Pure Hell

Thumbing through the finest, cheapest phone line cords at Staples, a glimpse of a red blur from the tail of my eye snapped me out of the trance-like daze I had been in. The blur had merely been the once vibrant crimson shirt of a Staples employee, faded from being worn for too many mind-numbing hours. Shuffling down the aisle, I moved out into the open, away from the solitude of the arcaic phone accessories, and towards the brightly colored children's stationary and office supplies. I attempted to amuse myself with the cute pencil boxes and marker sets with matching scissors and glue sticks, but I couldn't even find the heart to think of a lame excuse to buy anything else.

I told myself that if an employee asks me if I am looking for anything, I will reply no, I'm just milling about, trying to waste as much time as possible so that I won't have to remember living through it. Slowly, I made my way to the front counter. A cashier and someone whom I took to be a manager were standing there, and they suddenly smiled at me in a way that seemed to suggest they were very nervous of being caught not doing so. They asked if I was alright, and I was taken aback, until two seconds later, I realized they couldn't possibly be referring to my mental health.

They directed me to the only open register, where an older Latina woman proceeded to check me out. I barely remembered the encounter, save for a few small details, such as the total of my purchase, $8.07, and having to press firmly on the touch pad in order to input my PIN. I exited, and again, the blinding sunlight greeted my eyes the way a horrid smell or unpleasant sensation or any other stimulus might attack your senses. It was hot, but I refused to take off my sweater, knowing full well that the office that loomed ahead of me shining would render me freezing within minutes.

I longed to go to my car for lunch, but today it consisted of a plate of donuts and a bagel that I had stolen from the lunch room, and the prospect of receiving suspicious and disdainful looks from the receptionists was not desirable to me at all. I shared the elevator with a casually dressed Latino-looking man until the 4th floor. After retrieving my bottle of Arizona Green Iced Tea with Ginseng and Honey, the only thing that was still good and pure left in the world, I returned to my office, not at all looking forward to the interview that I found out I was to conduct in less than half an hour.

Glancing at the clock, which was ten minutes behind, I took a bite of a stale donut and wondered how my life ended up on this depraving track.