Brandi (that's Brandi with an "i") stood at the loading dock behind the Piggly Wiggly grinding a disregarded lettuce leaf into the ground with her cross trainer vividly imagining her father's face under her toe. I hate him! She brooded. No, hate is too good for him... Death is too good for him because if I kill him he'd probably go to Hell and Hell is too good for him. Brandi's father was self made, nouveau riche. He had money. Lot's of money. Enough money to earn a membership at the country club (well, he wasn't black, Jewish, or a woman; and while he was a Yankee, he did marry on the right side of the county's tracks). Enough money to be invited to every haughty charitable function and to-do. The old money would greet him with a warm handshake and a gentle slug on the arm... until of course they turned their back and then they'd roll their eyes and look at each other as if to say "poor sucker." After all, he was still a Yankee. And if it wasn't for some damn turn coat during the War Between the States selling southern secrets like tomato aspic and fat back to Ulysses S. Grant, they'd all still have their slaves and tobacco wouldn't cause lung cancer.
Brandi's father believed in hard work and self discipline and inflicted upon his daughter these values as well. Hence the forlorn teenager's position behind the Piggly Wiggly. In order for Brandi to keep her car, her phone, and her pocket money, she had to maintain a part time job... of his choosing. There would be no silly tromping through frilly underwear all day at Victoria's Secret or pretending to straighten clothes racks at Banana Republic. He wanted her to really earn a dollar. So he found a job for her stocking shelves and whatnot at the Pig. It was the "whatnot" that really pissed her off. "Whatnot" included aisle clean-ups, smooshed poopy diapers in the parking lot, sweeping the loading dock, and tasks in the restrooms that would require therapy in her not-to-distant future.
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