The Store That Never Closes
Today my phone lit up while I was at a red light.
“Your prescription is ready for pickup.”
Ready
I stared at the notification longer than I should have and
did the math I already knew wouldn’t work.
Then I closed it like it was spam.
My reminder of health, just out of reach.
Gone.
At least until next Friday.
the thought crossed my mind
that for many, there is no “next Friday”
it made me sad
&
That’s when the store appeared:
Wide aisles. Fluorescent buzzing lights. Squeaky carts, and broken baskets.
stale air. no music.
and lining the shelves…
bottles of
endless orange and white
Price tags replacing labels.
Tongue-twisting names.
Directions as riddles.
BOLD LETTERS EVERYWHERE
”Swallow with food”…
…as if you were ever hungry
”30 minutes before bedtime”…
…as if sleep was an option
take two to
give a damn
or
”as needed”
Dents and chipped paint pepper the shelves as
dull reminders of the times
where bodies
gave out
gave up
serving as a sign that
”All floors are slippery”
Hope next to Nausea.
Focus just out of reach above Despair.
In front of me
lines and lines and lines and lines
of tiny writing with
side effects
on warning labels
wrapped around bottles
of
A LIFE.
I DIDN’T.
FUCKING.
ASK FOR.
and
the numbers
so many of them
amounts, strengths, prices, frequencies
directions as directives
without logic
or sense
customers with gray faces cross one another
tshirts, heels, ties, and jeans
lip gloss in the shade of “effort”
cologne reeking of “worry”
all of it
unable to cover up
that inside we are all
the color of waiting rooms
a television in the corner playing the same song
showing the same woman
healthy, in a skirt
dancing
eating with her friends
smiling
because of what she was promised.
And you know…
I was promised that, too.
But for me, there was no dancing.
no eating.
no fucking smiling.
there was, however,
:’:,..:.’;dizziness.:’.,’:..:.
”Will help you sleep!”
…nightmares are endless…
“Will calm you down!”
…with no will to live…
”You’ll give a shit… we promise!”
but you have nothing left to care about…
because
there’s nothing left for you to feel…
a young girl quietly places a bottle back on the shelf
in place of another that she needs just a little bit more
knowing that this month, she’ll just have to risk it
A grown man with sunken eyes stares at the pink and white capsules
the ones keeping his finger off the trigger
of the gun in his nightstand
He can’t afford them.
so every day, after work, he visits them
as reminders that they exist
he window-shops survival.
Did you fucking hear me?
WINDOW SHOPPING FOR HIS OWN FUCKING SURVIVAL.
a teacher cries anxiously waiting for the clerk to ‘check in the back’ to confirm that the nausea meds from cancer meds that she takes with the meds for chemo are, in fact, once again,
… out of stock.
a muffled voice cracks over the fuzzy loudspeaker
”Clean up on aisles 4, 9, and 12”
pools from the tears of trauma need mopping
Spilled and broken pills from rage need sweeping
Someone needs to deal with the knocked over cart suddenly belonging to no one because
it just got to be
too
much
&
Everywhere
are the doctors….
as tired stock clerks in white coats.
the pay is great.
the price is worthless.
and
the shifts are endless.
A lady behind a counter
cuts through the hum of the fluorescent lighting.
Flat. Hospital-calm.
“Rachel Alexander. Your stability is ready.”
“Counter three.”
shit
long lines for counter three….
…longer lines for counter four.
ahh… Pain Pills.
OK
time to check out
The “10 or less” aisle non-existent
and
the self-checkout area holds a very different meaning in this store
all customers in silence
lined up
long and listless
waiting for their turn
insurance cards shaking in hands like lottery tickets
All of us gamblers in those moments
ten dollars?
a hundred?
$1.49
Everything?
because no one really knows
until the screen lights up
and the cashier confirms
what your wellness will cost this time around
money.
brave faces.
patchy skin.
migraines.
more money.
sick days.
longer nights.
or rent.
maybe it will cost you nothing.
but your child will pay heavily.
Picking you up off the floor when you lose balance
holding your head to the side as you seize.
because this month, you just couldn’t swing it.
there’s always a price to pay.
even if you walk out empty-handed.
because remember
just because you’re in the store
doesn’t mean you’re a customer.
No.
Not at all.
Receipts fold in pockets
both as victory tickets of hope
and
dreadful reminders
that this will happen again in 30 days
and then 30 after that
behind the register, a big red cart labeled “RESTOCK” overflows with choices made.
A bottle of sleep sacrificed for the wellness of a child’s ear infection
and
pain postponed because it wasn’t on sale
the desperate sadness of witnessing
health left behind
bottles and bottles of it
each representing an entire person who barely made it to the store in the first place.
the courage of a shower
the piles of dirty clothing
the suffering of sunlight
the fucking keys
and the phone out of battery
just. like. you.
just. like. me.
SNAP
the light turns green and I breathe in the fresh air because no, right now I’m not ok
but I will be
next Friday
when I can afford to enter
and pay
for my own little tiny corner of health and side effects
good news is
I can go there whenever I’m ready
because the store is just down the street
and around the corner
open 24/7
365
…that’s right…
the store never closes
because
pain never expires
&
and suffering is always in stock