She doesn’t agree. She doesn’t disagree. She just looks at me with her dead eyes and says, “I got to walk to the convenience store down the street. You wanna come?” The way she says it I know she won’t be disappointed if I say no, and she won’t be happy if I say yes, either answer will elicit a neutral reaction out of her.
Which is one of the reasons I say yes—no pressure. The other is I’m out of beer. I check my pocket for money and my keys and nod.
Without a word she steps inside her door, slips into some worn out, dirty flip-flops, and grabs her wallet off the floor. I notice she doesn’t pick up the keys on a key ring lying next to her wallet and a thick stack of mail.
When she begins to close her door, I ask, “Don’t you need your keys?”
“No,” she answers blandly.
“But you’ll lock yourself out,” I warn. I feel like I’m talking to a child.
She shakes her head. “I never lock it. I ain’t got nothing to steal.”
I want to argue her logic. This isn’t a small, rural town—crime happens—but I don’t because she’s a grown woman. Though the more I talk to her the more indecisive I am about her mental state or capacity. Socially, she’s awkward. Obviously, she’s a hermit, but I don’t know what’s driving it. And although being around her makes me uneasy, I feel like I’d go mad if I had to go back up to my apartment alone, so here I am shopping with the crazy neighbor at two o’clock in the morning.
We walk there in silence. She walks slowly and matches my pace, which I appreciate and tell her so.
She doesn’t acknowledge my comment, and I didn’t expect her to.
When we reach the convenience store I buy a six-pack of the cheapest beer they have and a stick of jerky and tell Hope I’ll wait outside for her, but to take her time, I’m in no hurry.
She doesn’t take long, five minutes tops, and meets me out front carrying four plastic bags. The weight of the bags is dispersed unevenly and has her walking off-kilter as if she’s developed a limp under the weight.
“Let me help you,” I offer.
She doesn’t hesitate to hand me one of her bags. It’s full of canned goods: soup, Vienna sausages, and baked beans. I take it and couple it in my grasp with my bag.
As we start walking, I look at her other bags: cigarettes, chips, cereal, bread, and milk. She grocery shops at the convenience store. I don’t know why this makes me so sad, but it does. As if her deviation from the norm is hindering her somehow, limiting her choices to live a well-balanced life. Not to mention this food isn’t exactly healthy. And then I glance at my bag and think about my dinner tonight, and I disregard all judgment.
“Do you shop here often?” I ask. It’s small talk, but I have a feeling it’s the only talk that may turn into a conversation with her.
She’s staring straight ahead as if the journey is a task that needs all of her focus, and her eyes don’t veer off her course when she answers, “Every Saturday and Wednesday morning at two o’clock.”
“Why do you go in the middle of the night?”
“Less people. Everyone’s sleeping,” she says matter-of-factly.
We don’t speak for the duration of the walk. It’s a bit uncomfortable for me, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I hand over her bag at her door. She nods to address the exchange and then she shuts the door without another word.
My mind is muddled. Weary with tonight’s fucked up events. When I get to my apartment, I put the beer in the fridge, the jerky on the counter, and I go to bed and let sleep take me before I analyze anything further.
Because tomorrow I need my brain fresh.
The epicenter of hell
Present
I swore I would never do this.
Never go back.
Never.
Never say never.
My lungs feel like they’re punishing me for overturning my promise, my breaths are short and stunted. The compression of fear isn’t allowing for enough air. I haven’t had a panic attack since I’ve been in California. I’m convinced now that they were geographically induced. Kansas City is the epicenter of hell.
My legs are soldiers marching up the steps onto the Greyhound bus, determined to carry out their mission. By the time I take a seat near the back, the pain in my chest is swelling. It’s already reached that critical mark that brings the heel of my hand to press against it, praying for relief. My full backpack is sitting in my lap. I hug it tightly to my chest with my free arm and bury my face in the top of the rough canvas, and then I let the tears fall. And I hope the people sitting around me ignore my meltdown and let me muddle through it in peace.
They do.
I don’t know how long it is before the assault lessens and relents, but I’m exhausted in its wake. I sleep through a few hundred miles. I decide I like the unconscious approach, even though each time I awake it’s like a time warp that places me closer and closer to my adversary.