Supermarket(52)

But we’ll get into that later.

Oh, I was hooked. That was all I needed. I grabbed the book and put it underneath my arm like a businessman grabbing a newspaper from his front porch before speeding off to work.

Farther down, I stumbled upon another one of my all-time favorites. It was a science-fiction epic called The Maker, which takes place in the future. I picked it up, turned it over, and read the synopsis.

A mind-bending adventure that pushes the bounds of reality, The Maker is the dramatic tale of an ordinary man who discovers he isn’t a man at all, but a computer program. Created to occupy a simulated existence, the man’s existence only serves one purpose—to entertain users longing for adventure in a synthetic world. The man learns of the individual responsible for his very creation, The Maker. Only one question remains: can he find The Maker, gain freedom, and enter the real world?

Reading this got me excited, even though I already knew the story. But there was so much that I forgot that I got psyched. It was like I was falling in love with the story and characters all over again. Time for my third reading of The Maker. As I made my way to the checkout counter, I saw another patient waiting in line. She was a woman in her midfifties, overweight, and wearing a cream-colored sweater. Looked like she knitted it herself.

Standing behind her, I began to grow impatient—not because she was taking forever, but because every time my mind snapped back from the distractions I tried to feed it, all I could think about was Mia. I was so excited I couldn’t contain myself—she was the light at the end of the tunnel.

I wasn’t sure what I would talk to her about. Should I be honest? Should I just lay it all out there? Should I tell her about Frank and really explain what I’d been through? Do I tell her about Red, and did she know about my newfound fandom status? The wealth? I began to wonder if she had only stuck around because of that. Could she be playing me? Maybe she was. I mean, who in their right mind would stay with some philandering schizophrenic psycho? Even though, technically, it was Frank who cheated.

The longer I stood behind this woman, the longer I thought Mia must be in it for the money. There’s no way, after all this, she . . . or anyone . . . could love me enough to deal with all the shit! Thinking this over for several minutes, I realized this line hadn’t moved.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the woman in front of me. She just stood there, blankly staring into space. “Hey, lady!” I said, snapping my fingers by her ear. Still, she didn’t move. I waved my hand in front of her face. Nothing.

“I’ll be with you in just a second!” came a woman’s voice from behind the counter. She had a country accent with a smoker’s rasp. Her voice was pretty fucked up, and since she was tending to something under the counter, I couldn’t see her face.

“Okay, no problem,” I replied.

I was staring at the back of the woman’s head in front of me. I put out my hands, rested them on her shoulders, and slowly moved her to my left. She was in front of the register now—to my left but looking away.

You know, even as I write this, I’m questioning if I should even be telling you. Not because it isn’t an important part of the memory, this woman in a sweater she probably knitted herself, but because it is not exactly vital information.

Sorry, I don’t mean to fuck shit up, making you remember that you’re reading a book again. But who cares, am I right? I mean, who cares what books I read, or how I felt about waiting in line? I suppose the only reason I’m describing these things is because that’s what you do in novels, am I right? I mean, obviously, we all want to jump to the part where I sit down with Mia, because she’s the hot girl we hope I end up with in the story. Even if I am a fuckin’ whack job.

But I can’t just do that. I’m literally stuck here racking my brain over every detail. Trying to recall every step I took just to paint the picture for you, the reader. I suppose I could tell you what happened in five minutes. I mean, hell, this whole story could have been told in five minutes.

? ? ?

Hey kids, Flynn here. Years ago my girlfriend broke up with me because I was a loser who couldn’t finish anything, and it drove me literally insane. So you know what I did? I decided to go work at a supermarket. But wait, there’s more! I only worked there to get inspiration and material for a novel I was writing. And I got so immersed in my main character that I started to think he was a real person. But he wasn’t! He was an illusion in my mind. Then I realized that we were one and the same. And somewhere in there I fell in love with a girl I worked with and then unwittingly cheated on her, and then she left me. And then I robbed the store, thinking it was all just a scene in my book. Then I had a psychiatric breakdown and woke up in a mental hospital! And . . . and . . . and . . . what if I told you I wanted to skip all this shit and get to the end, because I can’t bear to go through it all again? That I spent years of my life living in a loop, and to me, that’s what these pages feel like? Or maybe that’s all bullshit. Maybe in some sick and twisted way, I’m going through this in great detail because, deep down, I love it. Because these were actually the best times of my life . . .

? ? ?

I’m sorry. As I write, it’s clear these things still weigh on me. And even though I’ve obsessed, and in many ways still do, over the events that have happened . . . it was like going back to a place I never want to visit again. And doing it just for the reader.