I am amidst the monstrous ironies of pet foods. Against the western wall are stacks of bags of seed to feed sweet little beloved pet birds and next to them rows of cans of murdered bird flesh to feed sweet little beloved pet cats. I am at this moment, needless to say, deeply troubled by the contradictions of life on this planet. Especially as I see the top of a head skimming above a row not far down the way. Skimming in my direction.
Before me, in the space usually assigned to sales bins, are stacks of massive dog-food bags. I step forward and I crouch down low behind them. I wait for a moment and I peek around the bags and my vision is filled with roach killers. Roach Motels, in fact, with a tiny, welcoming facade on each package, and an open door, but it is clear to any objective eye that this is a trap. They Check In But They Do Not Check Out.
I duck back behind my dog food in a significantly worsened state of mind. I need to stop thinking now, but emblazoned over and over on my bastion of bags is BUTCHER’S CHOICE. And I see my too-many fingers and toes being chopped off and scraped from the cutting block with the steaming blade, not enough meat here even for dog food, and all my loving digits drop into a garbage box, and now the blade lifts to lop off this similarly useless head, its lipless smile still fixed there, even in death.
Ironically, though the words on these very bags themselves have prompted this final twist of fear in me, in response I scrunch up even harder against them, trying to compact myself into a very small object, half-price and useless to anyone, easily overlooked.
But there is a quick scuffling sound heading this way and a figure suddenly in my sight, off to my left, trying the door that I tried, finding it, as I did, locked. And now the figure turns, a very young man in a Kroger shirt the color of clotting blood, and he has a name tag, which calms me a little bit, though it is not nearly as friendly a tag as my wife Edna Bradshaw’s. Simply: KROGER Roger. And Roger sees me and I am a strange sight to his eyes, he is struck dumb, but my sunglasses are still on and he is not sure what it is he is seeing, though strange it is. This is fortunate. He takes a step toward me without yet making a sound and I wave my hand and he stops and his eyelids droop and his body does a slow ooze to the floor and he is asleep.
I wonder how many are in pursuit of me. The staff must be small at this hour. And there would be no need for everyone in the store to join in. After all, there is still commerce to do. And they would have gotten no help in focusing on their target from the woman whose scream began it all. Indeed, they might be on the lookout for three little fishies.
But now I hear a clear “Oh my God,” a man’s voice, and rushing feet and the voice again: “Over here.” I look toward Roger and at the moment I do, a large white mass descends and hovers over the sleeping young man. And from it, a face turns and the eyes there widen. The body twists my way. Another Kroger name tag. Ken. Ken the assistant manager. I wave my hand at Ken and he is snoring even before he sinks forward, which he does, quickly, ending up pressed on top of Roger, the two men’s faces cheek-to-cheek.
Someone is calling out “Ken” now. I creep forward, closer to the sleepers. Ken’s torso, clad in his immaculate white shirt, is firmly at rest against Roger, but he is still on his knees and his rear end is stuck in the air. He looks uncomfortable. But I do not help him into a better posture for sleeping. I remain hidden behind the dog food and another scuffling of feet is coming this way, another man’s voice. “Ken,” the voice says. “What the hell are you doing?” More scuffling and then, “Oh shit.”
I hear the crackle of a two-way radio. This must be the guard. And he is calling for help from the local authorities. “This is Nate,” he says. “We got ourselves a problem. Over.”
I rise up and peek over the top of the dog food. It is indeed the man in the tan uniform. He is looking down at the two sleepers and he takes a step toward them. I lift my hand and he says into his radio, “I’m not sure …” and then he sees me and adds — not exactly into his radio but generally, for Ken and Roger and Barry Manilow, who is singing overhead about trying to get some unnamed feeling again—“Oh fuck me.” And I realize that my Groovy Glasses are in my hand again and I do not even remember taking them off. Nate is surely about to say more, even though his face seems frozen in its contemplation of mine, but I do not give him the chance. I wave my hand and the radio clatters to the floor, spitting out static and broken cries for someone to come back. But Nate himself is settling down to sleep, ignoring the upthrust of Ken’s backside, drooping down against the delicate balance of the assistant manager so that he topples sideways and I am left with a stack of three loudly snoring members of this planet’s primary species at my feet. I look quickly around and I see no more gliding heads, hear no more rushing feet. But the radio is crackling in the center of the aisle and I must assume that a police car is on its way.
I wave my hand over each of the three sleepers to ensure they will have no memory of me and I rush off as fast as my sneakers will carry me, back in the direction of the door, the profusion of goods flowing past me on each side in an indistinguishable blur. I think of Ken and Roger and Nate and wonder what they will conclude when they wake and find themselves intertwined on the floor with no memory of how they arrived there. Perhaps love will inadvertently bloom. I wish for that as I rush past the woman who began all this and her voice carries me toward the automatic door: “Swim little fishies, swim if you can …”
I am released, thankfully, from the fluorescence and into the darkness and already I hear a siren, and I turn toward the open space of ROLLER RINK, which seems to me a very great distance away. I take a step and another and another and I lean forward, into the night, trying to glide the best I can, but as much as I admire my Chuck Taylors, they are not made to facilitate the movement of a member of my species and I press forward, across the asphalt, under the glare of a light and into darkness again and the siren is drawing nearer and I am moving with agonizing slowness and I realize what an obviously suspicious figure I make in my hat and my trench coat and my size-twenty yellow sneakers and I realize I have to remove them, the sneakers, I am no longer concerned about a part of my body giving away my true identity, I am concerned only with running fast from the coppers, who are drawing ever nearer. So I begin pulling at one of my sneakers even as I try to keep my forward momentum and the Chuck Taylor clings to me and I am hopping on one foot with the other in my hands and I hop and wrench at my sneaker and hop and wrench and hop and I am a Bad Boy and I am wondering what I am going to do because the authorities are unquestionably coming for me and I am not sure if I can control the situation.
And over my shoulder I hear the train whistle once more, quite loud, as if it, too, is in pursuit of me, and there is another sound, a clackity-clack and I look and the train is passing in front of Kroger, slowly, approaching the crossing and there are red lights flashing there and I can see the blue and white flashing of police lights racing this way from the street along the tracks and the engine reaches the crossing and enters it and its cars are following and beneath them I can see the flare of blue and white approach and slow and turn to come to get me. But the police vehicle is blocked there by the train. And I hop on along, still clinging to one determinedly sneakered foot. I hop across the street and through the ghost-space of Roller Rink and I bounce along to my invisible craft and I am at last passing inside and I release my foot and I move to the controls and I sit before them, and I pause. I look toward Kroger and I am filled with regret for causing upset in a Family Center. But there is far more upset to come, I fear. Far more. And I move my hand and I rise above Lake Charles, Louisiana, quickly, and I fly toward the huggies of my wife.