The lights are too bright, making everything glow. If I run, everything saying, �Buy me!� turns into a colored blur and I feel like I�m running to the light at the end of the tunnel. In reality, the light is the cashier�s light reading 4.
I�m alone, with the exception of the one cashier under the 4 sign. She is Saint Peter at the gate, waiting to make a judgment on your life by scanning each of your items and looking over your clothes. Saint Peter is leaning over her counter reading the tabloids. The large clock on the wall behind her reads 3:30 a.m., which means I have been in the supermarket for over an hour. Tonight, to stop myself from sleeping, I�ve decided to test the 24 hour sign next to the supermarket�s name.
My psychiatrist says I should accept my dreams with open arms, because they reveal our true selves, but he doesn�t understand my dreams.
The girl at the counter stares at me as I walk by. A bottle of Snuggle fabric softener has a picture of a little girl snuggling towels saying, �Buy me and your children will love you and appreciate you for your house work.� A package of Ballpark Franks has a picture of perfect hotdogs, juicy with black grill lines. They say, �Buy me to make hotdogs like these, so you can give them to your son and his teammates after they won their baseball game on a warm summer day.� I smile at this prescribed happiness we are supposed to have in our lives, but that is unattainable. We always think the happiest minuet of our lives will be when we get a diamond from Kay jewelers, or that perfect day in childhood, on a lazy summer day, with Kool-Aid and mom bringing us Pillsbury cookies, while dad and I play catch in the backyard.
�Do you need help with anything sir?� the cashier says to me, much more politely and sweetly than how I imagined a cashier would sound at this hour. She has this tiny Mona Lisa smile that looks like she�s thinking of something clever. It almost looks like she knows why I am here, and she thinks that it�s a funny idea.
�Oh no,� I say, �I�m just fine.� The cashier nods and says that she noticed I�ve been in the store for over an hour and I haven�t placed anything in my basket.
I grab the closest thing to me, a box of cookies with elves on the cover. I nod and smile to the cashier before strolling lazily toward the produce.
I look at my purchase. Elves are working merrily saying, �buy me to have magic in your life.� I think that if you want magic in your life, you should not buy cookies. People need to stop accepting what is expected of them. They need to free themselves from the illusion of perfect happiness, and break away from pretend televised realism, which is only there to make them believe that buying cookies will make their lives magical, and that Olay facial masks will bring them love.
When I walk by a barrel of birdseed in the bulk section, I dip my hand into it, and when the misters come on in produce section, I stick my head in the shower. I won�t ever be deprived of magic.
My psychiatrist is Dr. Smith, and everyday he wears a plain colored tie and either black or brown shoes. He�s a nice guy, and I like him, but he�s too orderly and normal to understand me.
The cashier stares at me under the mist. When the sprinklers turn off she asks jokingly, �forget to take a shower?�
I tell her, �You�re never too old to young.�
She smiles. �Are you from around here?�
I walk closer so that I don�t have to yell. �I grew up here,� I answer, �then I moved away, but it wasn�t working so I moved back.� I give her my box of cookies but she doesn�t make a judgment about my purchase, I�ve already made myself to clear to have my fate decided by a box of cookies. I tell her I won�t need a bag, and I take the cookies outside to the street corner where I am still in sight of the 24 hour sign, so that I can count cars that pass.
After I�ve stood on the corner for about an hour I decided the supermarket has proved itself because I want to go home. It�s too cold out and I had just gotten a great idea for my story. I start getting an awful headache as I walk, one that makes me grab my head and struggle to suppress a scream, one that makes me wish I could hop out of my body. I�m thinking, why did this have to happen to me?
Dr. Smith says things don�t always have a reason for happening, sometimes they do. He says I can be mad at God, God can take it if I�m mad at him. But I�m not mad at God anymore than I�m mad at my cat. I don�t feel anger or sadness, I don�t know what I�m feeling. Dr. Smith says that�s perfectly normal and it�s okay.
I walk into the elevator in my building. It stops suddenly. It�s been acting like this for weeks.
I look at the doors and say, �No, not now.� There�s a pause then the elevator starts again and takes me to my floor.
My apartment smells like coffee, plug-ins, and wet paint. It�s always smelled like wet paint and I�ve never known why. Lately I�ve smelled other things too, like flowers, pepper, and sometimes cigarette smoke, but these are phantom scents that no one else can smell. When I open the door, my cat jumps off the couch and weaves between my feet. I ignore her, go to the kitchen, and take some pills to help my headache. I go into my bedroom and get a black sharpie marker. I�ve been writing a novel on my walls for a few months now. It keeps me from dreaming but allows me to fall into a kind of waking sleep, a deep meditation.