Robert Butler - Mr. Spaceman

And now I am among the lipsticks and foundations and blushes and fingernail polishes and mascaras and powders, women set in cardboard all about me, their heads thrown back in perpetual smiles, defiant smiles, it seems to me, rich in Body Fantasies that Make a Statement with the Color of Vibrant Life that Stays on You and Only You. Yes these women, too, are facing the specter of physical decay that confronts all the creatures on this planet — and on my planet, too — on every inhabited planet in the known universe — and these women throw their heads back and laugh and they smile and they are confident and I am standing in the middle of this place, learning so much, and I turn and a woman’s face — at first I see it as a face from the racks of cosmetics, but I am wrong — a woman’s face, drawn and plain and washed pale as death from the fluorescent lights, turns and sees mine, a tube of Maybelline Great Lash Waterproof mascara in her hand, and her eyes widen at the sight of me and I am suddenly keenly aware of my sunglasses in my hand and she screams.

“Hi,” I say. “My name is Desi.”

She screams again. There are voices from the other side of the store. Away from my spaceship, on this planet’s surface, I could alter the consciousness of only one, perhaps two, creatures at once in, at most, a three-pace radius. I take a step toward this woman who raises her tube of mascara before her, as if it were a weapon. “I am a friendly guy,” I say, but she is opening her mouth to scream once more and I quickly wave my hand. She goes glassy-eyed and yawns and smacks her lips, looking about her.

“Hi,” she says to no one in particular. “I know a little song.”

The other voices, shouting, are coming nearer. I hear a man cry, “It came from over there.”

“Three little fishies,” the woman before me begins to sing.

I put my Groovy Glasses on and I back away, feeling the heat of panic spreading down my arms and into my hands. I realize my visit to Kroger has come to an end. And things could become much worse than that, as well. Much worse. I hear the electric doors whoosh open in the distance. More voices. The guard has rushed in, I know. I move away quickly, away from the door for the moment, back to the turning I made into the cosmetics aisle and then I go up the cross aisle, keeping low, moving deeper into the store, fleeing the gathering of Earthlings but not without the stiff hot fear of trapping myself. I turn again, my Chuck Taylors making a terrible racket beneath me. I can only hope that my pursuers will split up in their search and that they will not have torches and dogs, and I am in the full flowering of panic now, I realize. I am squeaking along among great bundles of disposable baby diapers, Huggies and Pampers, and I wish for that now, very badly, to be in my wife Edna Bradshaw’s arms and she will huggy me and pamper me and we will be safe in the middle of the air and I wish to catch no one up in the clouds ever again. Let this world be.

I am approaching the western wall of the store. Bins again before me, tree stands and Christmas lights and plug-in nativity scenes, though given my circumstances, I am less enchanted now with the Incredible Holiday Savings available here. Sadly, all that matters at this moment is that I must turn right toward the front of the store or left toward the back or retrace my steps. I go to the left, there are less than a dozen more paces to the far corner, but up ahead I see a door and I rush. I had a good plan after all. This will take me into a storage room and then perhaps — almost certainly — a delivery door out the back of the building.

A sign is there: NOT A PUBLIC EXIT. But I am prepared to defy this sign, and I welcome the implication of still another exit — a PRIVATE one — through this way. Private is what I deeply desire. And I arrive and I grasp the handle and I turn it and it will not yield. I turn the handle hard and the door is metal and the lock is heavy-duty and I am ill-equipped for the use of physical force. I am heating up again. I spin around and I am trapped in the farthest corner of this vast place, the rows and rows and rows stacking up before my eyes ablaze in fluorescence, blocking my escape, sealing my doom, the voices are drawing nearer, though they are distinct now, separate.

I am amidst the monstrous ironies of pet foods. Against the western wall are stacks of bags of seed to feed sweet little beloved pet birds and next to them rows of cans of murdered bird flesh to feed sweet little beloved pet cats. I am at this moment, needless to say, deeply troubled by the contradictions of life on this planet. Especially as I see the top of a head skimming above a row not far down the way. Skimming in my direction.

Before me, in the space usually assigned to sales bins, are stacks of massive dog-food bags. I step forward and I crouch down low behind them. I wait for a moment and I peek around the bags and my vision is filled with roach killers. Roach Motels, in fact, with a tiny, welcoming facade on each package, and an open door, but it is clear to any objective eye that this is a trap. They Check In But They Do Not Check Out.

I duck back behind my dog food in a significantly worsened state of mind. I need to stop thinking now, but emblazoned over and over on my bastion of bags is BUTCHER’S CHOICE. And I see my too-many fingers and toes being chopped off and scraped from the cutting block with the steaming blade, not enough meat here even for dog food, and all my loving digits drop into a garbage box, and now the blade lifts to lop off this similarly useless head, its lipless smile still fixed there, even in death.

Ironically, though the words on these very bags themselves have prompted this final twist of fear in me, in response I scrunch up even harder against them, trying to compact myself into a very small object, half-price and useless to anyone, easily overlooked.

But there is a quick scuffling sound heading this way and a figure suddenly in my sight, off to my left, trying the door that I tried, finding it, as I did, locked. And now the figure turns, a very young man in a Kroger shirt the color of clotting blood, and he has a name tag, which calms me a little bit, though it is not nearly as friendly a tag as my wife Edna Bradshaw’s. Simply: KROGER Roger. And Roger sees me and I am a strange sight to his eyes, he is struck dumb, but my sunglasses are still on and he is not sure what it is he is seeing, though strange it is. This is fortunate. He takes a step toward me without yet making a sound and I wave my hand and he stops and his eyelids droop and his body does a slow ooze to the floor and he is asleep.

I wonder how many are in pursuit of me. The staff must be small at this hour. And there would be no need for everyone in the store to join in. After all, there is still commerce to do. And they would have gotten no help in focusing on their target from the woman whose scream began it all. Indeed, they might be on the lookout for three little fishies.

But now I hear a clear “Oh my God,” a man’s voice, and rushing feet and the voice again: “Over here.” I look toward Roger and at the moment I do, a large white mass descends and hovers over the sleeping young man. And from it, a face turns and the eyes there widen. The body twists my way. Another Kroger name tag. Ken . Ken the assistant manager. I wave my hand at Ken and he is snoring even before he sinks forward, which he does, quickly, ending up pressed on top of Roger, the two men’s faces cheek-to-cheek.

Someone is calling out “Ken” now. I creep forward, closer to the sleepers. Ken’s torso, clad in his immaculate white shirt, is firmly at rest against Roger, but he is still on his knees and his rear end is stuck in the air. He looks uncomfortable. But I do not help him into a better posture for sleeping. I remain hidden behind the dog food and another scuffling of feet is coming this way, another man’s voice. “Ken,” the voice says. “What the hell are you doing?” More scuffling and then, “Oh shit.”