I’m Not A Monster

By Sean O’Brien

“Seasons change with the scenery, weaving time in a tapestry. Won’t you stop and remember me?” — Simon and Garfunkel

I must have been out of my mind when I sauntered into Walgreens, although I don’t remember it that way. I had a Rene’ Descartes quote running through my mind. “Nevertheless I must remember that I am a man, and that consequently I am accustomed to sleep and, in my dreams, to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake or sometimes things which are even less plausible.” Even less plausible, I liked that idea. I thought that if I could memorize that quote, it would get me laid. It has.

I must have appeared more slovenly that day than I thought. I thought I looked decent. My hair was messy but modelesque, bleached blond, doing its best mid 80’s Dave Smalley look. My Irish skin was tanned, freckles withstanding, and my eyes were lazy and floating, twinkling like stars wished upon.

I had just finished an odd job that entailed some demolishing and heavy-lifting, leaving me sweaty and a little disheveled but not unkempt. In my mind’s eye, I looked like a well-built and glistening calendar-worthy fireman. In my mind, my somewhat self-absorbed and sometimes delusional mind, I was the hottest thing going. It was utter narcissism. If I had learned anything in this life by that point, it was this: It’s not easy being Irish, charming, and good-looking.

Trust me.

Apparently, the employees at Walgreens did not trust me. They immediately ordered a security tail on me. Quickly, an undercover but significantly overweight loss prevention specialist dressed as if he was headed to a Dave Matthews concert started folowing me.

I was soon approached by a surly sales associate offering to assist me in locating any items for which I searched. It was as if this was my first visit to a Walgreens, and I could not possibly comprehend the logical grid of aisles that were lain out before me.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

“I don’t know, can you?” I fired back with a roman candle glare.

Like Diogenes, she kept walking.

After wandering the store aimlessly for five minutes trying to shake Dave, a second sales associate approached me. She was young, pretty, and polite. If I had to guess, she was a small-town, overly-sheltered, sweet, and naïve girl. That poor girl, she had no idea what she was getting herself into. In a calm and even tone, she asked, “Excuse me, sir, may I help you find something?”

Delighted, I replied, “You may.”

After a brief pause, I continued with a verbally staggered enthusiasm, “Toilet paper, young lady. I’m in dire need of toilet paper.”

“Indeed,” she replied and smiled softly, “just follow me.”

“Like a cult leader.” I replied.

She took me down the middle aisle, which was full of Halloween merchandise. Every time I passed a skeleton or a witch that would throw a “Bahahaha” at me, I’d throw one back, louder.

We entered the toilet paper aisle, and I selected an extra soft 12 pack.

“Great, what else can I help you with, sir?”

I paused again and stared invisibly into the ambivalence. I proceeded to return the 12 pack and replaced it with a 30-roll economy pack and said, “Don’t wanna run out mid-wipe, ya know? Let’s see, what else?” I asked aloud. “Laxatives and suppositories. I’ll need those as well. The fast-acting quick release ones, please.”

Her brow furrowed in a concerted manner, he turned and led us down another aisle.

Next, I requested baby wipes and latex gloves, stating, “This could get a little messy.”

She stared at me in bewilderment. Never being good at the eye lock game, I broke her puzzled stare by mouthing “Preparation H,” in a gentle whisper, like Ma did when she told someone something she felt was confidential, “Yeah, he’s an alcoholic.”

She frowned and mumbled, “Right this way, sir.”

We ambled toward the next aisle, her trying to shake me, me not letting her, and Dave tailing us. I created a Preparation H jingle, loosely based on the Kit-Kat candy bar jingle, and began singing it.

“Preparation H, it’s Preparation H; I need some Preparation H to prep that hemorrhoid boy.”

I continued this the entire walk, throwing in falsettos here and there the way I imagined Prince would. Matching the notes with various levels of raised fingers as I hit, or missed notes.

As we neared the Preparation H, I stopped and snatched a box of Imodium A.D. While keeping the melody of the Preparation H jingle, I switched the latter part of the lyrics to, “just in case it comes out like a chocolate milkshake.”

I’m almost certain the sales associate vomited in her mouth. However, I couldn’t be certain as I took a violent and overly dramatic headfirst dive into the shelving system sending every product and shelf in all directions. I tumbled to the hard and cold linoleum floor, clutching my stomach and winced in pain.

“Oh, my goodness, sir,” she gasped as she bent down to eye level and asked, “are you okay?”

My eyes pushed her away as I rocked back and forth. As a crowd started to gather, I really hammed it up. Thrashing around and wailing out, “Please, everyone, give me a moment. I am not a monster! I have terrible stomach pains.”

As I watched the crowd slowly grow disinterested, I matched their sluggish nature with my own. I slowly regained my composure and began sifting through the hundreds of items that adorned the floor, admiring my handiwork. I collected the items I had selected thus far and in a decrescendoing fashion, repeated several times, “I’m not a monster, damn it, I’m not a monster.”

With no one left watching my antics, I snapped out of my own self-induced silliness and demanded water.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She asked again. “Should I call E.M.S.?”

“E.M.S.? Oh, hells no!” I yelled. “I don’t need emergency medical services. What I need is to take an E.M.S., an enormous manly shit! Let’s just get some water and get me the fuck outta here.”

She blushed and replied, “Yes, sir.” She turned and marched toward the back.

“Wait,” I yelled, stopping her on a dime. “I’m definitely going to need a plunger.”

We proceeded to the rear photo check-out counter as the sales associate had obviously been instructed to check me out personally and keep me separated from the other customers.

“Thank you so much, young lady, bless your heart,” I told her as she rung me up.

“Anything else,” she asked.

“Yeah.”

I requested a pack of Marlboro Reds, which she had to go all the way upfront to retrieve. Cigarettes and water were all I was coming in for in the first place. Now I had a 30-roll economy pack of toilet paper, a box of fast-acting chocolate laxatives, a canister of immediate release suppositories, a bright yellow tube of Preparation H, a box of chewable Imodium AD, 500 non-medicated and non-scented baby wipes, a box of 100 latex gloves, a ripped-off third rate jingle and a black and silver metal plated industrial-strength plunger.

I proceeded to pay cash, and she thanked me kindly. I stalled and stalked my next moment. I grabbed my stomach and slightly winced in pain. She didn’t take the bait; she was learning.

She begrudgingly asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “may I use your bathroom?”

She began to cry.

I hung out in the bathroom for precisely twenty minutes. I timed it. I made a lot of agonizing noises. I yelled rudimentary phrases in Spanish, French, and German, all the while panting loudly and screaming, “Just breathe, Sean, just brea…, ugh, am I having twins!?”

Various people, I’m assuming employees, periodically knocked on the door and asked, “Is everything okay in there, sir?”

“No,” I barked back, “I’m not a monster!”

I faked finished up and ran the water for a couple of minutes. As I exited the bathroom, I looked drenched in sweat as I had splashed water all over my face, my hair, and down my shirt. I had all of my items with me, except the toilet paper, which I had hidden in the bathroom’s ceiling boards. Dave Matthews stopped me and suggested I had forgotten my toilet paper.

“No,” I explained, “I used 12 rolls for wiping and cleaning up, and I ate the other 18 rolls.”

Dave’s chubby face contorted. His jowls jiggled in awe and confusion. He asked how and why I would eat 18 rolls of toilet paper.

“First off, I was hungry. A dump like I just took works up an appetite,” I told Dave. “Secondly, when I shit the toilet paper out later, it’ll be like a self-wiping shit. That’s drastically easier on my hemorrhoids, or maybe their anal warts; who knows? I can’t tell. Either way, I’m outta here. I’m sorry if I stressed you out. Keep your double chin up, Dave.”

“My name’s not Dave.” He replied.

“Sure, it is.” I told him.

As I exited the store in a careful and unsavory stride, I again thanked the sales associate and said, “Sorry, I should have bought some Febreze or something. Oh well, it’ll air out, eventually.”

Outside I stood on the curb for a brief but glorious moment feeling accomplished and satisfied. I lit up a celebratory cigarette and inhaled deeply. I immediately had to take a shit.

I scurried over to my VW Jetta with the Dag Nasty sticker on the bumper and threw my bags into the backseat. I hopped in carefully with my butt cheeks clenched and boogied home, hoping and praying I’d make it.

Either way, at least I’m well prepared, I figured.