My name is Christina Duffy and I am a Weshopaholic. I find that I unconsciously gravitate toward it regardless of whether I want anything or not. As I near its homely facade, I’m reminded of sweet cottages at home. I draw closer and feel a pulsation in my left jacket pocket. The power within can taste it, can sense what is ahead and the opportunity it will have. My knees grow feeble as I pull back the glass door and enter the lobby where others lay sprawled on the floor in groups like strung-out junkies. They have been weakened by their visit, unable to muster the strength to go on. Some cluster around the notice board, pretending to read the notices but really their eyes are fused to the great blue door. They imagine the wonders beyond that door; they see the advertisement for work and try not to fantasize about the possibilities. They have entered before and know the consequences. They don’t want to relapse and yet they need to go in. They look at me as I walk by, pitying me, yet fighting the urge to slip in behind me as a waft of caffeine shoots out the door. They rub their noses feverishly. They want more.
As I take my first steps inside, I see the other users, gleefully pacing through the aisles, their eyes darting from item to item, shelf to shelf. I reach for the chunky red basket and the sales woman smiles. It has begun.
I go straight ahead, it seems safer, and there is too much fuss around the till. Each item ignites a hallucination before my eyes. I play out full conversations with people that I imagine I will invite over to share this luminous packet of cheetoh puffs. I know where all of us will be sitting. I know what we will be wearing. As I progress to the Ryvita, I delude myself to the promises of healthy eating. Nothing is impossible here. I grab light and dark rye. I feel a glorious rush, but the power within is unsatisfied. I take fruit crunch too.
As I turn the corner, I am met by a fluster of employees flocking around a trolley of perishables. The fridge door is ajar and they quickly shove the packets of chicken and cheese slices onto the shelves in a bucket brigade fashion. The pusher monitors their frenzy. They see me and realize I am slipping back to reality. They shuffle away. I quickly forget.
The next aisle comprises row upon row of tins from all cultures. Strange concoctions of rice and noodles, black bean, and asparagus fly into the vein-bulging hands of other users. I can only dream about what potions they plan to design. Some pull nervously at the bulk bins of nuts and cereals to my right, huddling over their fancies. They feel exposed here. How much they want is purely optional. This row of apparent freedom makes us feel in control. Nobody is making us take anything we don’t want. My eyes are drawn to the radioactive green sour jelly loops near the end of the row. I bag several and cushion them on the Ryvita in my basket.
I enter the next aisle, and I am uninterested in the cleaning products and fragrant soaps around me. The Bear Naked rolled oats call to me from the top shelf. I succumb.
I round the corner to a rainbow of roots and fruits. The queue has formed as far as the apples. I balance my basket and tear a plastic bag from the roll. I randomly clutch oranges, grapefruits, pears and kiwis. I bull my way through the crowd and pull grapes and boxes of blueberries from the shelves. I realize this is the last aisle and panic sets in. Yogurts and ready-made sandwiches are bundled into my basket. I find it hard to breathe and try to make my way to the back of the queue. I am third in line by the time I have composed myself. I am rejuvenated and pluck some bananas and Lifesavers from their resting places. A burning sensation and giddy senselessness ensues as I am called to the front. Item after item is scanned, the fruits weighed and the total calculated. I am not told the price. I don’t ask. I reach for my pocket and unleash the power that is the Wescard. A rush races through my body as the card is slid carefully down the track. The card will take care of me. He will pay for it all. I feel safe. I bag my purchases and am handed back my card. I return it to its resting place in my pocket where it keeps me warm. I get no receipt.
I make my way to the door and exit the store. I see the broken bodies in the lobby and I remember it all now, the assignments, the problem sets and the exams. I am smacked with the brutal reality that is outside Weshop. How could I be so foolish? I see the potential users in the street. Here I am powerless. I am just another plebeian. My card can’t help me here. I pull up my hood to shield the bloodshot eyes within and scurry away vowing never again. The card mocks me from within and I know I will soon return.
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