other women had quietly formed a loose semicircle behind her, all waiting.
"The lens is top of the line," he was saying, "and the memory card storage means you're not fumbling with tapes. If you want to capture the stuff that matters without thinking about the camera — this is the one."
The woman looked at him, slightly dazed. "I'll take it."
"Register's at the end of aisle six." Simon smiled. "Have a great evening."
He turned around.
Four women were now looking at him with questions.
He helped all of them.
By four o'clock his voice was sandpaper.
"Man." Morgan Grimes materialized from somewhere in the store, Chuck beside him, both watching Simon finish his last customer interaction of the shift. "You're a natural."
Morgan Grimes — beard like a folk singer, energy like a labrador, Chuck's best friend since what Simon understood was approximately kindergarten. Simon knew him the same way he knew most of this neighborhood's peripheral cast — from years of proximity rather than any single event.
"Water," Simon said. "Someone give me water."
Chuck was already handing him a bottle from behind the counter. "I told you. Saturdays are intense."
Simon drank half of it in one go and leaned against the counter. "Tell me tomorrow is quieter."
"Tomorrow is not quieter," Chuck said apologetically.
Simon stared at the ceiling.
"On the bright side," Chuck offered, "your commission today is probably going to be significant. Big Mike is going to be very happy with you."
"That's something." Simon capped the bottle. He checked the time. Four seventeen. "Alright, I'm heading out. I put in six hours."
"Come on," Morgan said, with the practiced tone of a man who had made this same pitch many times. "Stay. We do this thing on Saturdays — hang out, play some games, get food—"
"I have plans with Meg."
Morgan sighed philosophically. "And so the coupled-up abandon the brotherhood once again."
"Tragic," Simon agreed. "Chuck, I'll see you Monday. Morgan, good seeing you."
"It's genuinely a shame," Morgan called after him. "You're wasted on happiness."
Simon changed out of the green polo in the back room, said goodbye to nobody in particular, and walked out to the parking lot.
He'd planned to call Meg, maybe drive down to the beach for an hour before dinner. The day had gone better than expected and he felt like moving.
He was reaching for his phone when the other one buzzed.
The prepaid. Doc's number.
Simon answered on the second ring.
"Where are you right now?" Doc's voice was unhurried, like a man asking a question he already knew the answer to.
"Burbank. Parking lot."
"112 West 7th Street. Seventh floor. You have thirty minutes."
"I'll be there in twenty."
"Good." A pause. "Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Simon stood in the parking lot for exactly three seconds, running the route in his head.
Then he got in the Supra and drove.
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