Plastic, Cutlery, Freezers, and Flame: A Night of Support

TW: Offensive language, and parody of support groups and addiction/trauma.

BEEP—fabric softener.

BEEP—deodorant.

I smiled at the curly-haired mother of three, her kids clinging to her and the cart. “Did you find everything okay?”

BEEP—dish soap.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said, smile soft.

I nodded once, ending my polite performance, and continued scanning.

BEEP—diapers.

BEEP—formula.

BEEP—a doll…

A twitch hit my eyelid. The small, plastic woman’s pink lips were stretched tight, like she was in pain. Her yellow dress like caution tape. And her eyes—those unnaturally large eyes—just waiting to blink, waiting to bat those lashes and watch you have to choke down four prescriptions a day while everyone calls you crazy. Calls you troubled. Calls you the neighborhood basket case who insists toys can talk.

“Uh, sir? My coupon…” the woman said… the real woman.

My attention snapped back. How long had she been waiting? I hadn’t realized I was crushing the box either. I quickly bagged it.

“Oh—sorry about that.” I hushed a laugh. “Long night.”

She gave a courtesy smile, then turned to smooth her daughter’s hair.

I scanned her coupon, it granted her twenty percent off the doll. Luckily her remaining items consisted of baby clothes and ingredients for a lasagna dinner. I could breathe again.

I tore her receipt, and handed it to her. “Have a good night, and thanks for shopping Lo-Mart.”

I rubbed my clammy palms on my dirty vest. I skipped wash day twice. I checked who was looking, then inconspicuously sniffed myself. Meh—musty, remnants of cigarettes, and fabreze. Debra in sporting goods smells worse.

I leaned against the register enjoying the dead store, only a handful of customers left and thirty minutes before closing.

I popped a handful of mints—nervous habit—and straightened my name tag. I frowned at the small skull sticker peeling. I pressed my thumb over it, forcing it down.

The intercom pinged then muffled orders: Sam to aisle forty-two. Sam to forty-two. Thank you.

My pulse spiked. Aisle forty-two? I’ve worked at this dump for nine months now and I’ve avoided that aisle at all cost. Along with anything that takes double or triple A’s, brightly colored plastics and rubbers, “collect-them-all” cults—and especially—anything with a sadistic pull-string.

I wasn’t even suppose to be on the registers—I’d just been stupid enough to say yes to the overtime. My safe space was produce. Cause the last I checked—kiwis, oranges and persimmons didn’t look you in the eye with ages-three-and-up threats.

I swallowed hard, then killed the light to register three.

Getting my Converse to move was a chore, but my newly adjusted meds had my back.

I rounded the corner where an end-cap of towels were folded, the last stop of fluffy safety before—

Army men. Rachel and Meg’s Mega Doll Dream House. Colossal Dinos. Glow in the Dark Space Men!

I didn’t even dare breathe as I passed the Wild West Fun Zone—that section can burn in Hell.

The only human in the aisle was the assistant manager, Cindy. Her presence kept me tethered as artificial eyes watched me from every angle. My pits were now adding to my fresh-scent.

“Aye, Cindy. What’s up?”

Jesus Christ—did my voice actually crack?

She turned. “Hey. Sorry to stop your fun up there.” She gave an obnoxious snort. “But, uh, Blake had to leave early, and I need all these markdowns pulled and put in the back for tomorrow’s clearance.”

She wheeled over her cart, slapped me on the shoulder, and said thanks before I could tell her to fuck off.

I smiled instead.

I stared at the scuffed flooring, waiting for my pulse to settle, then looked to my left. A potato with fucked-up facial features grinned. I knocked his ass into the cart before I could have a panic attack.

“I am real. I am enough. I can be honest when my thoughts get tough,” I muttered.

Dr. Roth’s voice rang in my head—“Name three things you can control.” But right now, all I could think of were these fucking dolls.

I repeated the mantra as I did a clean sweep with my arm along the shelves.

The packages crashed into the cart. A few boxed porcelain dolls may have shattered. It brought me peace. It took my mind back to the early days when I had control over these fake bastards. Their pain and suffering by my hand was gold. I just had to hold onto that power for another fifteen minutes, then I was free.

The closing announcements crackled overhead. I rammed the overstuffed cart into the bulky double doors to the back room. They squeaked open, quitting before I could.

I abandoned the cart in the corner and headed toward the bulletin board. I slid my finger down the color-coordinated schedule until I hit Sam Phelps—off the next two days.

Thank God. I needed the recovery time.

I gave a half-assed goodbye to Kirk, the over-toned, big guy who was rambling about poisoning talking alpacas with the lanky old bitch whose name wasn’t worth remembering.

They both sounded like they could use a few couch-coddled trauma sessions.

The night sky was clouded—felt too much like my mind, but the air was fresh. I inhaled, allowing my lungs to bask in all its glory before I killed them with nicotine-laced smoke.

The door to my junker creaked open, then squeaked louder when I hauled it shut. It smelled like old pizza and expenses I couldn’t keep up with. I dusted off the dash, littered with speeding tickets and receipts, and pulled a scratched CD. The metal music was my saving grace whenever I had an episode.

Driving through the neighborhood I’d known all my life was like picking at a wound. The healed part of me said, it was time for change, but my inner child, still tormented by sweet, latex-scented fear said: There ain’t shit wrong with a twenty-three-year-old living next door to their parents. Hey—I left their basement. That alone was worth a trophy.

I parked, cranked back the emergency brake, stepped out and completely ignored the overflowing mailbox.

Flipping on the lights, the ceiling fan wobbled but did its thing. I pried off my shoes, let my vest drop and grabbed a spray bottle on the way to the kitchen—two spritz, and a prayer. If I can recover, so can that plant.

The fridge lit up my tired eyes; the case of beer gave a nod. I plucked a can free.

Trash crunched underfoot; I kicked it aside. I dropped into place, my couch welcoming me without a three-figure bill later. I flicked on the TV and cracked open my beer, slurping its foamy overflow before it could spill.

The tail-end of a swimsuit commercial made me smile, but the low-monotone narrator for Confession Obsessions stole it. I hated this show, but my laziness was in full effect, not even my fingers had a say.

“On tonight’s episode of Confession Obsessions, we meet two women desperate for change.”

I gulped, holding the chilled liquid in my cheeks before swallowing.

Lively music played while a peaceful beach scene brightened the screen. A red-headed woman sat on a swaying bench by a seaside cottage. My eyes widened.

“My name’s Allie. I’m twenty years old, and I’m addicted to cutlery.” The woman I knew from my days in treatment looked to the sand, the waves kissing her feet but not lifting her smile.

Shit—she relapsed?

The woman cried. “Not a day goes by where I don’t rub a fork on my face or massage my body from head to toe with decorative spoons.” She wiped a tear. “I do it in public. In private. And now I’m stealing fine silverware from my closest friends and family.”

I tried not to—but a laugh slipped once Allie began her metal-rubbing ritual in the middle of busy buffet—people stared, children cried.

“Allie rubs her skin with utensils, even steak knives, up to fifty times a day,” the man narrated.

The scene showed Allie dragging two spoons down her face like a mad-woman as she sang to the heavens. I spat beer.

“It first started when I’d scuba dive. I once found a golden spoon on the ocean floor. It was shiny and crusted with salt. I had to taste it. Then when that stopped satisfying me, I began rubbing my skin, hoping it’d bring me luck—but I’ve not had any.”

I sighed for her. She looked a mess back then, strung out while she curled her hair with sporks, but now her depression was hidden with spray tan and frosted lipstick. And I knew damn well those pearls she wore were fake—she’d shared that daddy had cut her off.

“Allie has maxed out all of her credit cards in order to purchase rare and collectible cutlery. Now—she’s filed for bankruptcy,” the man explained.

I shifted then nearly choked when they showed her hoard—I don’t know how anyone sleeps on top of a mound of butter knives, but she’s perfected it.

The scene panned to the sky, then the second woman was introduced.

Wow. Another familiar face.

“My name is El. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m addicted to freezers,” said the blonde woman standing outside fully dressed for winter even though it was fucking July. I shook my head.

“I just can’t get enough of the chill. The way my hands go numb. My lips. If frostbite wasn’t dangerous—I’d marry it.”

My laughter wheezed.

“El can’t carry out normal tasks because of her addiction to the cold,” the man narrated.

They proceeded to show this woman inside of a supermarket who had wedged her entire body inside of a freezer, next to the popsicles and gallon-bucket ice cream. The police had to forcibly remove her.

“El also suffers from psychosis as she believes she can fight evil by shooting icicles from her bellybutton.”

I blinked. It used to be from her toes—now it’s her goddamn bellybutton?

The blonde demonstrated her “power” as she lifted her shirt and chest-bumped a cameraman with a deep grunt—knocking him over and nothing else.

My laughter assaulted me, and my tears wouldn’t quit. These ladies had me wondering if I were the only sane one in the group.

The show went to commercial; a family of five was shown eating soup on a picture-perfect balcony. I let the glow fade into the background as I thought.

Poor girls. Guess I wasn’t the only one still haunted. I could only imagine how Pyro was doing. With his skewed views on the underworld, I’m sure something’s gone up in flames by now. I should probably check the news for recent counts of arson.

I exhaled and crushed the empty can. Maybe I should check on them. Still had all their contacts.

I forced myself up and picked up the phone. The long cord followed me into the kitchen. Pulling a small notepad from a cluttered drawer, I dialed the numbers, each ending with a long beep.

RIIING. RIIING. RIIING. CLICK.

“Hello?” a soft and polite voice answered that came with a chatter of teeth.

I frowned at the floor. “El?”

“… Wh-who’s this?”

“It’s Sam. Sam Phelps. Toy freak.”

“Ah!” she said, her voice shivering. “H-how a-are you?”

I was already disturbed. I could only imagine the color of her skin right now.

“I’m good. Down to five cigarettes a day and very few flashbacks.” I leaned against the fridge, then glanced at the upper freezer and pulled away. “Uh… I was just calling to check on you. Saw your Confession Obsessions episode…”

Her laugh came through like frost. “Oh—that was just a bit of a stumble. I-I’m t-tot-tally fine now.”

I exhaled hard. “You’re in a freezer as we speak, aren’t you?”

I could hear her freezer-burnt guilt from here.

“Sam—I’m okay, I-I sw-sw-swear. This is the last time. I just had a bad day. Needed to cool off… y-y-ya know?”

My shoulders sagged. “Quick support meetup?”

She sniffled. “Yeah…”

El was always the one who offered tissues. We used to sit in that circle, all of us shaking for different reasons. Guess she needed them now.

“K—just step out of the deep-freezer and do some jumping jacks. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay… b-b-bye.”

The line softly clicked. I dialed Pyro next. Better hang onto something.

RIIING. RIII—

“What?!” he snapped, his tone fifty-degrees hotter than El’s.

“It’s Sam. Good to hear from you too.”

“I’m clean,” he ground out.

I hushed a laugh. “You sure about that? Taking your flame-retardant pills?”

His grumble could’ve cooked an egg. “Yes! Think I’m an idiot?”

I twirled the cord. “Kinda.”

He growled.

“Look—we need to pick up El for an emergency meetup. Need you to defrost her. Allie too—she’s probably gouged out her eyeballs with spoons already.”

“I’m busy,” he said, tone charred.

“We can stop at Pizza Orbit—on me.”

The line sizzled.

I licked my teeth, half-expecting metal to still be there. “C’mon, you know you love how the cheese turns crusty the second it touches your tongue.”

“Fine—but if Allie starts singing… I swear I’ll—”

“Banish her to Hell with all the other miserable souls—yeah-yeah. Be ready in ten.”

I hung up. Dialed Allie next.

RIING. RIING. CLICK.

“Out where they tumble, twirl and they faaaalllll! Down by the beach. Need sand on my feet. Part of your destinnnyyyyy!”

I hung up.

Christ.

I snatched my keys, slipped on my Chucks and ignored the shake in my thumb. I savored the night air—the only thing that still made sense.

Crickets gossiped, likely shit-talking me too. I stopped at the mailbox this time. Its swelling looked painful. I pulled the fat stack.

Debt collector.

Debt collector.

Coupons.

Charity.

I paused—a letter?

The sender: Arnie Devens.

I glared. That asshole has some nerve contacting me. I tore it open.

Dear Sam,

I hope all is well. My mom said you moved out. That’s great! I’m glad our moms stay in touch. I think we should too.

College is coming to an end, then I’ll be on my way to becoming an animator. It’s a creative field I think you’d enjoy.

Well, if you have the time, I think we should hang out. I’m free weekends. Feel free to call anytime.

Yours truly,

Arnie

P.S. I sold those… toys. They were worth a fortune once the rumors spread. I’m happy to share the profits with you… considering what you went through.

The crickets gossiping sounded like music now. I smirked at the crisp, folded paper. Arnie’s more naive than I thought if he thinks he’s keeping any of that cash.

I wedged the letter between my side and lit a cigarette. My smoky exhale reached for the sky. He may be sitting pretty in his dorm room—no night sweats, no label branding him as different.

But unlike him, I’ve got a posse of unhinged friends with poor judgment. And needless to say—we got bills.