Blotted images and dreary light are all I see. I shift my body but feel only soft warmth pressed against my skin. I pull it closer, and roll over to see bright red lights imposing on the delicate space that fills my deep green room. Protecting my eyes, I turn back around to stare blankly at the plain wall. Cleanliness.
My attempts at ignoring reality prove moot. I turn away from my wall and see the red numbers fitting neatly into the canvas of my room. 9:34, they say, although I know they are wrong.
Languidly I sit up, scooting towards the edge of my bed, where my feet touch the rough carpet and my hands reach to my face. I give it a good rub to make sure that I can still feel it, while my brain pieces together whatever I was dreaming. Sinkholes…darkness…heaving…yaks? Whatever the hell it was, I am damn skeptical now that I even exist in my own body.
Sharp whines outside my door let me know that Dolly is already awake—and hungry. I go for the doorknob, but it seems to melt in my hand, and I doubt that I can even turn it.
But it goes easier than expected, and Dolly’s pitiful brown eyes greet mine, earning her a scratch behind the ears. She likes it.
As I descend the stairs, Dolly follows me close behind. I wonder if humans are the only species that subjugate and train their fellow animals, but as I scoop bits of IAMS’ Super-formula for Healthy Coats into a bowl, I wonder whether or not I am the one who is house-broken.
Dolly squeezes in beside me, and her paw-nails tap against the ground as she wags her tail and dances happily across the tile floor, barely letting me set down her dish before she forces me out and eats everything in three gulps. After she is done, she looks at me, asking why there isn’t more.
I shoo her outside, and head back upstairs to put on my work clothes. I abhor uniforms more than anything, but this one has a black-on-black-on-black color scheme that makes me feel more like a Communist, so I wear it out of solidarity.
On my way out, I fill Dolly’s water dish from the sink and let her back inside. If I want to get cigarettes, I don’t have time to eat something meaningful, so I grab a pack of strawberry Pop-tarts and dash out the door. The jelly inside of them has gelatin, which is boiled off of animal bones, which is sacrilegious because I happen to be a vegetarian, but I don’t care much, because I am in a rush.
I step outside into the fog. It is worse than usual, because we usually don’t have fog, but I kinda like it. It’s better than the choking ozone, but I can barely see as I turn onto the main street of our town. Metallic creatures appear in my rear-view mirror, then overtake me and disappear back into the fog. I don’t understand why you would drive so fast in conditions like this.
Ahead, undefined shades of red hang gloomily in the turbid sky, marking the entrance to my most convenient store. Coffee and cigarette time. Peeking over the hill below them, flashing yellows, reds, and blues cut the air. Ooo, I think, this could be exciting.
I merge into the turn lane, but before I can get a closer look, a black-suited police man appears in the middle of the intersection. He puts up his hand, and I stop disappointedly short of my goal. He motions for me to move on down the road. What in the hell? I pull up parallel to him and put on the brakes.
“Hey!” I yell at him, as the dampening cold enters through my receding window.
“Can I help you?” he asks in the authoritative police tone.
“Yes, you can describe to me what’s going on.”
“Sir, there was a major situation at this gas station. All I can say is there were some gun shots, an officer wounded, and hostages taken.”
I don’t really care. I grudgingly thank him and pull on down the road. Thankfully there is another gas station in town, and I will take my business there, instead.
When I get there, I am still disappointed. Cars are lined up around the gas pumps like a heard of corralled mechanical cattle, and I can barely squeeze into a parking space around the back of the store. Some convenience.
I leave my car running as I head into the store. Inside, it’s completely packed. From hillbillies to highballers, they are all lined up from the counter on, past the gummi worms and studded condoms, around the stacked crates of Sprite, and ending at the douches and motor oil. I see the coffee pots behind them all, painted with a blue and yellow cowboy who looks more like a slave driver with his lasso than a legend of the prairie. Coffee doesn’t even grow in the west, I think, but I make my way through the crowd and to the black gold.
It smells like rotten nuts, but I keep filling my twenty-four-ounce Styrofoam cup out of dire need. I take my place in line by the Boston Baked Beans, and observe my comrades in this charade.
The man in front of me is dressed modestly, wearing khaki pants, a checkered T-shirt, and brown tennis shoes that look like they may pass for dress shoes. He is holding a Starbucks Double Shot, two granola bars, and some travel tissues. The man in front of him is wearing a dark gray suit and a black tie that looks to be choking his fat crimson neck. He is holding a SmartWater, beef jerky, and Muscle Milk, but I see a small blue box peeking out of his right jacket pocket with the word “Trojan” emblazoned proudly across it. In front of him is a man wearing Carhart Overalls, a Steve Miller T-shirt, and matching camouflage hat and boots. He is buying beer.
We all inch slowly towards the counter. The well-dressed man checks his rolex, the man in front of me texts, and the redneck picks up a bag of Bugels. My comrades tick off one by one, spiraling off to their own respective realities. When I finally get to the counter, I ask the Indian clerk for the natural cigarettes.
“Oh, I am sorry, sir, but we are all out of those,” he replies.
“Shit. Well, just give me the reds, then.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
I pay by credit card and walk out the door. The coffee tastes better than I thought. I head back around the store to my car
Oh, shit.
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