The Real World

I lit a cigarette as I took my first steps back into the real world, after spending three weeks lying alone on my couch; gathering news from Channel 3 and reading whatever pamphlets came in the mail. I hadn't spoken a word, refusing to pick up my phone and trying my hardest not to exist. After a long debate with myself I decided the only way to never exist again was to never have contact with another source of life. So I did, I sat and did not change a thing in my life, or anyone else's for that matter. I came to a crux as the last can of soup I had ended up down my gullet and into an empty stomach.

It would be brief, my exit into the world. I would buy food and another carton of cigarettes before tying myself once again to the television set in my one room apartment. I bought the apartment years ago from the super of the building, back in better times. I had a job, cleaning an office building about six blocks from here and a girlfriend who left me almost a year ago. I was living off of welfare now and I had but pocket change to buy a month's worth of groceries. The price of cigarettes was skyrocketing but it was the only happiness I had these days. A psycho-somatic destruction of myself which made me feel a bit better than I did five minutes before I lit it.

It was cold outside, bitter cold. The snow and wind were flying through the streets and people were darting from cars into building without looking twice at me. Just another cog in the wheels of humanity, I thought. I slipped in the corner store and grabbed a basket to carry my soup. I picked them wisely, for their meat or bean content. I grabbed some instant macaroni that I could cook with as little work cleaning as there was in preparing. I bought cans of pears and beans, found some peaches in syrup but could not afford the 3 dollars one can would cost. I dreamed of the time when these were commonplace in my kitchen. I felt a tear forming on the side of my face but stifled in knowing I would be nowhere again soon.

I strolled down the aisles of the shop, trying to act hip like the two teenage girls trying to buy cigarettes with a fake identification card. They looked down as if looking at the lottery tickets to buy some, but I knew they were trying to hide their face in their hair. My hair was too short to do that, falling just below my eyes when I tried to hide behind it. Black, like the night, my Mother used to say. She had so much faith in me. She used to think I would be someone, bragging to her friends about my high marks in mathematics and history. Now I never see her, I never call, I never write. She may have forgotten I existed, too. I hope so; I would hate to disappoint her again.

I used to write letters often. Letters to everyone, it was a grand way to keep in touch but now there is the Internet, with the letters and articles all being brought through a computer. I don't own one so it is impossible for me to find the current news, with paper becoming more and more obsolete. I realized I was standing in the middle of an aisle when an old woman tapped me from behind. I shook in shock, thinking I changed her world in some way but felt the low hum of nothingness once she strolled by without saying a word. I nearly smiled at this but made haste to grab more soup for my basket.

I walked to the back of the store and glanced at instant iced tea mix but didn't purchase it, as water is what I'm used to. I remember instant iced tea at my Mother's house. We would pour the powder into large glasses and fill them to the brim with water. We mixed them with spoons and I would always spill mine. I debated buying some for old times sake but I don't want memories. They are proof I once existed. Memories of a time when I knew what happiness was, when I had hair to smell and bodies to hold. When I had a reason to exist and a soul within me.

I glanced around the dimly lit shop and over to the man behind the counter. He was finishing checking the old woman through, she had only bought a few vegetables. I glanced at the can of peas I was holding in my hand and placed it lighting in my basket. The man behind the counter stared menacingly at me, as if trying to find out if I had stolen something psychically. The man was Asian, and all Buddhists think like that. I remember watching a TV show on Channel 9 about monks over there. It was 4 in the morning so not many people saw the secrets they were revealing about the faith. I felt lucky to have insomnia that night, but I fell asleep half way through it.

I filled my basket with cans of all kinds. It was getting heavy so I decided to step towards the counter and pay. I placed the basket over the scratch and win tickets and began unloading them. I pointed at a carton of Belmont Mild, king size and he began turning around slowly. His black hair was coifed just enough to see small bristles at the back of his neck. He needed another seven-dollar upgrade, I thought and then realized I hadn't had one since I shaved mine short months ago. I debated using my trimmer to shave again and he placed the carton on top of my cans. "72 dollars," he said sharply. I paid the man in cash and took the two brown paper bags in my arms.

I advanced briskly to my stairwell. I opened the door with the key and with my foot allowed enough space for my entrance. I stepped on to the scratched hardwood floor and on the first step of the staircase. I walked slowly to the third floor and opened the fire door with much trouble. I bags I was carrying were wobbling and I tried my hardest not to lose them. I made my way down the hallway to my small apartment and tried the key in the door. I opened it with my hip and stumbled in to the mess, set the bags down on the small fridge and reached inside. I grabbed the first can of soup, Cream of Mushroom, and opened the top. I placed it on the burner and turned it on.