I had a terrible dream. Guess you could say it was a nightmare.
I was held hostage for three days in one of the area's many mega-stores. You know which ones I'm talking about. It takes as long to find the product in the store as it does to drive there in the first place.
My abductors were an assortment of aisles and shelves of cans and bottles that reduced me to a helpless and hapless captive.
No matter where I turned all I saw were unit pricing labels. Ugh!
Perhaps I can reconstruct this horror. It may be therapeutic, reduce anxiety, and let me get on with my life.
It all began as a I ambled through the entrance. Immediately I gazed upon a landscape as broad as Yellowstone National Park.
But I was prepared. Or so I thought. I had provisioned myself and brought along food and water, for I knew that any visit to one of these monster home building centers or gargantuan grocery stores required a major time investment.
Asking for directions -- er, I mean help, -- would save time. I quickly approached a clerk.
"Where's the hot picante sauce," I asked.
She thought a minute, consulted her tri-sectional floor atlas, and responded.
"Go down Aisle AA 500 feet. Turn left at Row 54. Proceed west on 54 for 620 feet. Hang right at Aisle L. Walk 150 feet. Veer left at the fork. The sauce is 57 feet down on the left right next to the ketchup. You can't miss it."
"Thanks," I said half-heartedly, as my brain was busily preoccupied with processing all this information.
I hitched up my pants, buttoned my jacket, and checked the compass. Off I boldly marched to meet my destiny.
It's hard to tell whether it was Aisle L or Row 54, but somewhere, something terrible went awry.
Before I knew it, I was lost in a sea of diapers, powder, and pacifiers. At least if I were trapped in the book section I could read all the bestsellers.
Besides, the diapers didn't fit, and I prefer my thumb to any artificial contrivances.
The baby powder was very useful given my anxiety level. I don't know how I would have controlled my nervous perspiring if it weren't for those three cases of talc.
Everyone knows not to move around when you're lost. Rescuers can find you easier if you stay put. Well, I had to go. I could only take 36 hours in the infant department.
The longer I lingered around pull toys and plastic bottles, the more I regressed, crying and calling for "mommy." I even forgot how to tie my shoelaces, dress myself, and recite my name, address, and phone number.
So I kept pushing on, deeper and deeper into merchandising hell. Hour after hour, aisle after aisle, row after row. Soon everything looked alike. It was hopeless. Even my compass was shot once I passed through the magnets section.
I knew these stores were big, but I never realized how large. At one point, I saw a sign informing me that I had crossed into another county.
What could I do?
Like Pooh Bear, I sat down to think. Think, think, think.
That's it! I'll set my credit cards afire in the middle of the aisle. No self-respecting American businessperson could bear the prospect of a client losing instant buying power.
I looked about. I was in luck! Matches and scissors were on a nearby shelf.
I snatched the supplies and hurriedly sliced up my plastic, built a little pile, and ignited it.
Immediately, an announcement rang through the vast expanse. "Customer in danger of losing credit. Dispatch loan officers to Sector VBD, Range 12-1, Parcel 4903 at once!"
Five minutes later I was saved, in a manner of speaking. First I had to listen to a presentation on why I needed a special store charge card. It was almost as scary as being lost.
How could I get out of this?
I feigned disinterest. "Why would anyone care about credit cards? In fact, why would anyone even need to shop in this store?"
My ploy had worked. They thought I was fast losing my mind.
Someone yelled. "Get this customer to a hospital right away. He's sick. Very sick."
That's my story. But I've learned a lesson. Next time I enter of one these land grant retailers, I'll bring bread crumbs and drop them as I go. Otherwise, I'll never find my way out.
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Fred W. Apelquist, III, M.Ed.
Approximately 750 words.
© 1996