Aisle 7

The party is going great so far. Richard Chien thrives on celebratory events, but this one has missed a beat. A half-Asian half-Caucasian wealthy businessman so bored with life he doesn’t know where to go. This is a man who has the desire to buy something missing, so he has to abscond his own celebration from the trancelike atmosphere and ass-kissing guests he grows tired of. He feels that without his personal favorite snacks the surprise party thrown for him is tedious. All he needs is some chips and dip for the occasion, and it’ll be perfect.

Rich walks into the supermarket wearing his tailor-made suit: a coal gray sports coat, black dress shirt, loosened tie, dark ironed slacks, and mahogany Oxford shoes from Johnston & Murphy.  Even though he just got promoted, he’s already aiming for the next advantageous raise. With tremendous swagger, he struts on towards the grocery aisles, whistling aloud his commercial happiness. A new attainable happiness that will lessen his stress at his American dream occupation. However, his wealth will not come without a price.

He turns the corner, and before he enters the potato chips section, that’s when Rich sees him. His feet halt at the lane’s entrance. At the other end is a man just standing there. Glaring at him, completely still with intensity.

Rich is caught off-guard because he is bothered as to why a random person forces him to stop in his tracks. The stranger doesn’t look like someone Rich would know. He’s wearing a faded gray sweater, a hoodie covering his pale face donning an ungroomed beard, along with relaxed-fit khaki joggers tucked into a pair of Doc Martens. For some odd reason, Rich undergoes a sense of discomfort.

What is now their arena are two outstretched rows of colored bags, a plastic rainbow on racks produced by corporations the businessman has become part of.

Rich chooses to break through the tension and begins walking through the aisle. The other man copies his gesture, and soon the sounds of Oxfords clacking and boots thumping eventually harmonize, the acoustics escaping out of the artificial passage. Rich becomes paranoid as more alarming assumptions are implanted, and his sense of discomfort turns into a sense of danger from the nearing man. His growing appearance makes Rich’s eyes linger as if this is a normal scenario, only to roll back and lock onto the visible hazel eyes currently watching him.

Steps decrease as both men continue strolling, still matching the same pace. Their bodies approach each other and stop in the center surrounded by branded chips paired with common dips. Synchronizing their body language as they inspect the different flavors, Rich can’t focus on anything except the other guy who is simply shopping for chips. Since there’s obviously something going on between them, Rich wonders if the hooded man is somebody from his past. After feeling so uncomfortable for so long in this distressing situation, Rich finally decides he’s had about enough.

His head cracks sideways, and in a disguised macho voice, he frantically confronts the male.

“Look man, I don’t know who you are or why you’re following me, but if you have something to tell me, just say it so we can resolve this shit like men.”

Silence is heard. Four eyes bulge out. Adam’s apples rise and fall in dry gulps.

Suddenly, a motion is made. The stranger slowly reaches out his hand. . .

Crunch!

The shopper grabs a sour cream and onion bag as he gives a weird, puzzled look and awkwardly walks off passed the businessman.

Wait, hold on. What just happened?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

That’s what Rich thinks. After the encounter, this wave of relief washes over him. He finds a casual condiment and clutches it. He pauses for a breath, smiles to himself, and chuckles out of embarrassment at how he probably looked like a damn fool. A rich fool who felt less rich for a moment. He feels fortunate again to move.

Sshhlucktzz!

A jar of salsa falls and shatters across the floor.

It happened so fast that Rich didn’t see it coming.

A faint grunt expelled out through the slight opening of his mouth as his stomach sucked in from a piercing sensation the instant it struck. An unknown figure had charged at him, a firm hand at his lower back and Rich’s head resting upon a broad shoulder for what seems like forever.

In shock, Rich feels lost along with his breath, and vulnerable because he doesn’t know what’s taking place. Then his mind goes blank. No more thoughts. The absence of anxiety allows him to feel only the pain of a blade.

The heavy exasperating breathing against Rich’s right ear keeps him from drifting away. His acromion gets pressed up by the figure’s burly chest; beneath a scrunching leather jacket is the sweatiness dampening Rich’s clothes as his blood soaks through his shirt, ruining his formal blazer. Rich begins losing all feeling that his being weightlessly drops, causing his legs to wobble yet still manages to cling onto the stabbing arm. The mysterious man puts his own chin on Rich’s shoulder and gently lowers him to the floor with his left arm instead of letting him collapse to the ground.

As he lies him down, the outsider pulls out the Bowie knife swiftly. At last, he angrily whispers into Rich’s humid ear.

“You deserve this, Dick.”

The anonymous murderer forcibly grabs Rich’s gripping hand and covers his fresh wound with it before fleeing the empty aisle. . .

Blood is starting to flood his throat triggering Rich to uncontrollably spit thick cherry droplets while streams of red drip across his flushed cheeks. All of a sudden, he senses something between his thumb and pinky during his attempt to breathe. He picks up his skull with barely any strength left. His head tilts down and his hand lifts simultaneously.

A bloody photograph in his palm.

His eyes widen. Rich’s cough intensifies, splattering blood up in the air after he plops his head to the tile. Whereas he’s choking, he places the photo back onto his wound. He has the urge to drag himself but is too weak. The muscles in his shaken expression give out.

Hearing footsteps getting louder, his blood-spattered face looks upside down to notice an aproned store employee running on the ceiling toward him as time slows. His vision blurs when his eyes water. Once the tears burst from bleeding out, Rich stares into the fluorescent lighting above.

Although Rich doesn’t want to die, he is gradually accepting his tragic fate.

The employee rushes over to kneel and sit seiza-style beside a pool of blood, propping Rich’s head onto his lap and sort of cradles him. As Richard Chien’s life topples over consoling legs, he realizes the glass shards nearby symbolize his shattered soul now leaving the scene.

The sympathetic employee cannot help but mouth the words “poor guy.”

Afterward, he directs his attention to the spilt salsa at a distance and releases a sigh.

A monotonous female voice announces on the intercom: “Clean up on aisle 7.”