By Todd Hertz
A wooden barrel whizzed out of the produce section, bounced past the greeting cards, and slammed into an endcap display of cold remedies. Children’s grape chewables—on sale for $13.99—splattered across the opening of aisle four.
This might be my fault. Brian slumped to the grocery store floor. His head tipped back against boxes of allergy medication. Maybe if I just ignore this, it will all go away.
He closed his eyes. The distant din of dirt bike engines quieted. Did it work? Brian opened one eye. A face—fully covered by a purple star tattoo—studied him. Awkwardly close. The face’s owner wore skimpy shorts and wrestling shoes that matched his tattoo.
Brian yelped, scooting away. So many questions. Yet, all he could force out was, “What, what?”
“Ah, not dead,” declared the brawny wrestler. “Starman go fight donkey ape. Stay here, little man.” He flexed his stunning pectorals and bounded from aisle four.
Brian stared at rows of fluorescents high above him. So much for a quick nasal decongestant run. His deep, anxious breathing—amplified by congestion—nearly drowned out the wrestler’s bellowed taunts about the gorilla’s necktie. Brian’s stomach churned.
“This can’t be happening again,” he muttered to the lights. “It’s not real. It’s not real.”
“I wish it weren’t,” said a tired voice.
A kind-eyed elderly woman leaned on her shopping cart. “It’s real,” she assured him. “I got bit by a turtle with a red shell.”
“Oh my… Where?”
“Cereal aisle.” Blood stained the cuff of her brown pants.
Brian sighed; he had no energy for follow-up questions.
“I wonder.” The woman made eye contact. “Could you get me some bandages? I’m not sure when we will get out. Strange pyramids are blocking the doors.”
“Oh.” Brian bit his lip. “Are dirt bikes jumping them?”
She nodded.
Brian closed his eyes again. Crap.
“I’ll go get those bandages.” Using a shelf, he pulled himself to his feet. With a glance around the corner for barrels, moblins, or red turtles, he snuck to the first-aid aisle.
When he returned, he dumped gauze, bandages, cotton balls, and triple antibiotic next to the now-sitting woman.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back. What’s your name?”
“Brian.” He plopped into his Brian-shaped hole of children’s chewables.
“Brian, I don’t understand any of this,” she confessed. “I was just getting groceries.”
He grimaced. “My dad… He loved old video games. These are all things from his games…” Brian shook his head, hesitant to say more.
“Oh? How strange.” She dabbed at her ankle with a wipe. “That doesn’t explain why they’re in our supermarket.”
Brian tensed, ready to run. Did she suspect him? Why tell her anything? He could just go hide. Besides, even he wasn’t sure he was causing this. There could be other explanations. But did any of them explain the other incident?
“Do you play these games with your dad?”
Brian’s jaw tightened. “No.” He frowned, then looked away. “He, uh, died. Last year.”
She stopped applying ointment to her gash. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “We weren’t close.”
Brain leaned his head back. Gorilla grunts, duck quacks, and the revving of dirt bikes filled his ears. So much chaos. Why couldn’t it all just go away? He never even liked these old games.
“Grief is weird.” The woman’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You may think you don’t feel it. But it’s there. I lost my husband years ago. It doesn’t go away—the loss, the guilt, regret.”
Regret. Something clicked, like a door swinging open.
“For years,” Brian said, “my dad would ask me to play with him, but—I mean—the games were boring. The graphics were lame. I spent so much time being mad at him for not taking an interest in what I liked. I wish I’d just played with him.”
He shut his eyes. Saying the words made him feel their reality. He regretted not taking advantage of time with his dad. Try as he might to push it down, that regret lingered, simmering. And now, it had boiled over. Just like…
“Of course,” Brian muttered.
“What is it?”
“Um.” Brian sighed. “When I was, like, five this huge, rubbery triceratops stomped through our backyard. Just appeared. Trampled my mom’s garden. Mom and Dad had gone inside. When they came back, they insisted I was making it up. That I did it. I convinced myself they were right.”
Brian swallowed hard. “My best friend had just moved. I wished I’d played more with him when I could. He always wanted to play with stupid dinosaur toys.”
“So, again—regret,” the woman offered. “Feelings you didn’t know how to deal with.”
“And they did this.” Brian dramatically gestured around the store. He froze. How long had it been quiet? No engines. No laughing hound dogs. Instead, a cart wheel squeaked. The store’s HVAC rattled.
“I think it’s over.” The woman cracked her first smile. “We should get out of here.”
Brian offered a hand to help her. Her. What was her name? He hadn’t even asked. Sure, a lot was going on with all the anthropomorphic mushrooms and fireballs. He’d been too wrapped up in his own head.
“I’m sorry.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I never got your name.”
She took his hand. “Brenda. Nice to meet you.”
Together they emerged from aisle four. Sheer bedlam awaited. Sparks rained from swinging lights. Groceries littered the floor. A cashier wept.
They approached the front door. “Goodbye, Brian.” Brenda smiled as he held open the door. “I’m glad…”
She froze. Cars honked and glass shattered. Would-be shoppers screamed, running for cover. Brian frantically looked for the cause of the chaos. A dozen unicorns romped through the parking lot. Grocery bags—paper and plastic—were speared on their horns. Some chased shoppers. Others pranced atop cars. One picked at a deli sandwich.
“Oh, crap,” Brian muttered. “I should probably work through that messy break up, too.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Very creative way of addressing a character’s issues. Hilarious as well, of course!
Thank you and thanks for reading. I enjoy absurd metaphors for real situations!
Love the tie in to dealing with grief and how it can show up unannounced when we try and stuff it down. Great story!
Thanks for reading and for the kind comment. Its fun poking at real problems with absurd scenarios.
The unicorns pushed me from snicker to full-blown laughter! XD
good job!
Thanks for reading! Credit for the unicorns goes to Havok editors for good feedback on the original needing a punch at the end.
so many issues…. not enough resolution….
Thanks for reading! Id been seeing this in my own life–and how talking helped bring that resolution–and it came out in a silly story about Nintendo!
Nicely written, Todd. One can’t help but wonder how autobiographical this is. Great way to process feelings, and even one’s baggage and pain. Bravo.