The fifth column on the new items spreadsheet is dedicated to package size. While not nearly the headache represented by brand names, these also need to be uniform. You couldn't spell out ounce half the time but abbreviate it to oz the rest; similarly, you couldn't put a period behind lb on occasion yet omit it on the remainder. And this said nothing of the whole metric versus standard dilemma, within which often the vendor catalogs or even product lines themselves weren't consistent. The same  applied to liquids, occasionally abbreviated as fl oz and occasionally not, decisions seemingly determined at random.

Regarding their purposes, it doesn't much matter whether something is a liquid or not. The item is what it is, and they are applying their markup percentage the same either way. Any customer or employee who is viewing the price tag would be standing directly in front of the item and could just pick it up if they're exceedingly curious about such. Therefore he decides fairly early on that he is not making a point of identifying every single liquid on their shelves and marking these as fl oz. Sixteen ounces will be 16oz either way and this is good enough. Consistency is the main objective here, and space on the tags is at a premium besides.

As Edgar's first summer on the job rolls around, he has chipped away at this for six months and is getting a good grasp on what matters and what doesn't. On this and many other issues, however, there is one individual who takes exception with Edgar's verdict on seemingly every topic. This is of course Palmyra's vitamin manager, Zaire Patterson.

Some of their head butting is beyond debating and without question behavior her employees need to change. For example this department remains the runaway leader, at any location, in stamping over barcodes with a price gun sticker when it isn't in their system. Edgar has spoken to Zaire and pretty much every other vitamin employee about this, as has Dale. These items need to be added to their database, and in many respects this is worse than the people who just put things out, unaware or not, when they don't scan at the register - if for no other reason than you now must go back and peel off the stickers anyway. And yet the basic response has essentially been, mmm, that's nice. But these things need a price. Think we'll go ahead and continue stickering them until you add them, thank you very much.

Store manager Corey Brown hasn't been exceptionally helpful regulating this topic to date, so it has remained Edgar and Dale fighting on the side of the good guys. Even though the hand stickering clearly indicates that these employees are aware this doesn't scan, so the procedure here is fill out the new item sheet and send it to Edgar. Debating it further only breaks the entire topic down into even more arcane and mostly besides-the-point sub-arguments, among which the most popular are:

1. a) it "should be" in the system
2. b) it "used to be" in the system
3. c) they "already" gave it to him, which, when he begins pulling up email history to refute this point, frequently morphs into
4. d) well, actually, they already gave it to Zaire, so she must not have turned it in
5. e) if he added it, the price would be "wrong," because other similar items are "wrong"
6. f) yes, it's true that vitamins is the only department in the store with its own computer on hand, connected to the internet, even, which they often use, but they are "not good" with filling out an Excel spreadsheet, really "not good" with using computers in general

Regarding the last, as calmly and as clearly as he can, Edgar attempts to explain, hey, you obviously knew the item didn't ring up, so the thing to do is…turn it in on a new items spreadsheet. If any points from a through f are still valid, then they can discuss this. And yet this scourge persists in Palmyra's vitamin department. Some play dumb by smiling and saying, "really?" like it's the first time they've heard this, which might be the least objectionable response, as far as Edgar's concerned. Yet if there's one thing that Zaire Patterson does put her foot down regarding, it's this matter of the fluid ounces not being labeled as such.

It's an argument which has already begun to slowly transform. The first time she called him about it, this was her beef. "Fluid ounces are different from dry ounces," she feels the need to inform him. To which he replied that, yes, this is true, but it doesn't matter. The products themselves aren't even differentiated as such half the time - potentially impossible, anyway, when you think about something like, say, a fruit cocktail can, which is a little of both - and this wouldn't change their retail one iota. He would rather establish that all the items are going to be labeled simply oz, consistently, across the board, instead of ever beginning to insinuate that every single liquid in the system will be labeled fl oz. Even if somehow miraculously accomplishing such, he can already picture the nightmarish scenario of various employees, after they are finished hand stickering over barcodes, opening boxes and sifting items to determine that some are 51% liquid and should also, in their judicious estimation, be labeled accordingly.

The claim has since shifted in that Zaire now states it's the customers complaining about this, and she's only relaying the message. He finds this notion preposterous, yet even if true, it also doesn't matter. The drone's eye view of these debates is really what's at issue here, which Edgar boils down about the same as everyone else: Zaire's pretty damn obnoxious. Yet, she's performing well enough otherwise that they can afford to, and really have no choice but to, look the other way.

This store alone continues to suffer major and multiple bizarre quandaries, far more than the other two locations combined. Without a true butcher in place, Nick's old buddy Scott is occasionally enlisted to drive up from Southside and cut meat. Yet one problem with this arrangement is that he also tends to show up and act like he owns the place, barking orders at the deli employees, especially when Dolly's not around. And therefore the others, who are not in any way under his command, kind of hate the guy.

"I think he's mostly just interested in being in charge," is the part-time fuckup Steve's take on the situation, and he's probably not wrong.

The remaining staff back here will admit to feeling as though tied in knots by the situation. A handful confess to not wanting Scott around because they could probably do that job if given a little training, but not wishing to take any responsibility for how the meat department currently looks, because they haven't been over there. Yet also not wanting to complain to anyone about the lack of bodies back here, either, because this would imply they might need Scott's help.

Another problem is that he's never listed on the schedule, so nobody ever knows when he is or isn't going to magically materialize. Things reach a head on a Monday, the 10th, where Dolly is off, but has left them a list of things to order from Buckthorn Meats. But she's not even going anywhere, she'll just be around the house, is in frequent contact with Corey and the deli employees both.

Therefore it comes as a considerable surprise to them when Scott stomps onto the scene at eight o'clock this fine morning. He's pissed off before even entering the department because chickens dated the 10th are out in the packaged case, shouting over the counter at them that these should have been pulled last night, the 9th - even though as the handful present point out to him, this isn't their policy. They always let packages with today's date ride to the end of the day.

"Well, it's the policy now!" Scott growls, "I'm the acting meat manager."

"Look, I'm just doing what they tell me. I'm not in charge of anything," Steve says, at some point during this discussion.

Maybe this remark sets Scott off further still, for he marches into and directly through the department, out the swinging back door and down the hall into Corey's office. Demands that Steve and Dolly both be written up for these outdated chickens.

He's gone for a little while, presumably ranting and raving about the situation, before returning to get down to any actual work. He cuts a bunch of brown looking ox tails, prices these at 99 cents, marinades some steaks. Pulls outdates from the case - both legitimate and otherwise, i.e. the freakout pieces dated the 10th - then writes a note for the second shift crew to stock chickens and set the seafood case. Then bails at 9:30.

Meanwhile, there’s brown stuff throughout the meat case. They have tenderloins, pork sirloins, bottom round, chuck rolls all back in the cooler, uncut, and none out anywhere. As some will note, these do suspiciously resemble Nick antics. So those present knock out setting up the remainder of the deli case, then patch in meat with what they can. And then they place the Buckthorn order that Dolly had requested. They are about 5/6 of the way through a cleaning list she had also given them, that afternoon, such as scrubbing the floor with bleach, when a quite livid Scott rings them from his own department in Southside, accosting whichever random deli employee happens to grab the phone next.

First he lays into the only recently hired Dave, before the baton is passed to Steve. The belligerent would-be meat manager is demanding to know who placed the Buckthorn Meats order. Because it turns out that Scott also placed a Buckthorn Meats order for Palmyra, but failed to mention this to anybody over the course of his high stakes tactical maneuvering this morning.

"Who placed this Buckthorn order?"

"I did."

"WHY?"

"Because Dolly left us a list of things to order, and you never said anything about it."

Scott grumbles some directive about stocking chickens before hanging up. He does ring up Buckthorn to request that they cancel his Palmyra order, except he apparently forgets all about - and fails to mention - having also ordered a bunch of stuff from Southern Hospitality, many of them the same items that were on Dolly's list, yet at a higher price. Dolly arrives the following day and respectfully requests that Scott never be allowed to enter this department again.

"Okay, I'll take care of it," Corey says.

Dolly and Corey know enough between them to cobble together a meat case for the time being, and can show this new guy Dave the ropes as much as possible. This still doesn't solve the issue of hiring an actual butcher to run the department, but plenty of other, far more demanding fires continue raging elsewhere.

Though the new assistant manager, Brady, is often likened to Barney Fife walking around with that lone bullet in his gun, he has to rank among the highest percentile in normalcy at this location. If nothing else, Edgar finds him at least a reasonable enough character and sharing enough common interests to carry on a conversation with. He doesn't really know a ton about his role just yet, and yeah, there are snickers aplenty when Brady sits cross-legged and eyes closed up in the office, meditating, but he's catching on quickly enough. Brady's right on the ball for example one morning when Edgar runs the latest Universal Foods price update, and forgets to add the Exceptions file afterward, which sends the price on organic milk through the roof. Brady calls him up to point this out almost immediately, and Edgar corrects it.

This new assistant manager is also putting this ostensible goofball status to the test. His first notable line in the sand is drawn when Duane circulates a memo, regretfully informing employees that the heretofore endlessly free supply of filtered water is coming to an end. They've been allowed to fill up as many jugs as they wish, gratis, but the company can no longer afford to support this program. This notification is posted near every time clock and word is passed around verbally as well. Nonetheless, their first occasion working together after said notice is posted, Tara strolls toward the exit with a five gallon jug in hand, as if to leave.

"Did you pay for that?" Brady asks, confronting her just before the door.

"No."

"You need to pay for that."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm serious. Didn't you hear? Employees have to start paying for the water."

"Man, fuck this place," Tara says. Sets her jug down right there, on the floor in front of the registers, and continues onward without it.

­­That evening, Tara's exceptionally drunk husband climbs behind the wheel and drives over to Corey's residence. Parks in front of the place, crookedly, his front right wheel even hopping the curb slightly before coming to rest. Jumps out and pounds on Corey's front door until the master of the house answers, then launches into an angry, finger pointed tirade aimed squarely at Palmyra's store manager.

The following morning, Tara strolls into the workplace and promptly files her two weeks' notice. So yes, the countdown has now begun for a produce manager as well. Even so, this isn't to suggest that the only struggles this location is experiencing are related to personnel.

Bizarre flourishes abound elsewhere here. For example, the cheese case in the deli seems to go out every time it rains; despite bringing a repairman in on numerous occasions to "fix" the heat, the store remains bone chilling during the colder months, with only a few select scorching hot points of refuge that the employees have memorized; someone had these wooden black foot cases delivered here, weeks ago, but nobody has yet figured out a destination for them, thus they are continually shuffled around between the receiving dock, back hall, and produce department, whenever they are in someone's way; the strip mall's landlord, a kooky if rich older gent with the colorful name of Aubrey Doyle, likes to hang out and issue orders to employees, though not involved with the HHM operation whatsoever, and was once spotted strolling up and down the aisles while twirling a pistol around on his index finger.

Yet these occurrences, while problematic, possibly even costly, are nonetheless capable of bringing a smile to one's lips. Not so much, however, some of the more confounding occurrences which directly threaten the store's bottom line. The weights and measures department has made a small feast of this location, for example, and on more than one occasion just in the eight months or so that Edgar has been here, the dude has shown up on the very afternoon they were in the middle of hanging tags for the monthly Universal Foods price update. Corey is able to talk him out of some demerits, but for the most part, their auditor doesn't want to hear perfectly legitimate excuses such as dude, we just changed these prices this morning, and are in the process of hanging tags!

The latest visit, however, is of a different sort, featuring some cranky old woman they've never seen before as its star. Or make that villain. Without warning she materializes one afternoon at the deli case, with a shopping cart and a clipboard. Calmly begins piling up her cart with items, and writing things down, until first Dolly and then Corey receive a full briefing on her mission. Edgar, who happens to be on hand as well, is soon roped in for the bombshell: until they straighten out the labeling on these items, she is quarantining the packaged section of this deli.

At issue here are some finer points about the ingredients section, for things they are packaging and stickering from the Hobart scale. Soon Christie Marsh is phoned down at Southside, to bring her up to date on these developments, yet the vast majority of these items preceded her tenure with this company, i.e. were the work of the previous deli merchandiser, the much derided and subsequently fired wine enthusiast.

Corey even begins to argue as much, that they'd gotten rid of their merchandiser a "few" months ago, and as far as anyone knew, these items were labeled correctly. But this lady isn't hearing it. She points out that they cannot just list something like mayonnaise as an ingredient, that you must in fact break out every component of the mayonnaise itself, in parentheses behind it. No one present has ever heard this before. But now they've got another huge mess on their hands to clean up, not to mention a crater sized hole in their deli numbers until this is resolved.