I Went To The Store, And Ended Up Here

I WENT TO THE STORE AND ENDED UP HERE

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was. None whatsoever. Zero. Complete blank. I wasn’t even sure what day it was. 

There’s nothing worse than not knowing where you are, or why. In a perfect world I would be in my own bed in my own house … I had a house?

I looked around. I was sitting in a chair in some sort of huge waiting room. There were a whole bunch of other people—dozen and dozens, maybe hundreds—sitting here, so …

So what? What the hell was I doing sitting in a random waiting room with a bunch of people I didn’t know? I spied a frosted glass window—you know the kind they have in doctor’s offices, where the receptionist sits. Maybe that’s where I was. A doctor’s office. Maybe? But why? There were soooo many people here.

I got up and walked to the window and rapped gently on the glass.

The panel slid open.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, what is this place?”

“Someone will be out to see you shortly.”

“But—”

She slid the glass panel shut. 

I thought about knocking on the door beside the window, but figured it would only piss her off. So I opted to return to my seat, and wait.

I turned, looking at all the other people in the room, scanning their faces. No one was smiling. Men, woman, old, young. There was even a young teenage girl, all dressed in black, looking sullen. Her hands were shiny red. They looked like she’d dipped them in paint. There was a grandma-like woman, smiling sweetly, knitting needle tightly clenched in her right hand. One man man caught my eye, and leered, like a shark—creepy and very unsettling. I looked away. I went back to my seat. 

No one seemed to have any physical injuries. There was no coughing or sniffling, like you’d normally hear in a doctor’s office. So, maybe a psychiatrist’s office? That would explain all the long faces. But what was I doing here? 

I leaned over to ask the person next to me where we were.

She was an older woman, a bit rough around the edges, faded tattoos marching up her arms, skull rings adorning her fingers. She was smoking a cigarette. Smoking? Indoors?

“I know this sounds weird, but where are we?”

She just looked at me, not comprehending, and rattled off something in what sounded like Italian.

“Do you speak English?”

“Something something something vaffanculo.” Angrily, she flipped me the bird.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, sitting back in my chair. 

I tried to think back to the last thing that I remembered. I really couldn’t remember anything. My memory was all foggy. When I tried to think about the past my brain became fuzzy, and there was a loud buzzing in my ears. 

The door to the office opened, and the receptionist appeared, carrying a clipboard. She looked down and read a name.

“Taylor Greene?”

I looked around for the lucky person. No one moved. 

“Taylor Greene?” 

Something nudged in my brain. Oh shoot! That was me!

I jumped up.

“That’s me!” I said, waiving my arms. “Here! I’m here!”

I followed the receptionist down an extremely long white hall, past white doors on either side. She stopped at the fourth door on the left, knocked, and walked in.

“Taylor Greene,” was all she said, handing the clipboard to a man about my own age, maybe a bit younger, seated behind a bare desk.

“Taylor Greene?” he said, looking at me.

I nodded. He pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk.

I sat down, looking around the office. It was quite small, and not particularly welcoming. There was only his desk and chair, and my chair in the room. No carpet on the floor, nothing on the walls, not even the obligatory medical degrees and diplomas you find in every doctor’s office.

He looked at the clipboard, flipping through the pages.

“Uh huh, ... hmmm … oh, uh huh … oh! … Oh! … hmmm.”

He looked up at me, brows slightly furrowed.

“Taylor Greene?” he asked again.

“Yes,” I said, trying to smile. “And you are?

“Roger,” he said, looking back down at the clipboard.

I took a breath. “So, Roger, where am I?”

Without looking up from the clipboard, he said, “We’ll get to that.”

So, we sat in silence. Until Roger got up and walked towards the door.

“Stay here,” he said, opening the door and disappearing back into the hallway.

So I did. That’s not to say that I didn’t get up and look in the drawers of the desk. 

Nothing. Not a thing. No pens, pencils, not even a paperclip. Nada.

I sat back down and tried to think.

Which, thankfully, was getting a tiny bit easier. The buzzing was only a hundred bees, compared to the thousand bees buzzing in my brain earlier in the waiting room. Still annoying but I could at least think somewhat coherently.

So, where was I? I looked around again. Well, an office of some sort. But not a medical office. So, what kind of office? Roger was certainly no help. If I had to be honest, he was rather rude. I just wanted to know why I was here. But he wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn't tell me anything.

Okay, what do I remember before I woke up here? Pause. Nothing. All of a sudden, I’m sitting in a chair, in a big room filled with people. Scary people. Pause. How did I get here?

I tried to think about it. But there was nothing. Still fuzzy.

I was with Zeke and the kids … Oh! That’s right! I’m married to Zeke! We’ve been married for … for forty years. That’s right! Forty years this past June. And we have two kids named Zoey and Zane. Really? Zoey, Zane, and Zeke? What was the matter with us? Who does that?

Okay, okay, Taylor, don’t get distracted!” I admonished myself. 

And … we have a grandchild, a girl named Charlotte. (Phew—not Zelda!). She’s Zoey and … Greg’s daughter. She’s, what, three? I remembered! Cute as all get out, and spoiled rotten by her Nana and Poppy. 

That’s us! We’re Nana and Poppy!

 Zane isn’t in a relationship. He’s our lone wolf. Ha! I was remembering!

Just then Roger came back in.

“Taylor Greene?”

I must have looked annoyed, because I felt annoyed. “For the third time, yes, I am Taylor Greene.”

“Okay,” he said, placing the clipboard on the desktop. “Do you know where you are?”

“I have no idea where I am, or why I’m here.”

“Taylor, how old are you?”

“Sixty-three.”

“What about your life? What do you know?”

Weird question, but okay.

“I know who I am, and I know I have a family.”

“Good. Good. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Uh, waking up in the waiting room.”

“Before that?”

I tried to concentrate.

“Nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing there. It’s all discombobulated in my head. It sounds like there are bees in my brain.”

Roger continued to look down at the clipboard.

“You know," I continued, "I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me where I am, and why I'm here,”

I tried to sound confident. I failed. My voice quivered, and my hands shook.

Roger got up, walked around the desk, and put his hand on my head.

“Hey!” I pulled away, and swiped at his hand.

“Don’t! This should help you remember.”

I froze. Roger was scary.

He kept his hand on my head for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to his desk.”

“Now, what do you remember?”

My brain was clear, no more fuzz, no more bees.

“What did you do?” I asked, incredulously.

“That’s not important. What is the last thing that you remember?”

I shut my eyes to concentrate.

“Uh, it was … New Years Day.” I opened my eyes and smiled at Roger. “That’s right! New Year’s Day! Zeke and I were making dinner for the family. The kids were over.” I shut my eyes to concentrate. “I needed … I needed something from the store. Uh … whipped cream. That’s right! Whipped cream for the pumpkin pie. So, I went to the store. I had to go to the bodega—all the supermarkets were closed because of the holiday, and the bodega was the only store open. I remember walking toward the front cash holding a container of whipping cream—”

“What year were you born?” he said, looking at the pages on the clipboard.

I opened my eyes and looked at Roger. “Uh, 1960. Why?”

“You weren’t born in 1998?”

I smiled. “Really? I’m sixty-three years old. I am definitely not in my mid-twenties.”

“Were you ever a member of the Reds Motorcycle Gang?”

I couldn’t help it. I snorted. “Noooo. I never even ridden a motorcycle. I have a e-bike. Does that count?”

Roger gave me a look that told me he was serious. Extremely serious.

“Have you ever spent time in Washabee Prison, for murder?”

Murder? What the heck was he talking about. I sobered up quickly.

“No I have not.”

“Do you have a tattoo of a three-eyed goat surrounded by blood splatter between your breasts?”

I didn’t even need to look. 

“No, Roger, I do not. In fact I have no tattoos.” I leaned forward. “Now what’s this about.”

“Have you always been a woman?”

“That’s a rude and bizarre question. But, for the record, yes I have always been a woman.”

“How do you spell your last name?”

“Fine. G-R-E-E-N-E. Now what’s this about?”

He looked up at me, glanced back down at the clipboard, then back up at me. 

“Hmmm. There seems to have been a mistake.”

I wasn’t getting a good feeling about this.

“What kind of mistake, Roger?”

Ignoring me, again, “What happened when you were walking in the dairy aisle in the bodega, moving towards the front cash?”

I took a couple of deep breaths, centering myself. I tried to remember.

“I was walking towards the front of the store with the whipping cream, when ... when this person—a man—burst into the store. He had a gun and started waving it around. He shouted something like, ‘This is a robbery! Everybody on the ground!’ Then he fired a shot into the ceiling. I dropped like a stone. Then I heard him say ‘I want all the money in the till.’ I couldn’t see anything, but I heard two gunshots, and … and … that’s it. I woke up here.”

“It seems that you’re not the Taylor Greene that we were expecting. The man who robbed the store was also named Taylor Green—no ‘e’ at the end of his name. He was supposed to be joining us here, not you.”

“Where is ‘here’, Roger?” I asked, not getting a good feeling.

He looked at me. “Hell,” he said, pausing. “Actually, Hell’s waiting room. It’s where we decide which circle of Hell you will spend eternity in.”

I was stunned. “You mean I’m dead?”

He nodded.

“And this is Hell?” 

He nodded again. I could see it—it was, after all, a waiting room.

“But I’m not supposed to be here, right? The other Taylor Green—no e—is supposed to be here?”

He nodded a third time.

“Well, Roger, I want to go back to my life. Now.”

He took a deep breath. “I know. And you need to go back. We can’t be having mistakes like this happening. It’s bad for business.”

He got up and walked towards me, and put his hand on my head again …

*****

My body spasmed, I sucked in a huge breath, and my eyes flew open.

“What the fuck! You said she was dead!” The police officer squatting beside me jumped back, and fell on his butt.

I looked around. I was in the bodega, on the floor. Another cop beside me had my purse in his hand and was going through it.

“What the hell” he said to me, eyes big as saucers. “You’re alive?” He took a step back, as well.

Beside me lay the bloodied body of the man I had seen run into the store with a gun. Paramedics were working on him.

“He’s gone,” said the paramedics working on the man. “Time of death, eleven-seventeen.”

I looked over at the body beside me.

I know where you’ve going, I thought. Roger’s going to be so happy to see you.