Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,1

was all right—I didn’t have much of a choice now did I, being born there and everything.

I didn’t exactly excel at school. I was more interested in chasing girls and listening to music. The only class I paid any attention in was English. Reading and writing came naturally. I actually enjoyed it. The rest was a struggle or of zero interest. Most kids were into sports but that wasn’t really my scene. After high school I dicked around, really. I did a year at community college because my mom forced me to do something, but that was a nonstarter. I spent most of my time drinking and smoking. A lotta my friends got out of town, but me, I was stuck.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. Time flew. Now here I was, twenty-four, unemployed, depressed from a recent breakup, and living in my childhood room. I know what you’re thinking. Pathetic, right? I don’t disagree. Trust me, it wasn’t where I wanted to be in life.

In a series of fortunate events, I had come across some money. I was about to be fresh out my mother’s house for the first time in my life. My mom never had money, so this was a welcome windfall, however small. It was a nice little amount, enough to help me get my own apartment, but not enough to last me long.

That’s why I was on my way to apply for a job at the supermarket. I needed a gig. Something. Anything. And Baker City wasn’t exactly the land of opportunity. Twenty-four years old and bagging groceries isn’t the most ideal situation, but it was real life, and that’s what I was looking for at that point . . . real life.

It was a beautiful day in April—the time was 12:36 p.m. exactly. I know because I wrote it down in my Moleskine notebook. That thing was beat to hell, but it had become my best friend. Everywhere I went, the Moleskine came with. It had real character. It had lived a life. Black, pocket-size, roughed-up edges, dog-eared pages, with scraps of paper and photos stuffed inside. I wrote everything down in that notebook, recording my thoughts and the world around me. The fir trees swayed that day as the wind caressed each branch, molding their bodies in movement.

I’ll never forget crossing the road in front of the grocery store. I saw this guy in black Nike Air Maxes, blue Levi’s, and a white T-shirt. He seemed to be forcibly talking at people who walked by. And not in a welcoming way. As I got closer, I realized he was kind of weird looking. A little twisted, contorted. Like he was out of an Egon Schiele drawing. Midtwenties. On the tall side, maybe 6'1", slim. He had a long, bent nose, dark eyes, expressive eyebrows, and wrinkles in his forehead like Hugh Laurie. You know, that guy who plays House. I don’t mean like a grown man sitting in front of a plastic tea set talking to a lifeless teddy bear—pretending to be a husband, droning on to his wife about the report his boss demanded be on his desk by Monday, even though when his boss first mentioned it the deadline was Tuesday, and now he would have to work through the weekend. I mean the actor who plays a doctor named House on a television show.

No? You don’t know what I’m talking about? I can’t tell if you don’t know what I’m talking about or if you’re just taken aback by my breaking the fourth wall on this page you’re reading. Well damn, hold on a second, maybe I shouldn’t bring up the fact that you’re reading a book. If you realize what you’re literally doing this moment, you won’t actually be living in the world I’m painting for you. It’s kind of like when you catch yourself blinking while reading and then start to focus on your blinking rather than the words your brain is trying to process, you know?

Oh shit, I’ve distracted myself . . . wait, what was I talking about? And why the hell am I writing my internal thoughts on this page? Doesn’t matter, this won’t make the final version of the book anyway. But what the hell was I talking about? Shit . . .

Oh yeah, sorry—the weirdo in front of the supermarket.

As I got closer and closer I tried