There is my Budweiser. That’s all you can think as the yellow aisle marker reading number 13 stares you in the face. You don’t stare back. The fact that Walmart doesn’t even have an aisle 13 never crosses your mind. Instead, all you see is the last 12-pack at the end of the aisle, begging you to grab it. You call back as the beer chants your name. I’m coming, you declare as you start sprinting down the aisle.
   But before you have made it very far on your journey, an obstacle sends you sprawling across the ground. Ow. You stand up, a scowl etched across your face, as you examine what has dared hinder you on your path to your Budweiser. It’s a scuffed baseball bat. You roll your eyes, preparing to toss it to the side. Yet the green and navy bat grip forces you to come to an abrupt stop. An image flashes through your head. An image of freshly chalked dirt and roaring fans in the stands, an image of your fingers curling around that exact green and navy bat grip as you dig into the batter’s box. But how did my bat end up here? you wonder. It's been over 40 years since you last played baseball. You turn the bat around and around in your hands, each scuff mark a fragment of a long-buried memory. It was that one night– the night of your team’s run-rule loss to your district rivals. The other team’s pitcher struck you out to end the game, pumping his fists in innocent celebration. You didn’t like that very much. Your failure to hit the ball was all his fault. All. His. Fault. The green and navy bat grip slipped from your hands, thudding to the ground, as you balled your fists and stormed toward the pitcher. The rest of the world faded to a tunneled blur as you unleashed an uppercut. And another. And another, your knuckles pummeling and pummeling and pummeling already-splintered bone. Before you knew it, you found a sheet of paper reading “Termination of Sport Agreement” in those wretched hands of yours, rivulets trickling down your face as you shoved the dirt, the cleats, the thrills, the memories, the smiles into a deep, dark corner of your mind, the bat with the green and navy grip, stuffed into a garage box, serving as a haunting reminder of your actions.
   Baseball? Whatever. Shaking off the memory, you toss the bat aside and refocus on your goal– the beer. But as you take another step, a thin wooden pole smacks into your head. Groaning, you push it away. It’s a fishing rod, leaning into the aisle. You rub the red imprint on your face, waiting for your vision to stop swimming. The first time you held a fishing rod was a long, long time ago. This is how you bait your hook, your grandfather demonstrated. Push it straight through and… are you listening? You have to pay attention if you want to haul in your own catch! But all you could do was let out a sigh. Why would I care? you fumed. Who could even put up with your droning voice? Rolling your eyes, you wandered off to climb that cool-looking oak tree you had just noticed, ignoring your grandfather’s frustrated calls. On the heels of that memory follows another– this one of you and your friends fishing down by the creek, casting your lines into the murky water. You could only try in vain to tune out the incessant plink plink of bass and trout plopping into the buckets around you, the shouts of another one! and look at mine! ringing in your ears as you jabbed, your face growing red, at the spool of fishing line you had managed to tangle your fingers within. Upon returning home with nothing but a broken rod and clenched fists, you reached for the phone to seek your grandfather’s advice before realizing. Realizing that he was long gone, shaking his head at you from up in the stars.
   Oh well, you shrug, letting the fishing rod clatter to the ground. Who cares if I never learned to fish? I’m surviving just fine. Without turning back, you proceed on your journey to your Budweiser– until the cans of beer suddenly disappear from sight. An oversized casino chip sporting black and white stripes blocks the aisle in front of you– and your view of your beer. Oh, the casino. What a wonderful place. It all comes rushing back– that chitter-chatter of the crowd around you making bets, those flashing slot machines calling your name, that musty smell of mingled sweat and perfume. The thought of the casino sends jolts of excitement shooting through your veins. Until the negative memories hit. It began that one day when you had an hour to kill before work. I have loads of time before my shift, you realized. Why not head over to the casino for a bit? I won’t play long. So you hopped into your car and sped off to that enormous, glitzy building with its promises of easy riches, begging you to enter. You headed inside. And upon feeling that familiar tingling sensation creeping through your veins, you couldn’t resist. You sat down for a round of poker. And by the time you checked your watch, your shift had already ended. Nonetheless, the casino became a routine. After multiple missed shifts, your boss called you in for a meeting. Nothing could’ve prepared you for his dreaded words. You’re fired. Yet even your jobless status couldn’t convince you to quit the casino, to quit the betting and the gambling and the doing away with your money. I’ll keep on trying until I win something, you thought. Perseverance is a virtue. But before you knew it, your debt had piled up high enough to force your eviction, leaving you begging at local soup kitchens for your next meal.
   Why does that matter anymore, now that my brother is lending me money to live on? Shrugging the memories off, you make your way around the gambling chip, your Budweiser becoming visible again. You have just broken into a run to reach your beer when a piece of yellowed paper drifts down from the ceiling. You snatch it out of the air. It’s a photo. A photo of a man, one arm resting on the shoulder of a wide-eyed girl, the other wrapped around a blonde-haired woman cradling a squirming baby boy. The family’s mouths remain frozen in unwavering grins as you look the image up and down again– a moment in time captured to perfection. Something tugs at your heart. This isn’t a photo of just any family. It's your family. Your previous family, to be exact. As you examine the picture, you stumble back, hit by the force of your wife’s blue-green eyes that could melt your insides with a single look, the singsong melody of your daughter’s laughter when you would push her on the playground swings, your son’s bubbling calls of dadda! to tuck him into bed. What happened to these memories? The answer tugs at the edge of your mind. You try to push it away, yet you can’t stop the realization from bursting through. The day you trudged home after losing your job was the breaking point. Your wife confronted you, tears welling in her eyes. I want a divorce, she croaked, her voice nothing more than a whisper. You thought you had misheard. What? You frowned. I want a divorce. Your wife’s voice cracked. Like, divorce? As in we split up forever? There had to be a mistake. Yes, a divorce, your wife replied. But… but why? What could you have possibly done wrong? You know why. You know I sit at a desk writing papers for ten hours a day so we can afford basic necessities like food and clothes. Yet you spend all your time at the casino and pub, washing everything I work so hard for down the drain. And now you come home to me without a job? I can’t live like this anymore. Your kids can’t live with this person for a father. Your jaw dropped. I’ll do better! you promised. I’ll find another better job and I won’t go to the casino anymore and I’ll be the best husband and father you could ask for! Please, honey. One more chance, you begged. But your wife shook her head. I’ve given you too many already. Without another word, the person you loved most turned her back on you forever. You could only watch as your wife slammed the door behind her, shielding your wide eyed children under her arms, leaving you standing there, frozen in place, still struggling to understand what you did wrong.
   Blinking back tears, you let the photo drift to the ground, attempting to reroute your focus to your Budweiser. But as you trudge towards the beer, it becomes more and more difficult to concentrate. Your family continues to find its way back into your mind, no matter how hard you try to bury the memories. You’re back there again, sitting on that park bench with your wife, your cheek brushing hers, as the breeze tousles your hair and the last rays of sun slip under the horizon. You’re back there again, standing by that little wooden bookshelf in the living room, the edges of your mouth curling into a smile as your kids bicker about which bedtime story you should read them. You’re back there again, gripping that green and navy bat grip in your hands, your stomach fluttering as you step up to home plate. You’re back there again, in your grandfather’s kitchen, his homemade apple cider warming you on a chilly autumn evening, the rosiness in your cheeks fading away as you beg him for more.
   But you’re not back there. You’re here. Loitering your days away in a run-down apartment, relying on your brother for income, your gambling buddies your only company…
   Your eyes lock on your Budweiser. It calls your name. You shouldn’t answer. You do anyway.
   Yet as your arm extends toward your beer, a black and white rectangle emerges from your periphery in what seems like slow motion. You glance up. It’s a banner. A banner, dangling from Walmart’s ceiling, overhead lights illuminating the words WE’RE HIRING in boldface print.
   You stare in silence. The Budweiser’s call seems to fade, the murmur dimming in your ears, dimming, dimming, before seeping away entirely.
   WE’RE HIRING.
   An idea begins to tie together in your mind. Without another glance at your beer, you pivot. You step. And you begin to make your way back up the aisle. You stride past the yellowed photograph, the oversized casino chip, the fishing rod, the bat with the green and navy grip. Pangs rock your body. But you don’t look back.
   You let your feet carry you over shiny white tiles instead, past shopping carts with squeaking wheels to a long counter at the front of the store. You thrust your shoulders back and tilt your head up, tapping your foot against the ground as you read the words on the wall before you.
   Customer Service Desk.
   Maybe your plan will work. Maybe it won’t. But it’s about time to try.
   Taking a deep breath, you step forward, locking eyes with the associate behind the counter.
   “My name is Manuel Kowski,” you say. “And I’m here to apply for a job.”