The counter is a stage upon which I stand, and it is also the pit from which I observe, cunningly, those who so often disappear from memory. We only sell so many items here; we are a small store in the desert where no one travels, where anyone who comes in is of the unwise variety, didn’t get enough gas from either of the cities on the two ends of the highway that’s all I have ever known.
Beyond the customers, there is one guy who comes with the merchandise. I order it, he leaves it outside, and that’s about it. I pay after inspection. We trust one another, and I have a satellite connection. I have driven to the edge of the cities multiple times though. I like the way she looks from a distance, the metropolis, though they’re not even big cities, just average, but they look like they could swallow me whole. It is as if the lights are lures extending from something dark that lives below the sands they are built upon.
People talk about the city when they come in—big city, small talk—the waterfront is rumored to be fun in the summer sun and apparently there is a delicious drive-in burger restaurant. I like my shower though and I know how to cook a burger. That said, apparently their festivals are spectacular. A parade almost sounded like it might have been worth witnessing, but there was a shooting at one of them a few years ago, and I am beyond certain that congregated humans is only ever a recipe for disaster.
I like the counter between us, and rigid understandings about our interactions. If someone asks me about Pepsi, all I have to say is, “we only carry Coke products”, and if they inquire further, I can frown silently until they take a hint. I have an unloaded rifle that I can look toward, guiding their eyes, if necessary. I have never actually had to reach for it, but I definitely look like the kind of guy who keeps a loaded rifle at his side.
One time a busty lady buying Hostess cakes wouldn’t shut up about how I had to visit the city, meet her friends, make a love connection, and I felt flustered, so I spoke back. “I live here alone”, I said coldly, seeking to be clear, and adding pointedly, “Everyone else is dead, and I like it that way.” She did not understand me though, and her face flashed white before she bolted out the door without paying, her tires screeching as her interpretation finally dawned upon me.
Let me be clear though, my parents were old, and I am an only child that grew up here alone. They died of old age while sleeping and I miss them, but I do not want other people here anymore. People are merely a necessary burden for survival in this world, my diet, my home, my reality, all that I have ever known. Yet, that said, I have learned to appreciate the exceptional ones whose impressions are forever, though I am glad that the people who produce them do usually go away.
One day my favorite person appeared and wandered almost silently through the store, as if searching for something. He was mumbling to himself, his eyes scrunching, mind digging into memory, chasing something out of grasp, and he paused repeatedly. At first, he stood before the chips and crackers for five minutes, analyzing them, looking for something. Then, he transitioned to spend another five minutes staring into an open soda refrigerator, dancing the same dance, his body displaying constant subtle activity, but his actions remaining unintelligible. Perplexed, I said nothing. Yet, eventually, he came to rest before the toiletries where he remained for what felt like an hour, examining the shelves dutifully, as if they contained military secrets or the answers to the meaning of life on Earth.
Then, suddenly, he convulsed for a split second, as if he had been struck by an invisible bolt of energy. He began to swivel his head and body then too, not entirely like an owl, but exaggeratedly. He was examining his surroundings in awe, and it was as if he had just teleported into my store, having arrived from thin air. He kept scanning the the room too, until his gaze settled upon me, looking as if he had been struck again.
He approached me then, apprehensively, as if I were a miraculous font of information, and upon arriving at the counter, a smile breaking, a wave of relief on his end, certain that I would offer a resolution of his doubts, he questioned, “why are we here?”
I pondered the question deeply, inwardly, and yet, without thinking, after a moment’s reflection, I searchingly uttered the words, “I don’t know.” The response caught me by surprise, I was still thinking, and it was as if the words had escaped like an animal under pressure, one of multiple possibilities that was contained within me, and my startled eyes returned to his.
“Oh”, he responded with a confident nod and a shadow in his eyes, as if he understood something, and I felt embarrassed about having nothing moving to say. I had never felt that way before, caring, and I wanted so badly to rise to the occasion. Yet, seconds later, his eyes glazed over, and he was looking downward at the mints and candy bars below the counter, his performance having returned to that which came before. I could hear him mumbling indiscernibly too—nonsense—and I returned to ponder the question silently.
However, he eventually left without a word or even making eye contact again, as if I were merely another object in a store where he had found nothing. Then the door closed, I heard the roar of an engine—was he the driver?—and I never saw him again. Yet, the questions echo endlessly. Why was he here? What was he doing? “Why are we here?”, and what should I have said? The longer I dwell on it all, I realize that there are questions for which there are no answers. Thus, I remain here, remembering, existing, and always waiting for something more interesting to happen.
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