Code Adam

The intercom buzzing interrupted his retail trance: "Code Adam."

Adam groaned. A Code Adam meant that one, his coworkers would be making fun of his name all day and, two, that someone had lost their brat in the store.

Again.

They were up to fifteen that week.

He dutifully put down the box of toys that people had been too lazy to put back and walked around, looking for any little kids that were either alone or pissing their pants. He hoped it wasn't the second one (for the fifth fucking time).

What kind of parents was it this time?

Adam took a peek up at the counter. Yep, overweight soccer mom with a fake Gucci ensemble, massive manicured nails and a voice like a belt sander to the ears. His favorite. Probably let her precious little Jeffrey or Tarquin or whatever name she thought sounded edgy or unique play while she yacked on her phone.

He cupped his ear, hoping to catch those magic words. "-I can't believe you didn't watch him better!"

Aha! There it was. Adam rolled his eyes outwardly but sort of snickered on the inside. These retail-hating assholes always blamed them, the retail monkeys, for not taking care of their precious little monsters.

"He's such a good boy!"

Or, his favorite, "Don't tell me how to parent my child!"

Then parent them, he always thought while he nodded and groveled for his pitiful job.

They all searched while attempting to keep up with shoppers who didn't give two fucks about anything else but getting checked out to shut their bleating spawn up. When told no one could leave the store for a bit, there was more than a few threats to call: the manager, corporate, the police, lawyers, whatever.

By the time he had circled around, Adam noticed the police actually were there.

His heart sank a little. That was the fifteenth kid that they hadn't been able to track down. Now he almost felt a little bad for the clawed soccer mom -- her tears seemed hysterical and genuine.

Adam sighed and went back to work. He was sure he'd get the gossip later, but noted the details: young toddler, blonde hair, green eyes and wearing a blue jumper with some obscure cartoon character on the front.

Fifteen kids in one damned week. How effective could the code be if it seemed to fail every damned time?

He tried to think and couple his love of crime shows: had there been any suspicious repeat customers in? Anyone that looked shady? Customers all sort of looked the same to him, except for the four hundred pound woman that had smuggled dolls in her cleavage; no one even attempted to stop her.

No one came to mind.

His trudge to the stock room felt heavier than normal. All that was left was those stupid, massive dolls that had grown in popularity. Adam heaved the box onto the trolley and rolled it out, attempting to avoid squishing any little monsters.

These things were so creepy. They never looked the same, either. First there was a bunch of blank-eyed little girls with their lips flapping around. Supposedly, they talked, but he avoided pressing the button like the plague.

Three girls in cute little outfits, some oddly ghetto looking dolls and a few little boy dolls. Adam had no idea why -- he couldn't imagine a fan of dolls wanting a dead-eyed looking ginger kid, a wide-eyed boy with some epic dreadlocks or some blonde kid that looked like he'd peed his overalls.

Oh well. Corporate knows best.