(no subject)
The sun faded behind the horizon, lavishing the sky with a festive, amber glow. But the scenic backdrop only harshens the true nature of this place. Not physically cold, but it seemed that way on the desolate streets.
“Man, what the fuck am I even doing here?” I said to myself.
I never should have come here. This town is an alcoholic’s wet dream, and a minor’s bloody nightmare. It was nearly ten o’clock when I pulled into the Wal Mart, stricken with a kind of delirium. I desperately needed human contact, physical contact, either a fistfight with some drunken bastard, or the caress some drunken lady. I had been informed earlier that I could acquire them both at Wal Mart. Dare I consider this a concession to the faceless corporate machine? Nah. I’m not paying for anything.
The Wal Mart is the only establishment that is open 24 hours in this town. At any given time of the night, you can find a wide variety of characters within. After 10, the vast majority are the half belligerent partygoers on beer runs. Then you’ll find the Goth kids, who are entirely draped in black, at any given time of day. Which shows their dedication to the Goth lifestyle, while they read sad poetry in the 94-degree weather. After that, you’ll find the white-trashy trailer folk, who always seem a bit edgy without a banjo in their hands. Then it’s the morbidly obese, who only leave their dwellings at night, for obvious reasons. After that, it gets into a sort of gray area. Unclassifiable people who are quite proud of the vague statement they’re making.
But tonight was different. The automatic doors slid open with an electronic hiss and the rush of frosty air engulfed me life a Sierra-Mist commercial. From the look on the designated greeter’s face, I could tell it was a slow night. The old man looked both distraught and asleep at the same time. As I passed without returning his halfhearted “hello” I realized that he had suffered a stroke. Which, for some reason, made me feel better about myself. Is that wrong? I started to wonder about whether he had his stroke before or after he started working here, when I noticed the dead ambiance of the store. The cashiers eyed me like a homeless person as I strode past. It was empty. The whole fucking Wal-Mart was barren of customers. I felt my hopes slid down my pant leg and puddle on the floor.
“Was there a gas leak or something?” I asked the elderly woman at the cigarette counter.
“I know, it’s the damndest thing,” she said.
I purchased a pack of Marlboro lights and retreated to the parking lot.
Standing beside my car, I took a long drag of my cigarette and pondered the situation. If there’s nobody here, where are they? I often see the finest chicks driving by in their cars. But only their cars, never on foot, never out in the open.
“Where are they all coming from?” I thought out loud, “But more importantly, where are they all going?”
It seemed that must be some well-hidden spot in this town, where all the chicks inevitably end up. I need only find that spot, and I’ll never have to suffer another boring Friday night.
It’s absolutely astonishing how bored you can get without weed. Or any substance for that matter. My impending UA is making my life a conservative hell. I would almost consider enlisting in the army, just to have something to do. But that’s just the sobriety talking. And we all know a sober man cannot be trusted.
“Man, what the fuck am I even doing here?” I said to myself.
I never should have come here. This town is an alcoholic’s wet dream, and a minor’s bloody nightmare. It was nearly ten o’clock when I pulled into the Wal Mart, stricken with a kind of delirium. I desperately needed human contact, physical contact, either a fistfight with some drunken bastard, or the caress some drunken lady. I had been informed earlier that I could acquire them both at Wal Mart. Dare I consider this a concession to the faceless corporate machine? Nah. I’m not paying for anything.
The Wal Mart is the only establishment that is open 24 hours in this town. At any given time of the night, you can find a wide variety of characters within. After 10, the vast majority are the half belligerent partygoers on beer runs. Then you’ll find the Goth kids, who are entirely draped in black, at any given time of day. Which shows their dedication to the Goth lifestyle, while they read sad poetry in the 94-degree weather. After that, you’ll find the white-trashy trailer folk, who always seem a bit edgy without a banjo in their hands. Then it’s the morbidly obese, who only leave their dwellings at night, for obvious reasons. After that, it gets into a sort of gray area. Unclassifiable people who are quite proud of the vague statement they’re making.
But tonight was different. The automatic doors slid open with an electronic hiss and the rush of frosty air engulfed me life a Sierra-Mist commercial. From the look on the designated greeter’s face, I could tell it was a slow night. The old man looked both distraught and asleep at the same time. As I passed without returning his halfhearted “hello” I realized that he had suffered a stroke. Which, for some reason, made me feel better about myself. Is that wrong? I started to wonder about whether he had his stroke before or after he started working here, when I noticed the dead ambiance of the store. The cashiers eyed me like a homeless person as I strode past. It was empty. The whole fucking Wal-Mart was barren of customers. I felt my hopes slid down my pant leg and puddle on the floor.
“Was there a gas leak or something?” I asked the elderly woman at the cigarette counter.
“I know, it’s the damndest thing,” she said.
I purchased a pack of Marlboro lights and retreated to the parking lot.
Standing beside my car, I took a long drag of my cigarette and pondered the situation. If there’s nobody here, where are they? I often see the finest chicks driving by in their cars. But only their cars, never on foot, never out in the open.
“Where are they all coming from?” I thought out loud, “But more importantly, where are they all going?”
It seemed that must be some well-hidden spot in this town, where all the chicks inevitably end up. I need only find that spot, and I’ll never have to suffer another boring Friday night.
It’s absolutely astonishing how bored you can get without weed. Or any substance for that matter. My impending UA is making my life a conservative hell. I would almost consider enlisting in the army, just to have something to do. But that’s just the sobriety talking. And we all know a sober man cannot be trusted.