On Fridays the Little Debbie’s man comes in. He drops off trays and trays of sugary product to be placed on the shelves, and talks about Greta the secretary. The Little Debbie’s man looks like the porno star from the 70s, Harry Reemes, who turned preacher in 1989. Greta is German. She’s got legs from here to eternity man, he says. From here to eternity! Get it? The Little Debbie’s man loves old movies. Greta hates him. Hates his mustache. Hates his Little Debbie’s Cakes. Hates his advances. I’m on the short term plan. She isn’t. She probably hates me. Get these pallets out on the floor and the boxes up on the shelves a-sap, the store manager barks at me. A-sap! Richfood is coming in twenty minutes. Richfood is the weekly semi-trailer delivering packed, frozen shit from Richmond, Virginia. It takes me and three other guys eight hours to move out the stuff, break down the pallets, and stock the store. It’s all right, though. The trailer is air-conditioned. We all try to linger as much as we can unloading the stuff. Pallets out first, you hear me? And get Greta to help with the stocking. There’s no room for all this shit, I say later. It don’t fit. Ve maek eet fit, Greta says in that stern, German way of hers. And she does. She maeks eet fit. Later that afternoon the Little Debbie’s man comes in again. He’s drunk. The door to the loading dock swings open, then shuts in his face. Then swings open again. Where’s Greta, he says. I tell him she’s gone home. I lie. Goddamit. She’s got legs from here to eternity, you hear me? And I do.