Fran pulled her red Model X past the handicapped spaces, past the fire lane, all the way to the far end of the Walmart parking lot. It was something she did every time. The walk and the distance from the front door told a lot more than your standard interview.

“I have to be honest with you, Fran.” Thomas Sudameyer, IV, according to his CV. When he spoke to her, her name sounded like a correction, not a potential employer. “What does Walmart have to do with the communications director position?” He glanced at his watch, a Patek Philippe Nautilus, stainless steel blue dial. Fran had seen enough of them to know where it came from. She also knew it was inherited. It wasn’t the kind of watch you buy. I’ve got a 2:30,” Thomas said, doing his best to show it off, without flashing it.

“I know,” Fran smiled. The automatic doors slid open, and she went inside.

—

Eleven years. Eight of these interviews ended in the parking lot, before she reached the shopping cart corral inside the front doors. Three of them made it to the checkout. Only one of those, in eleven years, got the job. Fran? She was really good at this.

Thomas, dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit, windsor knotted tie, cufflinks that were worth half the price of the watch, and his wingtip shoes, shone so bright that it reflected everything near the ground back at you. Both hands were buried in his slacks pockets.

Four people crossed the lot, a few steps ahead of them.

First, an older woman with a cute little pug in a harness. Besides the dog, there were exactly three items in her cart. A can of condensed tomato soup. A small box of tea. And some dog treats. She really didn’t need the cart, as far as Fran could see. Fran looked her in the eyes, smiling. She smiled back.

A construction worker passed them second, hard hat still atop his head. A scraggling beard said he’d probably been working some long shifts, which explained the dark lines under his eyes. An unlit cigarette was tucked under his right ear, fingers drumming against his thigh, moving fast and not looking at anyone. Fran smiled at him, nodding politely. He didn’t see her. She didn’t seem to mind.

The third person she and Thomas crossed paths with? A large man, slightly overweight, with an overloaded cart, heading out to his car. Visible items included four types of chips: Doritos, Cheetos puffs, Ruffles sour cream and onion potato chips, and plain tortilla chips. Three loaves of white bread, the ends of them sticking up, like the tops of carrots in a garden. A 30-pack of Miller Lite was on the bottom rack of the cart. A thin line of sweat covered the edge of his receding hairline. His black Star Wars t-shirt was soaked through, leaving small droplets on the blacktop between his Birkenstocks, which had seen better days. It looked like the only thing holding the man up was the shopping cart. Fran smiled, stepped out of his path, nodding as he went by. He lifted his chin, a feat in and of itself.

Fran was paying more attention to Thomas, seeing that he never acknowledged any of them.

“What do you see?” Fran asked.

Thomas glanced up from his phone, a bored look on his face. He did a quick half-second scan. “I guess I see people leaving Walmart.” He went right back to scrolling on his phone.

Grabbing a cart from the corral inside the sliding door, Fran saw a young man, a cart pusher in an orange vest, covering the blue Walmart one, collecting the stray carts nearby. He was doing his best to steer three carts at once, one-handed. “Got quite a herd on your hands, don’t you?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Every single freaking time.” He laughed.

Thomas missed it because he was already inside.

—

The produce section was bright and loud. A teenager in a blue vest was breaking down boxes near the bananas. He was quick, moving fast, head down. Thomas stepped around him, like you do when you see a wet floor sign.

Fran slowed, peering over her cart. “Hey. You doing okay?”

The kid looked up, startled. “Yes, ma’am. Just trying to get these done before my break.”

“You’re doing great.” She winked, her smile beaming wider. She really did mean it.

Thomas said nothing, glaring at the kid as if it were the kid’s fault his interview wasn’t over yet.

Fran took her time in the dairy aisle. Eggs. Milk. Two kinds of cheese. She watched Thomas out of the corner of her eye. Every five seconds, he checked his phone, and he exhaled through his nose at a woman blocking the yogurt section with her cart. He never said excuse me. Never made eye contact with her until she moved. Then he stepped in, like he was the one who was wronged.

Fran wheeled around to the same woman a moment later. She was checking the expiration dates on the yogurt. “I’m sorry,” Fran said, “but would you mind if I squeeze in? I just need one.” She held up a finger, still smiling.

The woman moved her cart twice without being asked, almost as if she did so because Fran was nice to her. “Of course, honey.”

“Thank you. Have a good one.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

Fran and Thomas continued moving through the aisles, Fran checking the prices on ground beef.

“What’s your favorite breakfast?” Fran asked.

“Black coffee.” He said it like it was a badge of honor.

“That’s not food, though.”

“I don’t eat before 10:30,” he interrupted. He smiled a small smile. Like his sheer discipline, it was something worth admiring.

She put a pound of ground sirloin on top of the eggs in the cart.

—

Fran didn’t pick up much. Enough to be carried out in three bags. At the checkout, she set her items on the belt one by one. Thomas stood at the end of the conveyor, still scrolling his phone, half-turned away like the transaction didn’t involve him.

He didn’t bag a single item.

Fran guessed the cashier was in her mid-fifties, wearing her reading glasses on a chain. Bree smiled at Fran. “Find everything okay today?”

Fran smiled. “I did. Oh, and I don’t know who I need to say it to, but your produce department? It looked fantastic today. Someone’s been working really hard back there.”

Bree grinned. “Oh. That’s Johnny. He comes in just before five. Never complains. Not once. Smiles all the time. Well, except when he’s focused on restocking.”

“Well, it certainly shows.” Fran handed over her card. “How’s your day going, Bree?”

“Can’t complain.” She laughed. “Well, I suppose I could.” She winked at Fran. “But, I won’t.”

Fran laughed with her. Thomas looked up from his phone just long enough to confirm nothing interesting was happening, then looked back down.

Thomas walked out in front of Fran, his shoes clicking on the blacktop. He didn’t offer to push the cart, put the groceries in the bags, or interact with the people inside the store.

—

Back at the car, Fran loaded her groceries into the frunk, Thomas standing at the passenger door, watching the lot, waiting for her to unlock the Tesla.

She intentionally left the cart beside the rear bumper. It was deliberate. Unhurried. She opened her door, got in, and waited.

Twelve seconds. Fifteen seconds.

Thomas climbed in, clicking his seatbelt.

The cart sat there, at the rear bumper, three feet from the corral.

Fran started the car.

—

She shook his hand in front of the office. Firm. Professional. Her coworker Jamie appeared at the door, came down the steps, and grabbed two bags without being asked.

“Got it, Fran.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

Thomas watched Jamie disappear inside. Something crossed his face. He’d assumed Jamie was her assistant.

“That’s it?” Thomas asked. His voice had an edge. It wasn’t hurt or confused. This was different. It was indignant. The voice of a man who had never been dismissed by someone he’d already decided was beneath him.

Fran kept her expression neutral. “Thanks for coming in, Thomas. We’ll be in touch either way.”

“An interview at Walmart.” He said it the way you’d say an interview in a gas station bathroom. “I’ve replaced three communications directors in the last two years. I ran PR for the Hendricks campaign. And you are going to interview me at Walmart?”

“Have a great day, Thomas.”

She walked inside. The door closed behind her. Through the glass, she didn’t look back.

—

Thomas stood on the sidewalk.

The sun was hard and flat.

The cart sat in the middle of the lot, maybe forty feet away from the front door, left by someone who didn’t feel like walking it back. Just sitting there, nobody’s problem, everybody’s problem.

Thomas glared at it.

Then he sprinted to his car, eager to get the smell of Walmart out of his clothes.