Waiting for a Fix

I’m in line at a Starbucks inside of Target with five people ahead of me.

The dozen or so expressionless folks that already made it through the line now wait to hear their name called. They’re absentmindedly looking at the displays, some are locked into their phones, and some just stare blankly into space.

A Paula Dean lookalike singles out a venti tumbler from the display, turns it over. It’s red and sparkly, and has some sort of charm on it. She views it approvingly from multiple angles before her husband catches her.

“You don’t need it; you already have ten of those.”

“But I don’t have this one—it’s so cute!”

There are no windows to the outdoors, no indication that anything exists beyond this little microcosm. In fact, the closest thing to nature under the fierce fluorescent lights are the tiny fruit flies inside the pastry case, buzzing around an apple muffin. Because the line is moving slow, I have time to watch them spill out from a crack between a thin slice of apple and the bran (or whatever it is) that makes up the bulk of the muffin dough.

Are there eggs inside? Little squirming maggots maybe?

A few pastries over, there’s a cranberry bliss bar—seasonally appropriate, as is the Starbucks way—glistening cranberry and orange zest piled atop a white chocolate brownie.

Why not, right? My desire for it briefly wanes as a fly lands on it, but is quickly restored when the fly takes off almost immediately and zig-zags erratically back to the apple muffin thing.

I’m hundreds of miles from Wyoming, and feel it, too. I’m miles away from nature because outside the Target is a sea of blacktop and a network of roads that twist around each other like serpents before they split apart, each leading to more blacktop parking lots and stores.

I’ve reverted back to who I was when this was normal, this hopscotch-like commute from one patch of blacktop to the next. I’ve sunk deep into myself—almost entered a dissociated state because truly, it’s sensory overload. There’s a lot going on, yet none of it means anything and if it does, the meaning is lost on me.

To open myself up to it would be… well, I’m not quite sure. I mean, there’s not much to do but wait and do my best to tune out the noise.

There are only two people ahead of me now. They too seem disconnected, quietly tucked into inner worlds.

Is it worth it?

Why don’t I just leave?

I stay put. Redirect my attention back to the debate over whether or not to get the bliss bar. I’m pretty sure the pastries in the case are for display only. When I announce my desire for one, I’ll get something freshly produced from the dark recesses of a clean aluminum fridge, wrapped neatly in air-tight protective plastic. I’m willing to take a chance, because it’s almost like the cost of being in this frame of mind—of having to endure—demands some sort of reward.

If I hadn’t left this years ago, I’d never have noticed how pervasive this perpetual state of waiting is. Whether it’s in traffic, store checkout lines, or simply waiting for the work day to end. Waiting to be free in all its iterations used to be such a big part of my day.

Finally, it’s my turn.