Store
Keith Rondinelli
Untitled, by Tameca L Coleman, digital photograph, 2018
MAGAZINE
It is hard to say how long we’ve been in the store. None of us can remember. When I first arrived, a dark electric sky threatened rain. Since then we’ve watched the clouds come and go like crowds at a station. Sometimes it seems as though it was only yesterday since I first came; other times it feels like an eternity.
It has been two days since our last escape attempt. Davis at the magazine rack organized the debacle. Ever since, he has been despondent, buried in Good Housekeeping. I’ve tried to get through to him. I make the excuse that I’m browsing the paperbacks in order to see how he’s doing. He seems to be leaving us. Perhaps it is for the best.
It is hard to say how long we’ve been in the store. None of us can remember. When I first arrived, a dark electric sky threatened rain. Since then we’ve watched the clouds come and go like crowds at a station. Sometimes it seems as though it was only yesterday since I first came; other times it feels like an eternity.
It has been two days since our last escape attempt. Davis at the magazine rack organized the debacle. Ever since, he has been despondent, buried in Good Housekeeping. I’ve tried to get through to him. I make the excuse that I’m browsing the paperbacks in order to see how he’s doing. He seems to be leaving us. Perhaps it is for the best.
LIPSTICK
I continue my rounds. I stop by the makeup aisle to talk to Shawna. She has a tube of lipstick and is drawing a diagram of the store’s layout on the linoleum. Empty tubes litter the floor. Her fingertips are stained crimson, as if she’s been dissecting corpses.
“Any luck?” I ask.
“Yeah right,” she says.
“That’s a nice color.”
“It’s called Rouge Rapture.”
I look over her shoulder. Corridors snake in and out of each other. Arrows point into and out of dead ends. Question marks float in the center of blurry voids. She wipes a quadrant of the map away with her sleeve and begins again. On the floor beside her are several wallet-size photographs: her son, Mitchell; her husband, Eddie; her mother, Pearl.
“Well, anyway. Let me know how it goes.”
“I guess,” she says, opening a bag of crinkle-cut chips. By the Cheetos endcap I glance back, and see that her face is buried in her hands.
I continue my rounds. I stop by the makeup aisle to talk to Shawna. She has a tube of lipstick and is drawing a diagram of the store’s layout on the linoleum. Empty tubes litter the floor. Her fingertips are stained crimson, as if she’s been dissecting corpses.
“Any luck?” I ask.
“Yeah right,” she says.
“That’s a nice color.”
“It’s called Rouge Rapture.”
I look over her shoulder. Corridors snake in and out of each other. Arrows point into and out of dead ends. Question marks float in the center of blurry voids. She wipes a quadrant of the map away with her sleeve and begins again. On the floor beside her are several wallet-size photographs: her son, Mitchell; her husband, Eddie; her mother, Pearl.
“Well, anyway. Let me know how it goes.”
“I guess,” she says, opening a bag of crinkle-cut chips. By the Cheetos endcap I glance back, and see that her face is buried in her hands.
LAUNDRY BASKET
I drift through the bright plenitude. I ride the air conditioner’s currents. I make a point to avoid the toy aisle, as it reminds me too much of my daughter Jenni. Like Shawna I may never see my family again, and anything to prevent such a thought has become part of my survival strategy. I cut through electronics and make my way to the warehouse, where I’ve set up quarters. Armand sits in the seat of the forklift, smoking and reading The Enquirer.
“Jesus was spotted at a mall in Georgia.”
“Shopping?”
“He was in the food court.”
“He was eating?”
“Maybe he was just hoping to be seen.”
“Do you have to do that around here?” I say, waving the smoke out of my face.
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s bad for you is the difference.”
“We’re all screwed anyway.”
“Are you giving up?”
“Maybe.”
I make my bed — an inflatable mattress and fine thread count sheets — and head off down one of the towering aisles to look for Shane. When I find him, he is throwing a basketball into a laundry basket that he’s clamped to one of the shelves’ thick metal beams. Shane is our youngest, only twelve. His mother sent him to the store to buy toilet paper, and he’s been with us ever since.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?”
“How are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know we will get out of here, right? One day, you’ll see your mother again.”
He lets the ball bounce away into the shadows and turns to me. His eyes are like a gerbil’s. There is so much love in the world, and yet we tend to keep it from each other. I walk up and put my arms around him. He backs away, but then relents. Among the powdered beverages and lithium ion batteries, we hug.
I drift through the bright plenitude. I ride the air conditioner’s currents. I make a point to avoid the toy aisle, as it reminds me too much of my daughter Jenni. Like Shawna I may never see my family again, and anything to prevent such a thought has become part of my survival strategy. I cut through electronics and make my way to the warehouse, where I’ve set up quarters. Armand sits in the seat of the forklift, smoking and reading The Enquirer.
“Jesus was spotted at a mall in Georgia.”
“Shopping?”
“He was in the food court.”
“He was eating?”
“Maybe he was just hoping to be seen.”
“Do you have to do that around here?” I say, waving the smoke out of my face.
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s bad for you is the difference.”
“We’re all screwed anyway.”
“Are you giving up?”
“Maybe.”
I make my bed — an inflatable mattress and fine thread count sheets — and head off down one of the towering aisles to look for Shane. When I find him, he is throwing a basketball into a laundry basket that he’s clamped to one of the shelves’ thick metal beams. Shane is our youngest, only twelve. His mother sent him to the store to buy toilet paper, and he’s been with us ever since.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?”
“How are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know we will get out of here, right? One day, you’ll see your mother again.”
He lets the ball bounce away into the shadows and turns to me. His eyes are like a gerbil’s. There is so much love in the world, and yet we tend to keep it from each other. I walk up and put my arms around him. He backs away, but then relents. Among the powdered beverages and lithium ion batteries, we hug.
IBUPROFEN
Deborah had sent me to buy ibuprofen for the baby. It was the middle of the night, so my only choice was the 24-hour place on Plainview. I left them there, my two lovely ones, in the powdery glow of the sky-and-clouds nightlight, humidifier coughing mist, with Jenni, hot as a baked potato, crying in Deb’s arms.
I said, “I’ll be right back,” which I now know was a lie, or if not a lie then definitely untrue. If they had only known that my secret wish was to leave and never come back — not because I didn’t love them, but because the responsibility often threatened to crush me like an avalanche.
CANDY
The first escape attempt was coordinated by Ron the Cashier. Those were the early days, when hope still graced the halls of our fluorescent prison. Ron knew the place better than any of us. We huddled as a team in the beverage aisle, reflected like dancers in the panes of the refrigerated shelves. Ron explained that the temporary display of Halloween items that obscured the front door could be circumvented by penetrating a narrow row of creepy props and plastic pumpkins. He seemed to have it all figured out. His confidence was electrifying.
We went single file past the masks and costumes. A vampire leered. A motion-activated werewolf howled. A zombie’s plastic hand brushed Shawna’s wrist and she screamed. I jumped back into a display. Candy corn scattered across the floor like beetles. Armand slipped and went plowing through a cardboard Frankenstein’s monster. Davis screamed, fooled by the cutout’s realism, and fainted into the shelves, which upended, teetered, and came crashing down on my shin.
“I was wrong,” Ron said, shaking his head. His name tag was smeared with chocolate. The tag said Hello my name is Ronaldo I’m happy; the “to help you” had been scraped off ages ago, a remnant of his days when he still came to work with the certainty that he’d leave at the end of his shift.
“What do you mean?” I said, pulling my foot out from under a huge plastic spider.
“I thought the slight brightening beyond the graveyard was a way out, but it isn’t.”
We all stood and looked out across the debris. He was right; it wasn’t an exit, only a window that looked out onto the gray asphalt, the lights like wire hangers, the yellow faded lines like a child’s drawing. The trees coughed, the interstate beyond them just a thin gleaming ribbon in the particulate air.
“We’re all going to die here,” Shawna said from behind a foam gravestone.
“No we’re not, we’ve got enough food and water to last a lifetime,” I said.
Melissa, our skinny vegan, said, “It’s not food, it’s processed. We’re totally going to die.”
“This is bullshit,” Davis said.
“This is retribution,” Søren said. Søren was a goth kid, maybe in his early twenties, tubby and morose. That, I remember, was the first time he’d said anything to any of us. With his black lipstick and fishnets, he appeared at home in the wrecked graveyard in which we were arguing out our fate.
“So he can talk,” Speck said.
“Retribution for what?” Ron said.
“For building this place. For playing God. For filling it with trinkets in which we’ve tried to place transcendent meaning.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I said.
“I’m talking about death.”
“What’s with this philosophical bullshit?” Speck said. He was the only one who’d elected to not shower in the gardening department, the only one who’d refused to pick himself new clothes. His tie-dye had dulled to the luster of old stained glass, and his ass-length ponytail seeped grease.
“It’s your life,” Søren said.
“It’s stupid,” Speck said.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Ron said, walking away.
“We’re all here for a reason,” Søren said.
“There’s no reason. It’s totally random,” Shawna said. “My mother was going to come but she tore a ligament in her foot. It could have just as easily been her in here.”
“Your mother’s accident means you were meant to come.”
“There is no meaning,” I said, surprised at what had come out of my mouth.
The first escape attempt was coordinated by Ron the Cashier. Those were the early days, when hope still graced the halls of our fluorescent prison. Ron knew the place better than any of us. We huddled as a team in the beverage aisle, reflected like dancers in the panes of the refrigerated shelves. Ron explained that the temporary display of Halloween items that obscured the front door could be circumvented by penetrating a narrow row of creepy props and plastic pumpkins. He seemed to have it all figured out. His confidence was electrifying.
We went single file past the masks and costumes. A vampire leered. A motion-activated werewolf howled. A zombie’s plastic hand brushed Shawna’s wrist and she screamed. I jumped back into a display. Candy corn scattered across the floor like beetles. Armand slipped and went plowing through a cardboard Frankenstein’s monster. Davis screamed, fooled by the cutout’s realism, and fainted into the shelves, which upended, teetered, and came crashing down on my shin.
“I was wrong,” Ron said, shaking his head. His name tag was smeared with chocolate. The tag said Hello my name is Ronaldo I’m happy; the “to help you” had been scraped off ages ago, a remnant of his days when he still came to work with the certainty that he’d leave at the end of his shift.
“What do you mean?” I said, pulling my foot out from under a huge plastic spider.
“I thought the slight brightening beyond the graveyard was a way out, but it isn’t.”
We all stood and looked out across the debris. He was right; it wasn’t an exit, only a window that looked out onto the gray asphalt, the lights like wire hangers, the yellow faded lines like a child’s drawing. The trees coughed, the interstate beyond them just a thin gleaming ribbon in the particulate air.
“We’re all going to die here,” Shawna said from behind a foam gravestone.
“No we’re not, we’ve got enough food and water to last a lifetime,” I said.
Melissa, our skinny vegan, said, “It’s not food, it’s processed. We’re totally going to die.”
“This is bullshit,” Davis said.
“This is retribution,” Søren said. Søren was a goth kid, maybe in his early twenties, tubby and morose. That, I remember, was the first time he’d said anything to any of us. With his black lipstick and fishnets, he appeared at home in the wrecked graveyard in which we were arguing out our fate.
“So he can talk,” Speck said.
“Retribution for what?” Ron said.
“For building this place. For playing God. For filling it with trinkets in which we’ve tried to place transcendent meaning.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I said.
“I’m talking about death.”
“What’s with this philosophical bullshit?” Speck said. He was the only one who’d elected to not shower in the gardening department, the only one who’d refused to pick himself new clothes. His tie-dye had dulled to the luster of old stained glass, and his ass-length ponytail seeped grease.
“It’s your life,” Søren said.
“It’s stupid,” Speck said.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Ron said, walking away.
“We’re all here for a reason,” Søren said.
“There’s no reason. It’s totally random,” Shawna said. “My mother was going to come but she tore a ligament in her foot. It could have just as easily been her in here.”
“Your mother’s accident means you were meant to come.”
“There is no meaning,” I said, surprised at what had come out of my mouth.
BOTTLE
Since then we’ve organized four more attempts. The store’s layout doesn’t shift like in a science-fiction movie. There are no supernatural forces at play. The place is simply too vast, too confusing, and the longer we stay here the less adept we become at navigating via intuition. The sensory cues human beings normally rely upon are scrambled, subverted by impossible angles, shimmering towers, corridors which run for miles and terminate in foggy manmade moraines.
Sometimes I don’t know why we so desperately want to leave. In our former lives we were drawn to places like this, as babies to a breast. In the store, the uncontrollable world is broken down and reconstituted as something logical, manageable, meaningful. There is heroism in erecting a citadel like this, in navigating it, in seeking out and finding magnificence in its offerings. Maybe Søren is right — maybe this is a place of death, or, conversely, of life everlasting.
Since then we’ve organized four more attempts. The store’s layout doesn’t shift like in a science-fiction movie. There are no supernatural forces at play. The place is simply too vast, too confusing, and the longer we stay here the less adept we become at navigating via intuition. The sensory cues human beings normally rely upon are scrambled, subverted by impossible angles, shimmering towers, corridors which run for miles and terminate in foggy manmade moraines.
Sometimes I don’t know why we so desperately want to leave. In our former lives we were drawn to places like this, as babies to a breast. In the store, the uncontrollable world is broken down and reconstituted as something logical, manageable, meaningful. There is heroism in erecting a citadel like this, in navigating it, in seeking out and finding magnificence in its offerings. Maybe Søren is right — maybe this is a place of death, or, conversely, of life everlasting.
PILLS
In the morning I find Davis’s body in the pharmacy. He’s taken on overdose of sleeping pills. I kneel down and pat his forehead, not knowing what else to do. Through the drive-thru window I see the doughy face of a man in an SUV. I leave Davis’s body and run toward the window waving my arms, but the man stares right through me. He looks at his watch and drives away.
We put together a service for Davis in the ruined graveyard. Shawna looks mad. I ask her why the long face?
“He’s a giver-upper. We can’t have that here,” she says.
“He was unhappy.”
“We’re all unhappy.”
“I’m not actually all that unhappy,” Speck says.
“Are you serious?” Ron asks.
“I’m totally serious.”
“Have you been raiding the SSRIs again?” I ask.
Speck smiles, a sunlit blankness in his eyes, like light through bathwater.
“Not cool,” Ron says.
“What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you’re not genuinely dealing with your emotions. And also, those pills belong to the store.”
“Why should I genuinely deal with my emotions?”
“To find out what’s really bothering you,” Shawna says.
“I already know what’s bothering me. I’m trapped in a place I can’t find my way out of, even though it should be easy. All bets are off. People on the outside munch these like they’re M&Ms. I think I have a pretty good reason.”
“He’s right,” Søren says. “Why not feel groovy if we’re going to be stuck here.”
“Did he say ‘groovy?’” I ask.
“Are you popping pills too?” Shawna asks.
“What if I am?”
“You’re a poser, with your dark clothes and death-talk.”
“I’m not a poser. I’m experimenting with happiness. It may turn out it’s not for me.”
In the morning I find Davis’s body in the pharmacy. He’s taken on overdose of sleeping pills. I kneel down and pat his forehead, not knowing what else to do. Through the drive-thru window I see the doughy face of a man in an SUV. I leave Davis’s body and run toward the window waving my arms, but the man stares right through me. He looks at his watch and drives away.
We put together a service for Davis in the ruined graveyard. Shawna looks mad. I ask her why the long face?
“He’s a giver-upper. We can’t have that here,” she says.
“He was unhappy.”
“We’re all unhappy.”
“I’m not actually all that unhappy,” Speck says.
“Are you serious?” Ron asks.
“I’m totally serious.”
“Have you been raiding the SSRIs again?” I ask.
Speck smiles, a sunlit blankness in his eyes, like light through bathwater.
“Not cool,” Ron says.
“What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you’re not genuinely dealing with your emotions. And also, those pills belong to the store.”
“Why should I genuinely deal with my emotions?”
“To find out what’s really bothering you,” Shawna says.
“I already know what’s bothering me. I’m trapped in a place I can’t find my way out of, even though it should be easy. All bets are off. People on the outside munch these like they’re M&Ms. I think I have a pretty good reason.”
“He’s right,” Søren says. “Why not feel groovy if we’re going to be stuck here.”
“Did he say ‘groovy?’” I ask.
“Are you popping pills too?” Shawna asks.
“What if I am?”
“You’re a poser, with your dark clothes and death-talk.”
“I’m not a poser. I’m experimenting with happiness. It may turn out it’s not for me.”
RADISHES
Two weeks go by. A somnolence falls over us. Shawna abandons her diagram. Davis’s body starts to stink so I put it in the walk-in freezer. Speck’s eyes are quivering yolks. I tell him to quit with the pills and he says he’s over it: happiness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Ron tells me that he saw Jesus in produce, and I roll my eyes. He says to go look if I don’t believe him. I find a bundle of ruby-red radishes on the aisle’s buffed floor, conspicuously placed like an offering. In the texture of the vegetables’ bright skin I see clouds, sunbeams.
“What’s with the radishes?” Søren says, standing over me.
“They’re so beautiful,” I say.
“Like the hearts of angels,” he says. I look up at him. He has taken to wearing women’s clothes, makeup, high heels. He tells me that the SSRIs have helped him become more comfortable with his femininity. I tell him I think this newfound sense of self is great, but that it’s too bad it had to be a result of our situation. His overpowering maternal presence releases something in me. I confide in him that I’m losing hope.
“What do the radishes say? Can you read something in their skin?”
“Whatever they’re telling me remains obscure.”
Two weeks go by. A somnolence falls over us. Shawna abandons her diagram. Davis’s body starts to stink so I put it in the walk-in freezer. Speck’s eyes are quivering yolks. I tell him to quit with the pills and he says he’s over it: happiness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Ron tells me that he saw Jesus in produce, and I roll my eyes. He says to go look if I don’t believe him. I find a bundle of ruby-red radishes on the aisle’s buffed floor, conspicuously placed like an offering. In the texture of the vegetables’ bright skin I see clouds, sunbeams.
“What’s with the radishes?” Søren says, standing over me.
“They’re so beautiful,” I say.
“Like the hearts of angels,” he says. I look up at him. He has taken to wearing women’s clothes, makeup, high heels. He tells me that the SSRIs have helped him become more comfortable with his femininity. I tell him I think this newfound sense of self is great, but that it’s too bad it had to be a result of our situation. His overpowering maternal presence releases something in me. I confide in him that I’m losing hope.
“What do the radishes say? Can you read something in their skin?”
“Whatever they’re telling me remains obscure.”
ICE CREAM SANDWICH
The others become curious about Davis’s body. They request to see it. Speck is the first. He comes to me at night, stinking of alcohol, eating an ice cream sandwich. The chocolate is smeared across his lips, lending him a clownish air.
“I need to get closer to death,” he says.
“Suit yourself,” I say, yanking open the freezer door. I watch him through the condensation on the door’s little window. He kneels at Davis’s abdomen, puts his hand on the man’s cold heart. I think I see him wipe a tear from his eye. When he comes out, there are little icicles hanging from the underside of his nose.
The others become curious about Davis’s body. They request to see it. Speck is the first. He comes to me at night, stinking of alcohol, eating an ice cream sandwich. The chocolate is smeared across his lips, lending him a clownish air.
“I need to get closer to death,” he says.
“Suit yourself,” I say, yanking open the freezer door. I watch him through the condensation on the door’s little window. He kneels at Davis’s abdomen, puts his hand on the man’s cold heart. I think I see him wipe a tear from his eye. When he comes out, there are little icicles hanging from the underside of his nose.
Untitled, by Tameca L Coleman, digital photograph, 2018
FROSTING
The food starts to get low. I pretend I don’t notice. Shawna starts a new mural in the unisex bathroom, this time using chocolate frosting. The mural doesn’t resemble anything in the outer world — it is alien and internal. I stand staring, perplexed. In the patterns she’s drawn I think I see muscles, arteries, organs.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a map of my inner-space,” she says. “It will help me find my way.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m retreating into myself.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I say.
“It’s the only way to combat this place. I’m beginning to see myself for who I am: a body, prone to decay, miraculous rumblings, pulsations, inner secrets. It’s like for years I’ve just been this brain floating in space! Look at my fingers, look at my toes! Why do we put nail polish on our fingernails? Lipstick on our lips? It’s not to draw attention but to cover up, to obscure the reality.”
“What’s the reality?”
“That we’re animals. Creatures. That we will one day die.”
“Are you on something?”
“Speck had a sheet of blotter acid. He said he was saving it for if he ever got out of here, but he’s given up hope.”
The food starts to get low. I pretend I don’t notice. Shawna starts a new mural in the unisex bathroom, this time using chocolate frosting. The mural doesn’t resemble anything in the outer world — it is alien and internal. I stand staring, perplexed. In the patterns she’s drawn I think I see muscles, arteries, organs.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a map of my inner-space,” she says. “It will help me find my way.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m retreating into myself.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I say.
“It’s the only way to combat this place. I’m beginning to see myself for who I am: a body, prone to decay, miraculous rumblings, pulsations, inner secrets. It’s like for years I’ve just been this brain floating in space! Look at my fingers, look at my toes! Why do we put nail polish on our fingernails? Lipstick on our lips? It’s not to draw attention but to cover up, to obscure the reality.”
“What’s the reality?”
“That we’re animals. Creatures. That we will one day die.”
“Are you on something?”
“Speck had a sheet of blotter acid. He said he was saving it for if he ever got out of here, but he’s given up hope.”
BEACH CHAIR
I find Speck in the far corner of the warehouse, in a beach chair, staring up through the skylight. I look up: a few tissue-paper clouds decorate an aqua patch of sky. I look back at him. Foamy spittle crawls down his chin. He is wearing women’s pajamas.
“What the hell?” I say.
“I’ve seen it.”
“What?”
“The end. In all its glory. It shines behind everything. This whole place is like a fortress against its advance. I know now.”
“You’re tripping.”
“Duh.”
“We need to keep our heads, otherwise we’ll never get out of here.”
“I’m already out of here.”
I find Speck in the far corner of the warehouse, in a beach chair, staring up through the skylight. I look up: a few tissue-paper clouds decorate an aqua patch of sky. I look back at him. Foamy spittle crawls down his chin. He is wearing women’s pajamas.
“What the hell?” I say.
“I’ve seen it.”
“What?”
“The end. In all its glory. It shines behind everything. This whole place is like a fortress against its advance. I know now.”
“You’re tripping.”
“Duh.”
“We need to keep our heads, otherwise we’ll never get out of here.”
“I’m already out of here.”
TOILET PAPER
I look for Shawna in the restroom. The mural has expanded to the floors, the ceiling. It is as if I’ve walked into a lower intestine. I find Melissa in front of a toilet, with a roll of toilet paper in her hand. She is staring into the water as if divining the future.
“What are you seeing?”
“That’s me in there. Part of me,” she says. I walk up behind her. She is trembling like a hatchling. I look down into the toilet. A turd turns in the water like a docking boat. “Have you ever just sat and looked at your poop?”
“Not really. Maybe when I was a kid.”
“We need to return to that point. Everything else is just illusion. I’m going to get down on my knees and smell it. You can join me if you like.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll want access to the walk-in later.”
“To see Davis?”
“To see Davis. But also to defrost some meat. I’ve got this uncontrollable urge to eat meat.”
I look for Shawna in the restroom. The mural has expanded to the floors, the ceiling. It is as if I’ve walked into a lower intestine. I find Melissa in front of a toilet, with a roll of toilet paper in her hand. She is staring into the water as if divining the future.
“What are you seeing?”
“That’s me in there. Part of me,” she says. I walk up behind her. She is trembling like a hatchling. I look down into the toilet. A turd turns in the water like a docking boat. “Have you ever just sat and looked at your poop?”
“Not really. Maybe when I was a kid.”
“We need to return to that point. Everything else is just illusion. I’m going to get down on my knees and smell it. You can join me if you like.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll want access to the walk-in later.”
“To see Davis?”
“To see Davis. But also to defrost some meat. I’ve got this uncontrollable urge to eat meat.”
GREETING CARD
It turns out Shane has taken acid, too. And so has Ron, who has gone missing. I find Shane weeping in cosmetics. I try to reassure him, but my entreaties are growing dishonest in the face of our circumstance. All evidence points to being stranded here forever. I see Shane growing old. I see me homeschooling him via paperback thrillers and stolen looseleaf. I see the shelves bare, the lights blinking out one by one. I see darkness, products finally drained of meaning, all that was meant to be unfolding without us, the outside world spiraling off into eternity.
“I wasn’t here to buy toilet paper,” Shane says. I see shame turning in his eyes. I take his hands. His palms are like pieces of cold pizza dough.
“You weren’t?”
“I was here to buy my mom a birthday present. I had such high hopes. I was going to get her something real nice. Maybe from the ladies’ aisle.”
“Let’s pick something out together.”
“But it’s too late. Her birthday was ages ago. And besides, we’re stuck here.”
“We’re going to get out of here. And you’re going to give her her gift. And a card. Mothers love cards.”
I take Shane to the greeting cards. We stand twirling the revolving racks in the cold quiet. Mine squeaks like a hungry mouse. I show Shane a few cards and he just shrugs. “This is so pointless.”
“What is?”
“Buying stuff. As if it could ever really mean what you need to it mean, or say what you need it to say, or whatever.”
“It’s what we do. As humans.”
“As stupid humans.”
“As stupid humans.”
“I guess this one,” he says, showing me a card with a hokey illustration of a bouquet of pink roses. “She likes pink.”
“Okay, follow me.”
We arrive at the ladies’ aisle. We look at shampoo, hairbrushes, maxi pads. “This stuff is so weird,” he says.
“What did your mom like. I mean, what does your mom like?”
“I don’t know. Lady stuff.”
“How about this?” I ask, holding up a magnifying makeup mirror. “It’s got a light and everything. Does she wear makeup?”
“Tons,” he says.
“This is perfect then,” I say. “And you can get her some makeup to go with it.”
We move down the aisle to the makeup. Shawna is there with Melissa. Shawna is sitting with her head in her hands. Melissa is gnawing on frozen chicken nuggets, occasionally staring at them. “What’s going on?” Shawna asks.
“Shane wants to get his mother some makeup. For her birthday.”
“What color are her eyes?” Melissa asks.
“Blue.”
“Well, how about some of this,” Shawna asks, handing him a shiny bottle of eye shadow. “This is what I’d get if I was lucky enough to have blue eyes.”
Shane takes the small bottle and turns it over in his fingers. Behind his hair’s waterfall I see his own blue eyes, his mother’s eyes, alive with tears. A glob of snot droops from his nose and he sucks it back in. His lower lip quivers like a puddle in the wind. Shawna puts her arm around him, and I join her. Melissa rests her head on his shoulder.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” I say. Shawna raises an eyebrow at me over Shane’s little head. I think of Jenni and Deb, and all the hurt I’ve ever felt gathers around me like mourners at a grave.
We will not die here.
It turns out Shane has taken acid, too. And so has Ron, who has gone missing. I find Shane weeping in cosmetics. I try to reassure him, but my entreaties are growing dishonest in the face of our circumstance. All evidence points to being stranded here forever. I see Shane growing old. I see me homeschooling him via paperback thrillers and stolen looseleaf. I see the shelves bare, the lights blinking out one by one. I see darkness, products finally drained of meaning, all that was meant to be unfolding without us, the outside world spiraling off into eternity.
“I wasn’t here to buy toilet paper,” Shane says. I see shame turning in his eyes. I take his hands. His palms are like pieces of cold pizza dough.
“You weren’t?”
“I was here to buy my mom a birthday present. I had such high hopes. I was going to get her something real nice. Maybe from the ladies’ aisle.”
“Let’s pick something out together.”
“But it’s too late. Her birthday was ages ago. And besides, we’re stuck here.”
“We’re going to get out of here. And you’re going to give her her gift. And a card. Mothers love cards.”
I take Shane to the greeting cards. We stand twirling the revolving racks in the cold quiet. Mine squeaks like a hungry mouse. I show Shane a few cards and he just shrugs. “This is so pointless.”
“What is?”
“Buying stuff. As if it could ever really mean what you need to it mean, or say what you need it to say, or whatever.”
“It’s what we do. As humans.”
“As stupid humans.”
“As stupid humans.”
“I guess this one,” he says, showing me a card with a hokey illustration of a bouquet of pink roses. “She likes pink.”
“Okay, follow me.”
We arrive at the ladies’ aisle. We look at shampoo, hairbrushes, maxi pads. “This stuff is so weird,” he says.
“What did your mom like. I mean, what does your mom like?”
“I don’t know. Lady stuff.”
“How about this?” I ask, holding up a magnifying makeup mirror. “It’s got a light and everything. Does she wear makeup?”
“Tons,” he says.
“This is perfect then,” I say. “And you can get her some makeup to go with it.”
We move down the aisle to the makeup. Shawna is there with Melissa. Shawna is sitting with her head in her hands. Melissa is gnawing on frozen chicken nuggets, occasionally staring at them. “What’s going on?” Shawna asks.
“Shane wants to get his mother some makeup. For her birthday.”
“What color are her eyes?” Melissa asks.
“Blue.”
“Well, how about some of this,” Shawna asks, handing him a shiny bottle of eye shadow. “This is what I’d get if I was lucky enough to have blue eyes.”
Shane takes the small bottle and turns it over in his fingers. Behind his hair’s waterfall I see his own blue eyes, his mother’s eyes, alive with tears. A glob of snot droops from his nose and he sucks it back in. His lower lip quivers like a puddle in the wind. Shawna puts her arm around him, and I join her. Melissa rests her head on his shoulder.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” I say. Shawna raises an eyebrow at me over Shane’s little head. I think of Jenni and Deb, and all the hurt I’ve ever felt gathers around me like mourners at a grave.
We will not die here.
Untitled, by Tameca L Coleman, digital photograph, 2018
MOWER
“How fast can these things go?” I ask Ron. We are in Lawn & Garden. I run my hand along the mower’s fiberglass body. I kneel down and sight down its length like a member of a NASCAR pit crew.
“Thirty, tops,” Speck says.
“That’s not so fast,” Ron says.
“I can mod it,” Speck says. “I mean, after I come down from my trip.”
“Mod it how?” I ask.
“Easy. Do a pulley swap. The belt might rub the shifter, but I can see what I can salvage from the other mowers. I can get it up to fifty-five, sixty tops. It’ll be crazy unstable. Might have to weigh the front down to prevent flipping it.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “We can hook a cart up to the back and put everyone in.”
“This is so dangerous,” Melissa says.
“Do you want to eat processed food forever?” I ask.
“No.”
“I don’t know if I can climb in there with my dress,” Søren says.
“I’m scared,” Shawna says.
“Beyond fear lies hope,” I say.
“How fast can these things go?” I ask Ron. We are in Lawn & Garden. I run my hand along the mower’s fiberglass body. I kneel down and sight down its length like a member of a NASCAR pit crew.
“Thirty, tops,” Speck says.
“That’s not so fast,” Ron says.
“I can mod it,” Speck says. “I mean, after I come down from my trip.”
“Mod it how?” I ask.
“Easy. Do a pulley swap. The belt might rub the shifter, but I can see what I can salvage from the other mowers. I can get it up to fifty-five, sixty tops. It’ll be crazy unstable. Might have to weigh the front down to prevent flipping it.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “We can hook a cart up to the back and put everyone in.”
“This is so dangerous,” Melissa says.
“Do you want to eat processed food forever?” I ask.
“No.”
“I don’t know if I can climb in there with my dress,” Søren says.
“I’m scared,” Shawna says.
“Beyond fear lies hope,” I say.
SKY
I feel the engine purr. I rev it. Exhaust blooms, a majestic canopy of optimism. The store’s banners are flags snapping me to courage. Cold glory moves through me. Shane’s breath is on my neck, his arms around my waist, his nearness an ocean wave. I love these people: they are my friends. I’ve learned so much in our time here in the store — what’s important, what isn’t, what people desire and what they need: so much need. Will this mad flight work? Or will it end in tears and twisted wreckage? Part of what I’ve been taught by the store is that death is what’s most missing from our lives. I put the pedal to the metal. I feel the wind in my teeth. The store’s forbidding lights smear into laser beams. We fly. The bristling cornucopia we sail through is not plenitude — it is a magic show promising immortality. There is no pulse here, no blood flows. In the heartbeats of those nearest to me — our little clan — I hear the surge of life.
I feel the engine purr. I rev it. Exhaust blooms, a majestic canopy of optimism. The store’s banners are flags snapping me to courage. Cold glory moves through me. Shane’s breath is on my neck, his arms around my waist, his nearness an ocean wave. I love these people: they are my friends. I’ve learned so much in our time here in the store — what’s important, what isn’t, what people desire and what they need: so much need. Will this mad flight work? Or will it end in tears and twisted wreckage? Part of what I’ve been taught by the store is that death is what’s most missing from our lives. I put the pedal to the metal. I feel the wind in my teeth. The store’s forbidding lights smear into laser beams. We fly. The bristling cornucopia we sail through is not plenitude — it is a magic show promising immortality. There is no pulse here, no blood flows. In the heartbeats of those nearest to me — our little clan — I hear the surge of life.
About the Author
Keith Rondinelli graduated from Parsons School of Design with a BFA in illustration. As founder and chief creative officer of Woodhouse, he has overseen design, motion graphics and branding for clients such as R/GA, HarperCollins, Microsoft, Showtime, Nickelodeon, Verizon, and more. He co-directed and edited the award-winning documentary film Yellow Brick Road, which was an official selection of the Full Frame festival and and aired on HBO and Cinemax. His animated short, The Forbidden Forest was a Vimeo Staff Pick and an official selection of the Fargo Film Festival. He records electronic music under the alias Dolmen Moon (dolmenmoon.bandcamp.com) and has self-published a dystopian sci-fi novel, The Simulations, on Amazon. He lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his wife and two children. His work can be found at keithrondinelli.com and woodhousecreative.com.
Keith Rondinelli graduated from Parsons School of Design with a BFA in illustration. As founder and chief creative officer of Woodhouse, he has overseen design, motion graphics and branding for clients such as R/GA, HarperCollins, Microsoft, Showtime, Nickelodeon, Verizon, and more. He co-directed and edited the award-winning documentary film Yellow Brick Road, which was an official selection of the Full Frame festival and and aired on HBO and Cinemax. His animated short, The Forbidden Forest was a Vimeo Staff Pick and an official selection of the Fargo Film Festival. He records electronic music under the alias Dolmen Moon (dolmenmoon.bandcamp.com) and has self-published a dystopian sci-fi novel, The Simulations, on Amazon. He lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his wife and two children. His work can be found at keithrondinelli.com and woodhousecreative.com.
