It’s nearly that time of year again, children. When you’re surrounded by your loved ones and tell stories while nestled into lawn chairs in front of Wal—Mart, waiting on the doors to open while you stuff your face with leftover turkey and dressing…

Wait, what?

That’s right, it’s almost Black Friday shopping time! Where we drown out the loveliness and heartwarming holiday, Thanksgiving, with rapid consumerism and the need to buy Christmas gifts at a bargain. One whole dollar?

Priceless!

So it’s the night before Black Friday, and all through the mall, too many were stirring, both small and tall. Fists were flying and loud yelling was heard, one random elbow and my vision was blurred. It was merely a cleaner of the vacuuming sort, but here there were people just fighting for sport. I lost my mom in the crowd just ages ago, in the throngs of people that still continues to grow. I’m in pain and weary, my head starts to pound, and why is that child just running around? The buzz has worn off, my feet are so aching, and I try to forget the mistake I am making. But it’s hard when you’re young and in groups of many, looking for presents but not finding any.
And there is my poem, no more no less. The end of this story I’m sure you can guess.

If not, then just sit back and listen.

So it’s the night of Thanksgiving a few years ago, back when Black Friday was just beginning to become Gray Thursday, and my mother and I were waiting in line outside of a store (I think it was Wal-Mart, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. Some parts of that night are still just a little fuzzy), preparing ourselves for the inevitable onslaught of sounds and physical activity. I’m leaning against the wall beside her, humming a quiet song while my mom was yelling at whoever was on the other end of her phone call. What a shame, she couldn’t enjoy her holiday without getting upset at a person who had no business interacting with her in the social context of the situation we were in.

Anyway, so it’s about eleven o’clock and the doors are just about to slide open, beckoning the hundred and fifty or so of us that are standing outside freezing our tails off just for a chance at saving money. Greedy, greedy, greedy. My mom keeps incessantly tapping on my shoulder, almost as if she were trying to wake up my adrenal glands that would get my blood pumping so I would be ready to kick someone’s shins. Needless to say, that’s what I did later on, but we’ll get to that part later.

The mouth of the beast yawned open slowly, and it was like a shot was fired off into the darkness of the sky. Someone, it may have been me, let out a strangled battle cry as we all forced and shoved our way over the threshold, grabbing and tugging at creaky shopping carts that would soon be filled to the brim with action figures and televisions. It was almost like that scene from “The Lion King” when Mufasa was killed by the stampede, and I was Mufasa, being trampled by crazy animals.

One woman, between the ages of maybe thirty and a thousand, even tripped me with her cane! (It’s okay, I’ve long since “accidentally” taken her shopping cart instead of my own empty one). After that, my memories get fuzzy from the alternating rushes of adrenaline and exhaustion. But I did learn one thing:

Never underestimate the elderly.