I left around four. Out the front door this time. Like a ghost into the fog. Where no one notices the contrast of white on white. And all that. Just…Maria doesn’t say she’s dying just yet; that’s later.
Out the front door, down to the sidewalk, to the cutthrough. This sort of sidewalk jammed in where Fifty-eighth was supposed to go, but never did. It was a simple way to get to the next street over, and, from there, a left up toward Fifty-sixth, a block north on the real street there, and a left down the street to my house again. All in about the timespan of a single cigarette. Because I got tired of the backyard, so I found some shoes and went out on the town. Inasmuch as that can be done in the sprawling metropolis of DuhMoines. Especially at four in the morning.
Here’s where the mistake was actually made. Watch closely. Here it comes.
Down the street. Good. Into the cutthrough. Great. To the next street.
Cue mistake.
I stopped for a couple seconds there, pondering. Then, for some reason I still can’t explain, I turned right.
Now, don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I walked into a large pit of hungry nuns, or anything. I just wandered further west, down onto Fifty-ninth and off toward the Maze. But, in retrospect, that’s what ultimately doomed me to slackerhood. These things just happen.
The Maze was—and presumably is—a spaghettiesque practical joke dreamed up by the zoning commission. I have, in point of fact, led people into the Maze who, to my knowledge, are still in there, trying to find a way out. Because only two streets actually connect the Maze to anything of any logical perpendicularity. And those two streets are hidden from view by the Lovecraftian impossibility of the place. I once saw a rat in there with a human face, okay? Weird, wild, wacky shit.
Lucky for us, I know the secrets of the Maze. That’s why I’m back out here, able to write about it now. One secret was/is the Sylvatic Shortcut. Technically, it was a third way in and out. Practically, it was even easier to get lost in.
But I didn’t. I emerged out into the real world again, wandering aimlessly past Sixty-third and Grand, into WestDuhMoines.
Here’s where everything goes pasttense. Because nothing I’m about to mention still exists today. I regard that as a slight pity, in fact.
There was—not is—a supermarket at Fourth and Grand. For those wondering how I got from Sixty-third to Fourth in a couple of paragraphs: WestDuhMoines starts over the streets, regarding Sixty-third as first. Because counting up toward the triple digits doesn’t work well for DuhMoiniacs. Not my fault; I didn’t make the rules.
The supermarket was open all night, in those days. Also, in those days, it existed. Therefore I went in and bought a pack of cigarettes. Fun fact: for some stupid reason, I wrote a cheque for them; on 31st August 1988, a pack of Camels was exactly $1.35. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, if you’ve got the pocketchange.
Now. I leave the supermarket. I should mention at this point that the only reason I’m not identifying it by name is that, all these years later, I honestly can’t remember exactly what it was called. I think it was Food4Less. Though part of me hopes that no one was actually using the Arabic four in place of for, way back then. That WestDuhMoines was allergic to tripledigit streetnumbers suggests that I’m wrong about being wrong.
Enter the deity of your choice. A real dick, too. The very yoctosecond that I hit the sidewalk, the lights flutter up across the street at MisterDonut. Sadly, I’m certain that people were already misspelling doughnut back then.
So. I’ve got smokes. Let’s go use them.