Daytime Shopping

I have a crippling fear of people. This fear is itself crippling to everything that I want to do in the world. Where it started and how are questions that have been speculated for years of my life. One of the reasons why I work as a remote worker for a programming company is to avoid contact with others. The phone conversations are curt and short, daily greetings are meek and soft, and the desolate midnight walk behind the high school on Houston Boulevard are indeed lonely. But that loneliness is a relief to someone whose greatest fear isn’t AI or having to program a triple A game in a short time period. For a lifeless individual it’s the anxiety of interacting with life. Life is unpredictable. A woman goes on a subway after a hard day’s work at a pizzeria and for no fault of her actions or decisions, she gets stabbed by a deranged man that’s delighted to have a prime target. A slow painful death as a mixture of blood and oxygen drain from the gaping wound in her neck.

The senselessness that governs people drive me insane. There is no formula to guarantee safety away from such violent interactions, nor is there one to detract from double-layered context that require some form of sociability to comprehend. A man could ask a lady for a few dollars to pay for a soft drink at a gas station and the lady could launch into a reputation ending tangent that ends with the man shunned from his social circles.

The prospect of sex is terrifying because of how culpable all parties are for the transfer of diseases and disorders through the exchange of fluids. All passion craters under the weight of an infallible diagnosis that adds the monthly embarrassment of five-hundred-dollar pills to your budget. Don’t get me started on racial realities in the world…the division is endless, and the mercy is sparse.

Not a single tenant or neighbor remembers or cares about me. There is a vivid memory that I hate remembering because it killed all enthusiasm to even attempt conversations with people.

It might be simple to just end it with “I hate people”…but its not.

I think it comes down to uncontrollable fear of them that I can’t change.

A fear that is reinforced this morning when I look into my refrigerator and freezer and see that both are empty.

I can go for a week without eating and just drink warm water with black coffee when necessary to avoid going outside until a delivery comes. Even then, the used sporting P-Walter gun I have isn’t enough help with the thugs that lurk outside the doorstep. But it has just been a week and I’m starving for groceries. I cannot trust anybody making my own food from the fast-food places albeit, until my goal of obtaining a private homestead is accomplished the grocery store is better than nothing.

“The route to the grocery store closest to me is about a five-minute walk, it opens at 7:30 A.M. so that means I need to ensure that I avoid all bus stops.” Those juvenile demons could be lying in wait for someone to stab and fleece money from. Another terrifying thought could paralyze what little willpower I have left to act on my plan. So I make my way to my closet, put on a blue puffy jacket, conceal a bottle of pepper spray within the jacket, pocket my charged taser, and grab two wallets.

Why two wallets? One in case of theft and the other for unexpected big purchases that might occur due to the change in circumstances. Both wallets are brown Serovi Airtag brand and are identical yet there is a key difference. The dupe will have the exact amount of money for the groceries (Sixty-two dollars and eleven cents) with a fake ID and some handcrafted false credit cards to make it look full. The real wallet will be in my jacket along with my pepper spray can.

Paranoid? Yeah. Stupid? Never.

Nothing deters my path to the grocery store, not even a roaming dog makes a noise. Speed is of the essence. Moving fast through the few sleep-deprived people in the street and in the alleyways, nobody registers my presence for any longer than a few seconds. Why am I insistent on that? Because that’s the average time a person remembers a random stranger on the street in the city. It’s also the few seconds a person has to assess if a person is harmless or a threat. Everything is perfect so far, until three minutes into the execution of my route…a strange buzzing noise halts my thoughts abruptly.

“Why are you so weird?” A strange feminine voice echoes through my brain. Nobody is around me, or even in the vicinity. This might be a symptom of an asocial lifestyle if I am imagining a woman questioning my oddities. I have negative experiences with everyone of all genders and races but if it is a female voice manifesting as the collective doubts from my consciousness then…

“MY GOD! Just look down! Can’t stand tall people!”

I look down and see someone who shouldn’t be here.

A small woman with a slit eye and slightly fractured skull that greatly disturbs her straight blonde hair(and that is putting it mildly) communicates to me perfectly despite her exposed and flopping wind pipe fluttering between her neck and chest. I am no doctor nor expert on anatomy, but this woman is clearly a ghost. The cold air biting into my exposed flesh tells me this is no delusion. Even the fact that she is in a fresh hospital gown in the middle of a winter morning in the city, blares great signs of abnormalities.

I move on my route, not turning around, or answering with any plea for remorse. These situations happen and fade away the same way dreams do. A fleeting experience devised from the collective unconsciousness of the brain to explore an underlying dilemma that is desired. Ah, the store’s finally in sight. There is nothing more to disturb this routine trip to get a few items to last the next few days.

“You really are ignoring me.”

She is flying through the air beside me. Drifting mid air as though she is lounging on the couch watching TV. No care for modesty or if that gown covers her nether regions sufficiently. Who would care about those societal norms when you are dead after all?

“Hey. Are you finally going to talk to me?”

I rush towards the bathrooms in the back of the store. They are empty and sterile for in the morning, barely anybody uses them because there is no time to use them. In contrast, gas station restrooms would be busy and in a questionable state of cleanliness because of the influx of truck drivers and….who cares about that info with a ghost in the room.

“Can you hear my thoughts?”

She looks at me.

“Not much. Its like low reception feedback from a mic.”

This is frightening. Just keep talking. Keep talking to the dead woman.

“Then why me?”

“I dunno. You seem lonely. Every time you go outside, you act like a rabbit. Figured it would be better to just speak to someone nontraditional.”

“That sounds stupid-I mean nice.”

She pouts childishly at me.

“No wonder you’re single.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

I leave the restroom but the ghost still hovers on. Every item I put into my cart, she silently ogles at her surroundings. It is the same florescent light, dismally grey, and uncomfortably large store everyone goes to. The people all bear the same lifeless face, and the cashiers greet you with their plastered smiles and blank eyes. Nothing about this place feels notable enough to reflect upon positively.

Yet, she smiles when she sees my reactions.

“Are you satisfied with me shopping or something?”

Her smile never fades away.

“I’m just happy that there is someone who feels the same about some things.”

The bags of groceries in my hands feel lighter than usual. The walk back to the apartment takes a few minutes longer. The icy wind exfoliates the skin on my face similar to how it used to feel when I was a child. As I unlock the door to my apartment, a strange yearning is present. It’s an unfamiliar feeling that is incomprehensible. Under my breath, I ask something I always wanted to voice.

“Are you still here?”

The silence that answers hurts. Its expected yet-

“I never left”.