Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,6

. . . they could do it. Without question. And without asking how, they always seemed to retort with some variation of “Yeah, okay, buddy.”

It kills me every time.

“Are you serious?” I would say.

“How the hell am I supposed to do all that?” they’d reply.

“By using your head!” I’d tell them. “I mean, why not become a critic?” They’d stare at me, puzzled, then say something ignorant. “What the hell do movies have to do with traveling?” they’d say, just like a drone with no mind of its own would.

I mean, this is some real break-free-from-the-Matrix shit we’re talking about here.

“I didn’t say a film critic; I said a critic. Why not review hotels across the globe?”

Once again, they’d stare, confused.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a five-star hotel?” I’d ask.

“Well, of course,” they’d reply.

“How do you think they got those stars in the first place?”

Their eyes would widen enough for me to get through, and if their minds would open long enough, I could reach them.

“Think about it. You can do anything you want in life. It just takes persistence, determination, realism, and wanting success more than your next breath. Whatever you want in life you can attain. As long as you believe it. As long as you say you’re going to do it!”

Now some of them, while still open-minded, would give some smart-ass response like “Well . . . what if I want to be an astronaut?”

I’ve had this conversation with kids under ten as well as adults in their sixties. The only ones who have ever asked me dismissive questions like this are the adults. It was the children who were perceptive. It was the children who took my words as affirmation of the limitless realities they already believed to be possible. They believed in spite of the grown-ups around them, tainting their innocence and imagination while ripping them from their dreams. Dreams of walking on Mars or building jet packs and teleportation machines.

So to that smart-ass with the question, I would say yes.

“Yes, you can completely become an astronaut!” I’d say. By then I know they really mean a space traveler. “I said persistence, determination, and realism earlier in my speech,” I’d explain. “If you look at your dream realistically, then becoming an astronaut is merely a million-dollar Space X ticket—if you live long enough to see it. So all you really need to do is come up with the money to purchase such a golden ticket.”

This is where they would roll their eyes and lose interest.

“My point is that you asked how and I am giving you the examples, the possibilities, because when I want something, truly want something that my life depends on—which is purpose and happiness—I will stop at nothing to attain it. It’s like breathing. So you must ask yourself: What is your air? What is the thing you literally will fight for to survive?”

I would hear “Wait a second . . . I was asking you what aisle the cereal was on, so, uh, how did we get here?”

Then they would walk away and I’d be reminded that all the shit I just philosophized goes down the drain when I’m surrounded by the reality of working in this goddamn supermarket. Wait, why was I talking about all that in the first place?

Oh, yes! That’s right. I was outside the supermarket, looking at Ted, thinking about my hatred for his smile. Then, the next thing I knew . . .

I was back. Standing here, stocking a shelf with boxes of pasta. Penne, ziti, spaghetti. Pasta for days.

A staticky voice sounded overhead, “Floater to break room, flooaatteerrrrr to the break room, please.” The voice reminded me of the show M*A*S*H, about surgeons during the Korean War. There was always someone speaking over the intercom.

I was a floater. As a floater, I didn’t exactly have a job, but I didn’t exactly not have one. I was the guy they told what to do and when to do it. Honestly, I didn’t mind. It gave me more ground to cover and kept things varied and interesting. One minute I’d be mopping up spilled cranberry juice, the other I’d be facing cans, the other I’d be walking old ladies’ groceries to their cars.

On my way to the break room a woman from the store’s pharmacy stopped me.

“Well hello there, Flynn.”

“Um, hey?”

“I’m Ann, silly. Don’t forget to take your vitamins,” she said, handing me three different types of supplements. “It’s important for your internal balance,” she continued. I