The automated doors slid open. In waddled a middle-aged man, about five foot ten. He was balding, but remnants of blond hair sat in a halo around the edge of his head, and a comb-over was failing to hide any of it. He stopped just inside the entry way, his hands resting on his thighs as he bent forward, panting, wheezing, trying as hard as he could to catch his breath.
The greeter standing near to him cracked a false smile and groaned, "Welcome to Hero-Mart." He wasn't even trying to be friendly, and the only thing that the balding man noticed about the greeter was his exceptionally large eyebrows.
"Yeah, whatever," the man mumbled as he pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and began shuffling through the store. He didn't want to talk to that loser guy anyway. In the back of his mind he wondered if she should have grabbed one of those awesome amigo carts to ride through the store in. Really, he loved Hero-Mart, but it was just so big, and he had trouble navigating it in this shape.
This shape. What was this shape, anyway? How had he gotten like this? Not wanting to think about it, he blinked his blue eyes, making a slow, uneasy turn down aisle three. He was already feeling short of breath again, but he was almost to those salty, delicious chips!
People were giving him odd glances, but he didn't care. His flabby arm reached out and in one swipe he had three bags of wavy Barbecue chips. There's nothing more American than the taste of barbecue! He continued to make his way, heading now for aisle seven. There was no way he was going to eat these without something to wash it down with. It took him a while, and he was huffing and making small grunting noises once he reached the assortment of sodas. There were so many flavors to choose from, but nothing was more classic, more American than cola. Then, as he was reaching for that twenty four pack of cans, he remembered what his doctor had said about dieting. To level it out, he instead got Diet cola. That would surely even things out, right?
Luckily, someone had abandoned their cart mid-aisle and he snatched it, filling the cart with cookies, candy, chips, soda, ice cream, and frozen dinners. Once finished, he went to register nine, where a young Japanese-American was ready to assist him.
"Hello, and how are you on this wonderful day, sir?"
"Oh, this store is so goddamn big!" Alfred F. Jones was too busy trying to catch his breath to say much else. He started absent-mindedly loading up the conveyor belt at the register, moving at a snail's pace because he simply couldn't move like he used to.
The cashier, whose nametag said "Honda", wasn't sure what to say to that exclamation. He smiled quietly and began to scan items. He didn't let his face show it, but he was upset that he didn't have a bagger today, which meant it would take a while to complete this transaction. Not wanting to miss anything once he had finished scanning and bagging, he asked, "Do you have any coupons, bottle return receipts, or anything of the like?"
"No." He knew he'd forgotten to bring something…now he'd have even more cans and bottles piling up at home. All well. In all of his sweaty, massive, American glory, he coughed and pulled out his wallet, sliding his credit card. After it was approved, he stuck it back in his wallet. He knew he was nearing the limit on his last credit card, but there was nothing he could do. He was in debt up to his freaking eyeballs.
It seemed so unfair to him that everyone else seemed to think he owed them, when really it was the other way around. He was, after all, the hero.
"Thank you, sir, and have a great day!"
Alfred shook his head. That guy is just way too formal. He needs to get drunk and loosen up a little.
The greeter just scowled at him and his giant cart of groceries as he walked out of the doors marked 'entrance' and into the parking lot.
It was quite a meander to his parking spot, and he couldn't even remember where it was. Scratching the top of his balding head, he hit the car locator button, and his giant SUV beeped once, the lights flashing on for a moment so he could find it. "There it is!"
Ignoring the looks and giggles from people passing by in the parking lot, the middle-aged man put his groceries in the back and climbed into his car, cussing when his door had scraped the car next to him. "Oops." He didn't even bother to leave insurance information.
On the drive home, he was feeling awfully hungry from all of that hard work, and a burger sounded really, really good. Pulling into "Burger Street: Grill & Café", the American went through the drive-thru, getting an extra-large number four, deluxe with olives, bacon, and extra cheese. He got a large chocolate shake and ketchup for his fries. When he got home he left most of the stuff in the car, whatever didn't need to be refrigerated, and got to eating his dinner…alone. It was just him. Everyone was mad at him, including his brother Matthew.
Looking at his receipt for Hero-Mart, he scoffed at the extra twenty cents he was charged for that king size chocolate bar. "That was supposed to be on sale!" He wailed, his mouth sputtering bits of burger in rage. He was feeling too tired to get his phone and call them to complain, let alone drive back out there, so he decided he would tell them next time. To take his mind off of it all, he settled into his couch, flicking on the television set. A movie marathon would make everything okay; it had always seemed to…
A couple of days later, the postman was making his rounds. He went to open Alfred's mailbox, but he became concerned to see that it was full of mail still. Even though the American didn't walk much, he at least got the mail every day…probably for the fast food coupons. With a gentle rapping of his knuckles, the postman had to check to make sure the American was okay…it was his duty, right?
"Mon cher, are you home?" There was a strong possibility that Alfred had gone on vacation, mayhaps. "Monsieur…" He looked at the mail in his hands, "Jones, there is mail here with your name on it!" For a moment there was silence, but then he heard it. It sounded like a whimper. The postman checked under the rug and sure enough there was a spare key, so he opened the door, shouting, "It's just me, and I'm checking to see if you're okay, okay?" A loud moan could be heard. Brushing some of his curly hair out of his face, the postman bounded up the stairs. He found Alfred on the floor in the hallway, flat on his back.
"Jacques Bleu, monsieur! How long have you been here?"
"I don't know. I can't get up and I was here for a long time, and then I fell asleep. Then I woke up…" How embarrassing. There was only so much neediness and embarrassment one man could stand. He certainly couldn't keep living like this. It was horrible. What even started it?
The postman found a solid chair and between it, Alfred's efforts, and his efforts, they got him to a sitting position. "I can handle myself from here, dude. Thanks."
"No problem. I'll leave your mail on the table downstairs."
Alfred felt a small quivering in his chest. At first he thought it might have been the onset of heartburn or the warning signs of a heart attack, but as the postman walked out the front door he realized what it was- he was lonely. He didn't want the other man to leave. But everyone always left. He was stupid, loud, fat, obnoxious, messy, and not at all awesome like he used to be. He was no longer a hero, just the shell of a man. The very large shell of his former self.
After he got through the hassle of getting downstairs, Alfred called his local gym. He'd lost his gym card a few years ago and decided it was high time he rejoined. His first appointment was set for Monday.
