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Description
The harsh, iridescent lights of the grocery store cascaded down on to the cold floor. The beauties of mass production and consumerism had allowed every little chunk of concrete-covered land across the country to yield a homogenized food store. The beauty of it all was (supposedly) that each one would be serviced by one’s friends, neighbors, and family members and browsed by the kindly elders that lived down the street. Somehow, this dream was never applied in practice. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

Under this light, everyone had the same lonely, desperate look on their face. Everyone was looking to consume as much as their meager salaries would afford. Was it a basic instinct to survive, the euphoria over the booming economy, or a bit of both? Each one skimmed down an aisle with their squeaky carts, examining each product. They knew what they were looking for—a quick fix, a purpose for their own lives. A minor sense of triumph enveloped them... They came back when they were told that they ought to have more.

Gerrard could not help it. Every time he entered the small grocery store, he kneaded such thoughts, like bread dough, within his head. Eventually they'd harden, forming a stone that'd rattle about in his skull. He was no better—he was a human all the same. When one has been told that humans are to act in such a way from birth to death, is it any wonder that they will obey?

A human needed food, but was not rewarded food for his/her pointless toil any longer. In its stead, the workers of America were given fun tickets, upon which they were assured that God supported the "New World Order." The food was hardly even food anymore. The maggots were likely to have a hard time digesting the flesh of a man who had eaten at McDonald's everyday of his life.

Gerrard grabbed a rusty shopping cart from the "Kart Korral." It was almost eleven o'clock. The area was silent except for the incessant hum of several refrigerators, preserving the foods which chemical injections could not. The grocery was open until three in the morning. It had to be open in order to keep up. The work and will of the late Sam Walton had come to fruitation at the farthest reach of town. A big, ugly box loomed on the horizon, like a thundercloud, over the townspeople's heads. This market had survived by resorting to tactics as unscrupulous as those of its competitor.

He veered into the aisle lined with refrigeration devices. He passed an old lady, who was placing twelve-packs of beer into a refrigerator. She looked up at him with a gaunt and fearful face. She may have been afraid he would rob the shop... she may have been watching him to see if he was a shoplifter. He ignored her eyes, which were lined with dark blue rings of puffy, sagging skin. A voice from deep inside wanted to command her to stop torturing herself, to get away from the grinder. It was ignored... Gerrard needed to prioritize... he needed to save himself first.

The hum was mesmerizing. The light made him feel dizzy and disoriented. Before him lay a vast assortment of pizzas. He quickly found the cheapest brand and placed five boxes into his cart. He went to the next aisle, picked up a pack of Slim Fast, and proceeded on. At the bakery department, he tossed a loaf of bread into his cart. Jars of peanut butter and jelly completed his itinerary.

The old lady must have anticipated his arrival. She must have been the only one there, other than a butcher in back, perhaps. She delivered the usual greeting. Her voice was raspy, and it was only a half-hearted effort to sound pleasant. Gerrard did not return the greeting. He just unloaded his cart and placed his purchases onto the conveyor belt. When he looked up, she was pouting—an expression amplified by the folds of her pale-gray skin. The price was figured; the tender was paid; the change returned; the food placed in plastic bags. The old woman bade him good bye. He returned her farewell in a quiet voice and walked out.

As Gerrard exited the store, he felt more depressed than before. Perhaps it was because both he and the old lady knew that they shared the same plight, but where unable to look each other in the eyes. Such an act would only amplify their own sorrows. If they could not help each other, where they lost? He abandoned the though and looked at his watch. It was 11:25 p.m. on a Friday night. The bread, peanut butter, and jelly would serve as supper on the weekends for a short while... at least until mold overcame the bread. The pizza would last him from next Monday until next Friday.

Description
The harsh, iridescent lights of the grocery store cascaded down on to the cold floor. The beauties of mass production and consumerism had allowed every little chunk of concrete-covered land across the country to yield a homogenized food store. The beauty of it all was (supposedly) that each one would be serviced by one’s friends, neighbors, and family members and browsed by the kindly elders that lived down the street. Somehow, this dream was never applied in practice. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

Under this light, everyone had the same lonely, desperate look on their face. Everyone was looking to consume as much as their meager salaries would afford. Was it a basic instinct to survive, the euphoria over the booming economy, or a bit of both? Each one skimmed down an aisle with their squeaky carts, examining each product. They knew what they were looking for—a quick fix, a purpose for their own lives. A minor sense of triumph enveloped them... They came back when they were told that they ought to have more.

Gerrard could not help it. Every time he entered the small grocery store, he kneaded such thoughts, like bread dough, within his head. Eventually they'd harden, forming a stone that'd rattle about in his skull. He was no better—he was a human all the same. When one has been told that humans are to act in such a way from birth to death, is it any wonder that they will obey?

A human needed food, but was not rewarded food for his/her pointless toil any longer. In its stead, the workers of America were given fun tickets, upon which they were assured that God supported the "New World Order." The food was hardly even food anymore. The maggots were likely to have a hard time digesting the flesh of a man who had eaten at McDonald's everyday of his life.

Gerrard grabbed a rusty shopping cart from the "Kart Korral." It was almost eleven o'clock. The area was silent except for the incessant hum of several refrigerators, preserving the foods which chemical injections could not. The grocery was open until three in the morning. It had to be open in order to keep up. The work and will of the late Sam Walton had come to fruitation at the farthest reach of town. A big, ugly box loomed on the horizon, like a thundercloud, over the townspeople's heads. This market had survived by resorting to tactics as unscrupulous as those of its competitor.

He veered into the aisle lined with refrigeration devices. He passed an old lady, who was placing twelve-packs of beer into a refrigerator. She looked up at him with a gaunt and fearful face. She may have been afraid he would rob the shop... she may have been watching him to see if he was a shoplifter. He ignored her eyes, which were lined with dark blue rings of puffy, sagging skin. A voice from deep inside wanted to command her to stop torturing herself, to get away from the grinder. It was ignored... Gerrard needed to prioritize... he needed to save himself first.

The hum was mesmerizing. The light made him feel dizzy and disoriented. Before him lay a vast assortment of pizzas. He quickly found the cheapest brand and placed five boxes into his cart. He went to the next aisle, picked up a pack of Slim Fast, and proceeded on. At the bakery department, he tossed a loaf of bread into his cart. Jars of peanut butter and jelly completed his itinerary.

The old lady must have anticipated his arrival. She must have been the only one there, other than a butcher in back, perhaps. She delivered the usual greeting. Her voice was raspy, and it was only a half-hearted effort to sound pleasant. Gerrard did not return the greeting. He just unloaded his cart and placed his purchases onto the conveyor belt. When he looked up, she was pouting—an expression amplified by the folds of her pale-gray skin. The price was figured; the tender was paid; the change returned; the food placed in plastic bags. The old woman bade him good bye. He returned her farewell in a quiet voice and walked out.

As Gerrard exited the store, he felt more depressed than before. Perhaps it was because both he and the old lady knew that they shared the same plight, but where unable to look each other in the eyes. Such an act would only amplify their own sorrows. If they could not help each other, where they lost? He abandoned the though and looked at his watch. It was 11:25 p.m. on a Friday night. The bread, peanut butter, and jelly would serve as supper on the weekends for a short while... at least until mold overcame the bread. The pizza would last him from next Monday until next Friday.