duck-shaped pain

I was starring, somehow, in some sort of Real World-esque television show where a bunch of randomly selected people were supposed to successfully climb a mountain together. This sort of goal assures three things: one telegenic, resolute loner will make it to the top before anyone (gaining whatever prize is offered), most of the rest of the participants will make it to the top after learning the values of teamwork and Getting Along, and the rest, including those who are slow and those who do not look good on TV, will be cast out and left to freeze along the way.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. So the other participants and I had been selected, and checked into some seedy motel in New York City. The catch was that we had to start here, walk to the mountain, and then start climbing it. Since the mountain in question was Mt. McKinley, we had quite the hike in front of us.

We all spent a few days locked in the same hotel room, wheedling and bitching and whining in front of the cameras. Soon enough, petty jealousies and alliances between people began to sprout, which wouldn't have been a problem except for the fact that everyone else was aligned against me. Fine � I hated them al right back.

The time came for us to all begin our walk to Alaska. We hit the street, heading west, through the traffic and through the people. Roaming the streets of the city, I heard something rustle. I looked down and discovered that the clothes I and everyone else was wearing were made entirely of tissue paper. Not the kind of thing that keeps you warm though a long journey and then high on a mountain top � we needed clothes made of wool or space-age miracle fibers to make the trip successfully.

I pointed this out to everyone else, and met with only derision. People were fine with their thin, crinkly clothes. The tissue paper was light and allowed for air circulation. Plus, you could tear a square off and wipe your nose on it, which was handy in an emergency.

I ran, screaming, into the nearest sporting goods store, where I purchased a parka, some weird stretchy pants and a weirder stretchy turtleneck. I came out wearing my new purchases and the Smug Tissue Paper People just laughed.

I pointed out that I would be tasty and warm while the rest of them froze. I would be comfortably hanging out at 20,000 feet while the rest of them wept when their various body parts froze off and tumbled down the mountain. Outwardly, I would be sad to see their hands or noses or penises go, but inside, I would laugh.

They shrieked.

At that moment, I decided that I didn't want to be on the show any longer. I said that I was invoking the "out" clause on my contract, and punched a few cameramen. I ran off down the street, running and running until I reached the hotel once again. I made my way inside, and began to pack up all my stuff. There was item after item, most of them purple shirts of various textiles. The cameras had followed me, and I told them that they were not allowed to follow me anymore.

I checked out and ran some more. Then the street ended and turned into a gigantic mall of sorts. I dodged shoppers and families out walking, five abreast, gawking at the signs and window displays. There was a big fountain and enormous couch in the middle of the mall. I thought, hey, I can hide in the cushions of the couch. I wriggled in between the cushions, and instead of finding dustballs and vast amounts of misplaced change, I found a whole bunch of other people.

Welcome, one woman said to me. This is where we've all chosen to be. It is peaceful here. Plus, this is where lemon-flavored ice cream comes from. Sit down. Have some ice cream.

So I did. And it was good. So I retired there, to work in the lemon ice cream factory. After my 25-year career as an ice cream tester, I was given my reward � a ten-foot gold statue of a lemon. Everyone got one, eventually. Which is why the couch was so big.

I went to the grocery store today. I went to a different one than I usually go to � one that I avoid because they're always out of things and because the service is so slow. Bats must have taken over my mind momentarily, though, because I decided to give it another chance.

I quickly found my snow peas, cilantro, soy sauce and chicken � fixings for the fried rice I planned to make. I got in one of the only two open lines. It seemed short, so I figured it wouldn't be too painful.

The first woman in line was trying to buy a 12-pack of beer. It says right on the shelf how much the beer costs, so it shouldn't be too much of a surprise at the checkstand. But this woman was paying for $11 worth of beer with pennies and other assorted change, and she also kept losing track. The Beer People are one of the reasons I hate going to the grocery store on Sundays. It's the only place that the state of Colorado will let you buy beer on Sundays, and only 3.2 beer at that. [1] So you get a lot of people coming in who normally wouldn't be there, all with only beer to purchase.

So this woman finally got her $11 dollars in pennies and pocket lint together, and we all thought the transaction was done. But no. Then she wanted some cigarettes. This store used to have open racks of smokes, but it now kept them in a special locked cabinet. The cashier had to call up the cigarette fetcher and then we all had to wait while this woman's cigarettes were brought to her. [2]

Of course, she was paying in change for those, too. So she poured out the contents of her pocket book onto the counter, and started to assemble the correct amount.

She was short, by about $2. So she told the cashier to forget it, and walked off. Then the cashier called the cigarette fetcher and gave him the smokes to put back (something about some store policy that says you can't have cigs out on the counter if they're not being purchased).

The next woman in line was buying five jars of pigs' feet. [3] Each jar rang up at $2.99. She said that the tag on the shelf read $2.98. So the cashier told his bagger to go check it out. She came back after a few minutes, and said that the price on the shelf was $2.99. The woman in line told her she was lying. So the bagger and the woman went back to go investigate this. I would have just handed her five cents, but I had the feeling that she would have just thrown it at my head or something.

They come back, having confirmed that the correct price was $2.99, or so it said on the shelf. The woman accused her of changing the price while she was back there, as she looked like the kind of evil bagger that would take advantage of a poor old lady like herself (she looked about 40).

Then I got up there. Then the register tape needed to be replaced. I was cheerful, since the cashier looked like he had been hit by a truck, but all I really wanted to do was go home. No wonder I never go to this supermarket. [4]

[1] 3.2 = extremely low alcohol content. As in, fucking close to water. 3.2 also happens to be the alcohol content of every beer the Coors brewery puts out, which also happens to be one of the more influential businesses in the state. Coincidence? I think not. This weird quirk in our state's liquor laws has also given rise to something which I don't think exists anywhere else: the 3.2 Microbrew. To be able to sell their beer on Sundays, some of the more popular smaller breweries in the state make weaker versions of some of their beers, which they only ship to grocery stores (which can't sell beer stronger than 3.2, even on other days of the week). It can sort of weird to drink them when you're used to the more potent versions, but they're still superior to the crap in the cans. I say we should just get rid of the Sunday rule, but no one listens to me.

[2] As a former smoker, I can attest to the sheer pain-in-the-assedness of buying cigarettes in this fashion. Keeping them locked up never seemed to make any sense to me. However, I'm sure this woman knew before this that she wanted cigarettes, and during the epic penny-counting that she put us all through, you'd think it would have crossed her mind to say something about it.

[3] Disturbing? Mildly. Not as disturbing as the woman I was behind in line a few weeks ago, who was buying an enormous box of bullets and seven pairs of beach sandals.

[4] Actually, I go to other stores in the same chain, and they're fine. This particular store is always sort of weird and troublesome. It�s the same store at which some guy I graduated from high school with shot a bunch of people and then shot himself a few years back. [5] It's a strange sort of place.

[5] No wonder I don't want to go to the class reunion this summer.

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