Warm sun tanned the back of my neck, bringing me back to the reality of the outside world. The sweat and warmth were quickly vaporized from my skin as a breeze of artificially produced air cleansed the feeling I had outside. The musty smell surrounded my nose and closed in, further annoying me. My eyes took their time adjusting to the fluorescent white lights beaming down from the black skeleton of steel and air vents that they proudly call a ceiling. A dozen heads pointed in my direction by the door for a glance at their newest customer, some wore some faked smiles, and then the feeling of being shunned as they drop their heads back down to what they were doing moments before I walked in. They were made up of all ages and the place screamed hierarchy as the seniors looked down on the teenagers. The younger ones by the registers were slouching at their stations, daydreaming about their lives outside of work. One of them in particular stared, without a blink, at the clock looming over their heads on a dark, yellow wall trying it’s best to appear “organic.” Then there were others like me, mindlessly coming into the store to do the same routine that I was forced to do, and expressing the same faked happiness the employees showed me.

Cool crosswinds from the produce section spawned goosebumps and sent chills down my back. The soles of my feet rhythmically pounded against the fake, linoleum tile as I hurried through the tight maze of carts and aisles. A squeak from the one cart that I choose echoed and followed me every step I took. Arrays of food and goods glistened in the bright lights, begging to be noticed by shoppers passing by. One by one, I pushed through each aisle, checking off the endless list of groceries. I did my best to avoid the energetic salesmen, the grocery clerks, and the crazy soccer moms willing to run me over to get to the shelf across the aisle. Shopping carts would nearly collide regularly and a few words of apologies exchanged along with it. The sounds, the carts, the clerk greetings, the sales pitches for new products, never failed to cease ringing as a constant reminder to leave as soon as possible.

I gradually made my way to the stack of raw meat sloppily piled up against the coolers, getting looks from the granola stereotypes. I knew and they knew I didn’t belong there. The squeak the cart once echoed endlessly was now gone and in it’s place a new low-pitched wobble as it neared an overflow of goods. Constant phone checking was helping the time go by, the produce, meat, bread, and chip aisles were nothing but a blurred memory now as I parked my dying cart next to the dairy. I put extra caution into the selection of the eggs and milk so I didn’t have to come back if I got lucky and the eggs broke or the milk expired. That irritating combination of cold breezes and goosebumps returned as the refrigerator opened and on display was nothing but expired, fat-free milk. I struggled and sorted through each carton until I found one that was not going to be in chunks after two days. Finally, the item on the checklist was checked, it was time to check out and leave.

My false sense of relief vacated as soon as I turned the corner to find a single, old cashier handling a line of anxious customers piled from one end of the store to another and you can guess who was now at the back. I sighed at the fact that management could have a bagger on duty but couldn’t have another cashier to ease the trouble of paying for my stuff. I looked around for the managers but they all disappeared. Minutes went by filled with nothing but me glancing at my phone to watch the clock numbers increment. The lady in front of me had seven coupons that were good until last month, but insisted the store take them anyway. My cart shuffled up the line and into the cramped area between registers being greeted with fake smiles while I returned the same. She asked how my day was and I gave the boring, usual reply of “good” she expected to hear. Nothing worked, barcodes malfunctioned until flipping the item several times. I got all my ironically plastic bags in a store where everything was made to look like a blind man’s description of what a farmer’s market was. I strolled to my car and have not returned since.