As much wine as would fit in the frame

Out here in the wild and woolly retail landscape, it’s often unclear whether keeping these incidents to oneself is the right thing to do. You could certainly advance a valid argument that sweeping something like this under the rug is not in the company’s best interests. Yet to run and complain to Duane about it wouldn’t really feel right, either, would leave Edgar feeling more like a third grade tattletale. He is seriously trying to picture a scenario that would find him contacting Human Resources about somebody and is drawing up nothing but blanks.

But this opens a whole other dilemma concerning what’s to be done about someone, then, instead. He’s not really a complainer or a gossip. So far he’s found three or four trusted allies here whom he might privately speak his mind to, and that’s about it. Even while recognizing that gossip may in fact serve a legitimate purpose in the workplace, for this very reason — it’s one of the least complicated and possibly only viable outlet they have — if it reaches a fever pitch, if enough people form an accurate consensus about someone. He just can’t bring himself to bitch to random employee A about random employee B, because it feels unprofessional, and just not how reasonable adults should handle things.

So this is what he consoles himself with, that these things eventually sort themselves out. A person can only dodge reality for so long. The thing is, though, they are almost never attacking a person directly around here, only the process. Even his emails that some are bellyaching about — the whole point of these, without exception, can be summarized as, here is the process we are trying to get everyone on board with. Nobody’s complaining about you personally. People do not get in trouble for making mistakes, because they’re all in the same boat there. It’s about improving the process. And yet some just cannot take this kind of input anyway.

Things get even dicier when management is forced to tiptoe around what you might call modern sensibilities, the current political correctness climate. He does not envy Duane or H.R. or the store managers in the slightest when it comes to this. Figuring out how to deal with everyone on a case by case basis already has Edgar partially tied in knots, and this is without having any subordinates under his charge.

Still, there are things that most of them whisper, which are generally perceived as true, yet only a complete lunatic would say out loud in mixed company. And at the top of this list is surely what’s perceived as one of Southside’s biggest problems: Pierre O’Brien gets away with murder because he is openly gay.

“They’ll never fire him, and he knows it,” grocery manager Craig Willis is telling Edgar, “that’s why he acts the way he does.”

If you were a celebrity and Tweeted such a sentiment, they would axe your radio show within hours. Even someone running a company just three stores strong would probably lose his job, airing this publicly. But that only kind of reinforces the point that Duane or Harry or Destiny must walk on eggshells around the guy, because otherwise they might have a riot on their hands. Edgar doesn’t care one whit about someone’s orientation, he has family members that are gay. Yet he concedes that what Craig says is probably true, because that’s just the minefield they are all negotiating right now. And there are dozens of other employees who secretly feel the same way about Pierre.

At least Pierre’s short lived preoccupation with the bulk department has ended. This lasted long enough for him to pitch a ton of candy, order some of the most expensive saffron known to man — in any form among the more costly spices, period — and call it a day. Well, he also made sure they were well stocked on the Herbes de Provence, a spice blend his French pretensions cannot resist promoting endlessly.

A couple of the bulk employees are snickering about this one, relating Pierre’s obsession with the mixture, claiming they hold approximately a five year supply in reserve at the moment. And Edgar believes it, but even so, there’s nothing quite like receiving personal confirmation on points such as this. Therefore later in the day, when he is back down on the floor for another reason entirely, he runs into this same bulk duo over by the spices, and the timing could not have aligned much better. From where they are, they can see Pierre, seated within the office and doing something on the computer.

“Watch this,” Edgar says, under his breath, and pretends to consult the paperwork on his clipboard. In a much louder voice, he declares, “YEAH, SO I NOTICED THAT ALL OF YOUR SPICES ARE SELLING REAL WELL, EXCEPT FOR THE HERBES DE PROVENCE.”

With surreptitious side glances, they choke back snickers and peripherally watch Pierre. Can see his head snap in this direction, as he bolts up out of the chair, staring this way with a mortified expression.

“Herbes de Provence?” one of the bulk employees questions, as though possibly not even remembering such a blend.

“YEP, MMM HMM, IT’S JUST NOT SELLING,” Edgar confirms, nodding his head to further sell this farce.

At which point Pierre sails out of the office, accosts the three of them with an amusing if pointless sales pitch about how this savory mixture is “really good, really good,” and that they should definitely try it.

But, as amusing as these sidebars are, the central tenets supporting any complaints about Pierre usually involve a) the endless gossip, b) his continued maniacal hording of seemingly every wine possibly available, via any Carolina distribution channels at their disposal, and c) not much visible work being done otherwise.

Regarding these, Edgar would admit he finds the first point kind of entertaining, a form of comedy that’s reliable in its frequency if not even near so with its content. The last one is probably true, as much as he’s witnessed himself and heard others complain, but it’s none of his concern and he doesn’t care either way. But the point about the wine is certainly valid, and seems to only be getting worse, even though Edgar is now unwittingly stuck in the middle as a translator.

As Harry requested, Edgar did pass on the message about putting the kibosh on this crap. The next time Pierre came into his office, to pick up some price tags, Edgar simply stated, “hey, uh, Harry wanted me to tell you, you’re not supposed to bring in any new wines.”

“Harry said that?” Pierre questions, halting in his tracks, face dropping.

“Yeah, that’s what he said,” Edgar confirms, shrugging.

He doesn’t hear any more about this topic for another few weeks. During this period the onslaught of fresh bottles continues unabated, nay, might possibly even increase. The next word Edgar receives is an afternoon where an exasperated, out of breath sounding Harry marches into this office, wants to know if he said anything to Pierre about this wine madness.

“Well, yeah, I told him he wasn’t allowed to add any new wines. But like I was saying, I mean, it’s not like I have any authority over the guy…”

“Okay,” Harry nods, says, “I’ll go tell him, then.”

This time around, only an hour or so passes before the next urgent update. And while Edgar doesn’t ask for nor does he receive specifics about how this conversation went, he’s guessing that Harry must have experienced some difficulty in getting his point across. Once again this almost feral seeming old timer, with his standard uniform of a lumberjack style, insulated black and red flannel shirt, and faded if sturdy jeans, the impressive charcoal grey hair helmet, he arrives panting, as though dashing up here to deliver the news.

“Okay, here’s the deal. From now on, if he brings in any new wine,” Harry declares, making a vicious chopping motion through the air, side to side, with one hand, “do not add them to the system.”

“Don’t add them to the system?”

“That’s right,” Harry confirms, and leaves the room.