ive never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble (Part 1: I kind of hate wal-mart, but at least they let you sleep in their parking lots overnight for free)

The orange light starts coming through the windows at 5:30 am, which is when I cover my eyes, and turn over onto my right side away from the driver's window. In those few moments of semi-consciousness, I think in pictures: a hamburger, chef boyardee beefaroni, a rope, pinched carotid arteries, natty daddys, broke in 5 days, budgeting, speed, xanax, gas, haven't showered in a week, the beach, unemployed, applications, left leg's asleep, cops, warrants, piss slamming against asphalt, brown teeth, american club cigarettes, spoons, needles, teddy bears, nembutal, stage 3 ovarian cancer, sand in my shoes, missed texts from last night, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, knives, and death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I close my eyes, and then my eyes open.

It's 8:30 am. The wal-mart parking lot has filled in like ink between the lines of a children's coloring book in progress. I reach down the left hand side of the seat, pull the lever, and lean forward, which returns my seat back to its normal upright position. The air is heavy and humid even with the windows down because the sun has wrung every last drop of coolness out of the translucent body with its clammy hands. I roll a cig, light a match, and let the tobacco add another flavor note to my rotten palate. A little blonde haired girl in hot pink shorts and a tangerine tank top peeks at me through short skinny fingers with swimming pool eyes, then hides behind her father's khaki shorts as they walk into the mouth of the store. I throw the rest of my cig out the window, point at my face in the rearview mirror with a fingergun, and pull the trigger. 

In the store, my tendons in my legs feel like ratty elastic straps ready to snap. This is the after-effect of sleeping in the front seat of a compact car for the past couple of weeks and being 6'2". I walk through the aisles and pick up a can of chef boyardee beef ravioli, holding it in my hand like a zookeeper holding the last panda bear cub on earth.

I never knew wal-mart had a radio station with a morning show, but they do, and we, customers, employees, drifters, children, are forced to listen to it. The two radio hosts, a southern man trying to cover up his accent and the typical token black man, assault each other with trivia questions about different products, Taylor Swift, and what sushi is wrapped with (surprise! they don't know.) After a discussion on why they dislike sushi, it's time for shout outs to random employees at wal-marts all across the country, possibly the world—I'm unsure if wal-mart has expanded and started the process of conquering other nation's population with the promise of low low prices. The shout outs all consist of saying the name of the person, their position in the anatomy of wal-mart, the store they are working at, reason for the shout out, and always end with the phrase, "keep on working hard," implanting it in everyone's brain so we all keep working hard at whatever we do so we can continue to shop at wal-mart for the rest of our lives.

This one goes out to Jim, the meat cutter, at supercenter 361 in jackson, mississippi, who just became a grandfather today. Congrats Jim, keep on working hard.

I go up to the register where a balding man with a broken ring of slick dark grey hair circles around the sides and back of his head. He has a name tag stapled on his blue polo shirt with a holographic purple smiley face sticker on it. His name is Red. Red smiles showing off his broken bottom teeth before saying, "Heya, howz it goin?" with a soft muffled voice. And Red looks so fucking beautiful.

Here's a shout out to Amelia, the cashier, at supercenter 147 in pittston, pennsylvania, whose 31st birthday was 2 days ago. Happy birthday Amelia! Keep on working hard.

"Not bad...how about you?"

His smiles grows wider exposing more bits of teeth.

"Ga-reat. Like really good. Yeah...really good. Hehe. Ga-reat."

Red grabs the can squishing the picture of chef boyardee with his thumb, and runs the can over the scanner.

beep.

"That's 98 cents, my man," he says.

I giggle and dig through my left jean pocket and hand him a dollar bill, while subtracting .98 from 62.37 in my head.

"Out of a hundo," he laughs at his own joke before thinking about it more seriously, "Like wouldn't it be ga-reat if ya had that. Like you'd be doin all right. Nawt sayin ya are nawt alright, but, like you'd be doin even better."

The register clicks open.

Shout out to Murray from the electronics department at store 233 in meridian, id, who is celebrating his seventh anniversary on the wal-mart team. Good job Murray, keep on working hard.

"Yeah, I'd be doin great. I wish I had that. Would totally give you some of that, and get you your favorite soda, or snack or whatever. But sadly I don't, sorry my friend."

Red slides two pennies out of the till with his index finger and into his palm then turns back to me.

"Heya it'z okay. It'z okay. You're really cool fa offering that to me. Hehe. Would totally take ya up on that offer if ya had it," he says while handing me my change, then points at the dunkin donuts located behind him. "But yeah, don't go to that place, theya just take ya change and don't give it back."

"Well fuck them. I need my change!"

He cackles like a little kid who just said his first dirty word on purpose.

"Yeah, fuck them. Fuckin theives. Would ya like a bag?" 

"Na, I'm good, but thanks though."

We looked at each other like two friends that are unsure if they will ever see each other again and don't know whether to shake hands or hug. I wonder if he will get a wal-mart shout out, probably not, but I would rather see Red get a raise instead.

Then in an overtly corporate training video voice says, "You are very welcome sir. Have a wonderful day. And thank you for shopping at wal-mart," before he switched back into his relaxed regular tone, "Haha. but yeah take er eazy, and yeah fuck them. And yeah if ya do get that c-note, don't fahget about me, jus come back here and get me a mountain dew and um some gummy bears and doritos, that'd be chill."

"Will do my man. You too. Peace."

We bump fists as I pick up my can of chef boyardee, and exit the store.

When I get outside an old man with a pot belly in a neon green shirt, glasses, khaki shorts, and white shin length socks asks me if I want to make a donation towards alzheimers research.

I think about my Nana, who I haven't seen in over a year, and doesn't remember me anymore. I think about how the last time I saw her I was getting a hundred off my uncle for heroin, but saying I needed that to pay the electric bill that's past due, and would pay him back in a few days; I never did. I think about how she used to feed me a big bowl of rice crispies with milk after school when I was a kid, while watching cnn on the kitchen tv. I think about how she used to make christmas dinner from scratch: ham, kielbasa, roast beef, green beans, potatoes, carrots, gravy, dinner rolls, tiramisu, chocolate pie, lemon pie. I think about how my mom, uncle, and aunt take turns making her dinners, while she is taken care of by a nurse. I think about how she has lost most of her memories.

"Sorry, I would, but I'm kind of broke, and need the rest of my money. Sorry."

"It's okay."

He approaches someone else with the same enthusiastic vigor, unfazed.

"Hi, would you like too..."

I think about scoring, and shooting up. I think about the blood rushing into the needle.  I think about never waking up. I think about killing myself. I think about how my life feels like it started in media res, even though it didn’t; there was clearly a beginning, a middle, and, eventually there will be an end. I think about Red. I think about gummy bears and mountain dew. I think about keep on working hard. I think fuck them, fuck all of them.

And then I think about death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I get in my car, drop the can of chef boyardee ravioli on the passenger seat, and drive to barnes and noble.