Mood Piece January 29 2018

The florescent lights flickered in a rhythm just asymmetrical enough to cause his blinking to feel erratic. He was beginning to believe that it was intentional. Not that it had been designed as such, but that the place itself harbored some sort of mad malevolence patiently picking away at his sense of self. Had he been down this aisle before? What was he looking for? Had he found it? Was it there to be found? The air felt heavy against his skin, and he silently pleaded with whoever was listening to send a breeze his way.

Instead the song changed. Or, at least, he thought it did. Had he been listening to Whitney Houston before or had it only just begun? He wasn’t sure he could name another musician if he tried. He was afraid to try. The soft cadence of the song wove its way, serpent-like, into the scene around him. He was struck suddenly by a vision of a large organ grinder suspended above the heads of everyone around him, all of them too broken to look up and see. Slowly the handle turned and the sounds of Whitney Houston's "I will always love you" slouched out of its creaking frame, becoming a lilting carnival metronome to the vacant shambling figures below.

Who were these people? Had he known them? Before all of this? There seemed to be no light inside of them, no soul behind their eyes. Each was slowly shuffling down cavernous aisles, or picking up objects with the sort of tortuous apathy only a marionette could match. Were these his friends? Was he alone in some sort of hellish doll maker's workshop?

He began to suspect he was in hell. He was sure now he'd been down this path before, seen that exact woman looking at that same box of half-off macaroni an hour ago. A lifetime ago. He tried to pick up his pace but it seemed like everywhere he went there was a slow family blocking his escape, trapping him in an endless glacial flow of the damned. Where had he been before here? Work? Did he have a job? What was it? Was he at work now? Was this his life? Was this his home? He felt like sweating but the stagnant air wouldn't let him. He saw himself being led haphazardly through a sprawling labyrinth, a sacrifice for some slobbering Minotaur kept chained at its heart.

Without warning the ponderous drift of shadows came to a stop. Above him there was a radiant number, its incongruity seeming to snap him temporarily out of his reverie. He remembered why he was here. He had come for mayonnaise, mayonnaise and a loaf of bread. He glanced down, in his hands were a towel and pack of hot-dogs. The first few chords of Whitney Houston's "I will always love you" began to play through the loudspeakers.

God he hated Walmart.