Lost and Found in Aisle Nine

It took a few seconds to realize I was utterly and completely lost. Not in a desert. Not in the wilderness. Not even in a sketchy part of town.

No, I was lost in a SuperMegaMart.

It started innocently enough. I came in to buy a lightbulb. One lightbulb. A single, solitary 60-watt soft white. But as soon as I stepped inside, the universe cracked open and swallowed me whole.

The automatic doors whooshed behind me like the jaws of fate. The cold blast of industrial air conditioning hit me square in the face, and then came the lights—blinding rows of fluorescent suns glaring down with sterile intensity. Somewhere, a baby wailed. Somewhere else, a jar of something shattered. Still, I pressed on.

I took a left at Seasonal Decor, wandered past End-of-Summer Clearance, and somehow ended up in what I can only describe as the Land of Fifty-Thousand Throw Pillows. They were stacked in patterns that seemed both random and deliberate. I turned down a narrow aisle and emerged on the other side in front of a massive display of scented candles, all with vaguely threatening names like “Storm Cloud Memory” and “Whispering Ashes.”

I tried to retrace my steps, but the throw pillows had multiplied. They were watching me now, I could feel it.

Somewhere between the obscure kitchen gadgets and seventeen varieties of organic lentils, I gave up. My phone had one bar. GPS was useless. I saw a man in a red vest and asked for directions. He blinked at me slowly, as if I had spoken ancient Greek.

"Lightbulbs?" I asked again.

"Home Illumination is on Aisle Nine. Past Pet Accessories, left of Party Supplies, behind the Seasonal Salsa Display."

I thanked him, even though I knew I’d never see Aisle Nine.

I wandered for what felt like days. I passed a child asleep in a cart, a woman arguing with a man about the correct type of quinoa, and a guy who looked suspiciously like he lived in the camping section. I overheard snippets of customer drama:

"No, Bryce, we’re not buying a deep fryer."

"I swear this used to be where the gluten-free pasta lived."

"You don’t need five gallons of pickle juice, Sharon."

Eventually, I stumbled into a makeshift lounge composed entirely of discounted patio furniture. A group of people sat quietly, sipping complimentary store-brand soda. An older man offered me a cookie. I took it. It tasted like cinnamon and surrender.

“First time?” he asked, knowingly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You’ll learn. We all do. Eventually.”

I asked him how long he’d been there. He just stared off into the middle distance and murmured, “Since the Back-to-School Blitz of '18.”

After that haunting revelation, I took a detour and discovered a door marked “Associates Only.” It was slightly ajar, so I did what any responsible adult would do—I peeked in.

To my surprise, it wasn’t a dingy employee break room. It was a full-blown speakeasy-style lounge. Faux leather recliners, mood lighting, even a popcorn machine humming in the corner. A man in a polo shirt was playing smooth jazz on a saxophone while a trio of cashiers played cards at a table labeled "Scheduled Break Only."

They looked at me, then at my cart, then back at me.

“You lost or union?” one of them asked.

“Technically, both,” I said.

They nodded. The saxophonist gave me a thumbs-up. I took a cup of popcorn and backed out slowly, resisting the urge to just live there.

Onward I marched, determined to complete my quest. I passed a makeshift art gallery showcasing children’s drawings submitted via crayon and sticker sheet. A woman with three toddlers strapped into a mega-cart tried to navigate around a tower of dog beds and mouthed, Save yourself.

I then came across the food court. Not a sad little kiosk, but an actual miniature plaza with twinkle lights and seating zones named after world cities. “Paris,” “Tokyo,” “Cleveland.”

I sat down at “Venice” and ordered a slice of pizza that may or may not have been from this dimension. It was oddly delicious. A man next to me was eating a churro with a fork and knife like it was a fine steak. Another table hosted what looked like a book club made entirely of elderly women debating the best brand of oat milk.

Fueled by carbs and confusion, I pressed on.

Just before I could build momentum again, nature called. I realized I hadn’t seen a bathroom since I entered the store, and my latte was making its presence known. I approached a nearby kiosk worker selling essential oils and mason jar chia puddings. "Restrooms?" I asked.

She pointed vaguely to the horizon. "Back of the store. Near the automotive aisle. Maybe."

Maybe? That was not reassuring.

I started walking. Fifteen minutes later, I passed a man shouting into a Bluetooth headset about stock dividends and someone’s lack of initiative. A little further down, a sign finally appeared: "Restrooms: 500 Yards This Way → (Approximate)."

When I arrived, I found three doors: Men, Women, and "Mystery." A teenager walked confidently into Mystery like it was his usual. I hesitated, but settled for the Men's. Inside, the bathroom was cleaner than expected—except for a rogue balloon animal tied to the faucet and a motivational poster that read, You Can Do Hard Things, which felt both oddly encouraging and mildly accusatory.

Feeling somewhat refreshed and more than a little existential, I exited—and promptly stumbled into the Garden Section.

The air changed. It smelled like fertilizer and hope. There were fountains babbling, fake birds chirping, and a surprising number of wind chimes that seemed to harmonize. Rows of succulents sat smugly next to bags of mulch labeled things like "Moon Dust" and "Earth Nectar."

A man in a sun hat and gardening gloves stood next to a wheelbarrow display, silently sipping from a mason jar. He nodded at me with the wisdom of someone who’d tamed many azaleas.

I touched a fern. It was real. I nearly cried.

Had I not been on a sacred mission, I might have stayed. Started a new life. Adopted a bonsai tree. But no. I still had a purpose.

The lightbulb awaited.

But just then, I heard a whisper.

“Aisle Nine…”

I turned. A boy, no older than seven, stood there holding a Nerf sword like a sacred relic.

“Follow me,” he said.

And I did.

We moved through the maze with silent purpose. Past towers of soda, stacks of folding chairs, and a pyramid of canned pineapple. He navigated the terrain like a jungle cat, dodging carts and darting through sliding stockroom doors that opened without warning. A woman shouted something about a price check on frozen waffles, but my guide never flinched.

At last, he pointed.

Aisle Nine.

I nearly wept. There they were. Lightbulbs of every shape and color. The Holy Grail of Home Illumination.

I turned to thank him, but the boy was gone.

Vanished.

Was he ever really there?

I didn't dwell on it. I grabbed the lightbulb—two, just to be safe—and headed for checkout. The registers were a gauntlet of impulse-buy chaos: novelty socks, oddly spicy chewing gum, and an entire shelf of celebrity-endorsed hot sauces. A child licked the handle of a shopping cart. An old man stared at the self-checkout machine like it owed him money.

I paid. I escaped.

I lived to tell the tale.

And now, whenever I return, I bring a map. And snacks. And a compass. And perhaps a flare gun.

Just in case.