I’m sitting in the back corner of a Fred’s Dollar Store that feels completely desolate and deserted — except for the pharmacy, which is overrun and understaffed due to all the local sickies going around, and an apparent tide of technological issues that make everything seem apocalyptic.

As I sit here waiting my turn, three of the overhead fluorescents start to dim and flicker, off… and on… and off… and on… and I wonder if this is the beginning of one of those dystopian movies about a plague that wipes out all of humanity, after it begins in one little tiny rural town and sweeps through unchecked.

::cough::

They call out a name. I didn’t catch what it was, only that it wasn’t mine. An older man, white but browned by a lifetime in the fields, slowly creaks to his feet and ambles over. Cash is exchanged. He discreetly coughs into a blue cotton handkerchief, and then stuffs it back in the bib pocket of his well worn overalls, and shuffles toward the exit like time doesn’t exist. He shoots me a look with watery aged eyes and a toothless grin.

“Nice evenin’, ma’am.” His voice sounds like honeyed gravel.

From my side, I hear, “I can’t wait any longer. I have to go pick the boy up from school.” It’s my mother-in-law. She had given me a ride up here, but now she needs to leave.

“Go ahead,” I tell her. “I need to stay and wait on this. They’ll be closed when Eric gets off from work.”

She promises to come back after the school pickup run is over.

Now I am alone. Alone with the flickering lights and the plague-riddled elderly pharmacy customers.

This could be the end.

“Mizz Barnett?” a disembodied voice calls from behind a computer bank hidden inside one of the “consultation” windows. I shoot to my feet and head over.

“Would you believe they have his birth date in the system wrong?!”

Yes. I would believe that. We’ve only been doing business here every month for eight years. Why would his birthday be in the computer correctly, after all.

I check the clock on my phone. I’ve been here nearly an hour already. I hope we can get this cleared up before his next birthday.

I sink back down into the (thank you dear lord sweet baby jesus) very comfortable waiting chairs. I text my husband angry things. He texts me back excuses and platitudes. I consider how peaceful a prison stay sounds, as I plot all the torturous ways I will vent my ire of this day.

An older black lady strides out from behind the counter and pauses next to me. I look up inquiringly. She seems to need to say words. Like, she needs to say some things.

“Bad day?” I say sympathetically. She huffs and begins counting out change from her pockets. I assume she’s about to hit the exit door for a cigarette. She’s got the “whew damn, I need a cigarette” look on her face. I am well acquainted with this look. I feel it all the way down in my soul.

“Girl, I’m going to get me a Pepsi. LORD, I need a Pepsi right now.”

Honey, from the looks of this place, you need something stronger than a Pepsi. She tells me they had to call in reinforcements, so they have two extra people in from another store, and it’s still not enough. The drive-through line never empties. The waiting room is packed. The phone has rung incessantly since they opened this morning. And now, everyone’s insurance is popping in random errors all over the place.

A man at the other consultation window slams a phone receiver down angrily. He’s been on that phone — the pharmacy’s landline phone — the entire time I’ve been here. I tried (not very hard) not to eavesdrop, but it was obvious he’d been on with his insurance carrier. Now, he’s back at the pickup window. “To hell with it,” he grits out. “Let me just pay cash for it. I aint got time for no more of this nonsense.”

A blonde woman with a “let me speak to the manager” haircut sweeps up to the counter.

“I need my pickup now. I can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to go get my kids from school.”

They tell her it’s not ready yet. She is one pissed off soccer mom. “I cannot drive all the way out there and then come back all the way out here today. I don’t have the gas money. Can you not just give me part of it now, and I can come back and get the rest later in the week?”

They tell her they can’t do that, but I see them hand her some part of her order. Money is exchanged and she says she’ll try to be back before closing but it might be tomorrow. She leaves. I sit in silence for a while.

I hear murmuring from behind the counter. A lady says “Do you have Barnett straightened out yet? Oh okay. I’ve still got his sack up here.” Everyone snickers, me included.

“BARNETT” The lady at the cash register calls. I go up. “We’ve got you now, hun. I’m so sorry about this.” I mumble platitudes and sympathy for their plight. “Sign there for me” she points to the electronic signature machine. “There you go!” She smiles brightly and hands me the bag.

“Umm,” I mutter, hating to look a gift horse in the mouth, but honor demanding that I do so. “Do you not want any money?”

“Nope. It’s all taken care of! Have a great evening, hun!”

But now, I have to decide where to go from here. My mother in law isn’t back yet. It’s cold outside, but hot in here. It’s about two miles to walk home. I decide to walk outside the store and call her to see where she is.

I walk out and hit the open air, thankful for the coolness after the suffocating heat from inside the store. I dial her number, and wonder if the twinge in my lower back is real, or if it’s just in my head, a psychosomatic reaction to the thought of trying to walk home.

I decide that I’m going to go ahead and walk, and see how far I get. The phone rings and rings, but no answer. I can see the park across the street, and it seems like a good distance to walk in the sunshine and maybe swing for a while.

I make it to the edge of the parking lot before my mother in law’s grey car whips in. “They get you took care of?”

“YEP” and I tell her about the computer error with his birthday. We briefly talk about that before conversation turns to irritation at the last minute nature of all this nonsense. We share a companionable ride home griping about her son. That’s how we bond.

She drops me back off at home and says she might come over later. I juggle my keys and the pharmacy bag as I reach for the doorknob, but as I turn it out of habit, I notice that I didn’t even lock the door on the way out.

Lord help us all.

I am desperately unprepared for the pending zombie apocalypse if I can’t even remember to lock the front door. I hope you are all much better prepared!