An Ordinary Painful Day
You have groceries to buy, right? And obviously, we need to exchange them for that thing people always need. Sometimes that thing has a picture of a particular world figure, a national hero, a monarch or some old lady you've never heard of. You know, that thing that tears families apart, is absent for the majority and plentiful for the minority.
So, you grab your peas and carrots, your broccoli, maybe pasta. Fuck it, you might even grab a bottle of something, something strong and sweet to take the edge off. The supermarket has a smell, its always dense and unpleasant. The aromas of produce mixed with the odours of humans. The supermarket has soul, one that people rely on to ensure the procurement and preservation of life.
You track back and forth between the aisles. The trolley filling and confidence fleeting. Fleeting because the more the trolley fills, the more a future sacrifice becomes likely. The more that thing you need stretches thin.
Sometimes you see the Queen smiling, knowing you really can’t afford that premium loaf of bread or those 12 pack of free-range eggs. Smiling — because she can.
The trolley now full, makes a turn, it turns to the register and your pockets ache. Its time to purchase.
A teenager stands guard — poorly mind you — by the register. His rectangle plastic name tag says Bill, but you think, He doesn't look like a Bill.
“Is your name Bill?” You enquire.
“No,” he mumbles. “Lost my old one.”
After standing waiting for him to reveal his name, ‘not Bill’ goes on staring and waiting for the inevitable trolley offload.
You unload the unaffordable items onto the conveyor belt and the teen's clammy hands start rifling produce into the recycled bags. Life always did have a way of creeping back. This kid, utterly unamused shouldn’t have to behave any other way. Why was it so maddening to watch a teenager have no respect for peoples items? Because it's you.
$12 an hour paired with ridiculous supermarket branded uniforms and the day in day out display of adolescence, covering your face and bracing your teeth is a past that all of us want to shove hard and fast behind us. Your first experiences with wanting, well, maybe needing that thing.
‘Not Bill’ cracks a smile so small that if you were to blink you'd miss it. Hope may dwindle now for you, but this 15 maybe 16 year old still has plenty of time. Time to not take life so god damned seriously.
Maybe you should wear a name tag with ‘Vicarious Bill’.
The beeping of each item breaks you.
The screen with the increasing price does just that, it increases and doesn't stop. He asks for that thing and you give it. Unsure if you'll get it back. 40 hours doesn't seem to cut it anymore, bills pile and kids mouths need feeding.
Your piece of shit 99 corolla waits patiently in the car-park and the groceries become chattels. They deserve no respect — surviving isn't an investment, colour is dull and pain is welcomed. The comfort of mortality is repetitive.
Home.
Groceries arranged as if they were loose items on a sinking ship.
You turn, your son still innocent with blushed cheeks and soft blonde hair stands at the door with that little smile that seems to sail straight through your body. A smile of gamma-ray, a smile of relief.
He runs to the car and you hand him bags that weigh close to half his weight. The screams and wails of youth bounce off the air and suddenly, today may just lookup. The thing has walked to the back of your mind. The thing has quietened. The thing is dormant.
The thing will come and go.
Your life will not.
