It’s been I don’t know how many years and I’m still fooling myself that I could be a writer.  I’ve spent the last few months working on a novel–terrified in fact, that one day I just may finish it.  Who knows what then.  Another novel, I suppose.  Ideas occur more often than the weather changes.  And everybody thinks they’re something in the end.  This day I spent most of the sunlight in a dank room behind a closed door, sitting on a fold-out stool behind the typer that sat upon an antique wood table about a foot off the floor, writing the story that I have to tell, then reading what I’ve done, then, rewriting it, then drinking more coffee, masturbating twice, showering, eating what little I have, then writing some more.

Between each hour I watched films adapted from popular novels of this era we live in, and all the while watching these movies I thought to myself, Do these guys (the ones that are still alive anyway) have any idea what is going on?  Are they aware of their work being butchered in such a manor that when these stories are remembered in the distant future, the memory will be of these films instead of the very books they are based upon?

Depressed and uncertain for the night ahead (it had been, in fact, almost impossible to sleep without drinking myself into sleep, in this housing, what with between the stoners and intellectuals I’d hear outside my bedroom door night and day droning on and painfully on with exaggerated enthusiasm for what their idea of what’s going on in the world is.  Then there’s the crying, shrieking babies, accompanied by the throbbing, sick-inducing music, and the even louder, chattering game of ‘Who can be more alpha in a cramped flat on this side of Dave’s bedroom wall’) I decided to take a glass that I had sitting on my desk that was full of collected change down to Lucky’s Supermarket to see what I can walk out with.

The sun was nearing it’s end.  I closed the door behind me and made my way down Grove, then a right at Central, left on Fulton, feeling the breeze that had kept on for the last week or so and then I was through the doors and inside, smelling that old familiar comfort-smell of all grocery stores, walking with purpose (for a change–no pun here, fuck off) to locate the Coinstar.

Found the Coinstar, dumped the change down the spout, mostly pennies, and watched as it tallied up the contents.  It came out to exactly $5.75, and I grabbed the voucher slip and found the nearest cashier, got the cash, and bought two quarts of Pabst and a bag of chips.  It came out to a cunt’s hair under five dollars.

I got the first quart open, drank it quickly, and I kept at the typer like an old boy with nothing else to live for–a kind of, what the fuck is a cell phone or a touch-screen, never mind a text message–working on the chips as the words made more and more sense to me.  And that’s what it all comes down to anyway–right?  ME.  Not you.  (If you’re reading this and actually have made it this far, well, I’ll bet you’ll think to yourself, ‘This guy’s got a few loose, and why the fuck am I even reading this?’  Well, joke’s on you.)  Anyway, I sat there working on the beer, finished the chips.  Then I made a sandwich, wrote for another two hours before I realized it was still early and I had money leftover, and I was out of beer.

Back at Lucky’s I decided to not only get another quart of beer, but hey, let’s get more chips, one of those poorboy sandwiches from the deli (they always separate the mustard from the actual sandwich–if you have any future prospect to manufacture sandwiches like these, take note) and a candy bar.

I got in at the self-checkout, and when it was my turn, I scanned all my items, bagged them, and waited for the computer screen to catch up.  It totaled out to $7.38.  I pulled everything I had in my pocket, coming out to $1.58, and I took my time with all the pennies and so forth, looking over my shoulder to watch everybody in line behind me tapping their feet, shuffling nervously, etc, etc.

After I got the cash in the machine I ran my debit card for the remainder of the total, which came out to $5.80.  As the machine accepted my card, for a split second, I noticed that it recognized the full amount, $7.38, and before I could say or do anything the total amount on the little neon green screen disappeared.  I was unsure whether or not I had been charged for the total amount on my card.

I stood there waiting for the receipt to find out.  It never came.  I looked at the screen on this self-checkout machine.  It appeared that it was still awaiting my payment.  I tried to hit the ‘Cancel’ button, but the screen didn’t change.  I attempted the ‘Help’ button, the screen didn’t change.  It just sat there frozen.  The cashier overlooking all of the self-checkout lanes hurried to my aid out of nowhere, repeating the words, “Something’s wrong, did you use cash or something?” to me, and I said “Yes, I paid a dollar and change, then I put the rest on my card.”  Apparently, by the look on her face, you aren’t supposed to do that.  We’ve managed to build cars and airplanes, go to the Moon, conquer other parts of the world, give birth to technology moguls that judge whether we live or die, yet I can’t use the self-checkout lane to pay a dollar fifty-eight in cash then settle the difference on my debit card.  Another associate from Lucky’s hurried to the aid, and between the two of them I watched something that looked like the defusing of a nuclear bomb.

Meanwhile, the line behind me was increasing.  I laughed, somewhat drunk, watching their angry and urgent faces judge me, cursing my existence for slowing their lives down even further, like they needed the help.  People have nothing to live for in this generation.  It’s realized in our DNA.  It’s not something we think about consciously, but it’s there.  So we turn against each other, we attack ourselves, and we draw blood in the name of recognition.  “Hello?  Get the fuck out of my way,” one says as they spill the brains of another across the sidewalk, “I have to get through the light!  Don’t you sense my importance?”  If only people would step back and open their eyes.  Maybe it’s all necessary, who knows.  I wonder how things were a hundred years ago, and I assume there was more of a purpose then, especially here in San Francisco.  As the Lucky’s associates defused this $7.38 bomb I thought about what it’s like to ride a bike up a long steep hill, and when I reached the top, coasting until I caught my breath.

“It’s no good sir,” one cashier said, “How much cash did you spend?”

I smiled and said, “I put a dollar and change in there, and I paid the rest on my card.”

One of them punched buttons (buttons?) on the screen.  It was determined that, I had done something–can’t explain what–just something, to freeze the computer.  They told me that they would give me a full refund (for the cash) and that I could go to a regular checkout lane to pay for my items.

While I waited in this new line, there were these young, enthusiastically blank, adolescent girls ahead, bouncing around, being far too loud, wearing next to nothing, excited and obnoxious about absolutely nothing.  I glanced around looking for the source that caused their excitement, perhaps a wildfire or a pack of rabid unicorns stampeding through the establishment–but no, there were none of the sort.  I could see the look on the face of the woman ringing them up.  I know it all too well.  It’s an SOS.  It’s a cry for the apocalypse.  One of the girls randomly exclaimed “It’s my birthday!” at no one in particular.  I guessed about, seventeen.  In another five years, one of them will be strung out, and pregnant, with triplets.  The father, unknown.  The other girl will be in the lower bottom end of the porno business.  I guess I could leave it at that.  After they paid and left I continued to watch them as they walked away, strutting toward the exit, careless, painfully unaware, and I turned to the checkout woman and said, “To be young again,” to which she replied, “Not me,” shaking her head.  Then she looked at me and asked, “Would you ever want to be like that?”  I smiled at her and said, “I’d rather be a corpse.”  She and the guy ahead of me in line laughed with genuine relief.

I got home, and feeling alright I ate the sandwich, the chips, and cracked the new quart as my roommates made their noise outside my door, laughing like they had all the answers.  They reminded me of how children under eight would behave if they were told they would never have to answer to an adult for the rest of their lives.  They probably do have all the answers.  I began writing again, stopping to breathe, take a drink from the beer, and ignore the sounds of crying babies beyond these walls.

On a whim I decided to check the balance of my bank account after the encounter at Lucky’s.  The first transaction, the one that clogged the system and caused much irritation and panic, went through after all.  I paid double in the end.  The joke was on me.  Then, sitting here, I thought it would make an amusing story, then thought of writing it down.  Which I did.

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