kiki em
waiting room
There is no parking lot at Honeysuckle Farms, and that annoys me very much. Honeysuckle Farms is also not a farm. It is a convenience store in a very tight corner of “downtown” where my dad says there is no room for parking lots, because “downtown” is not really a downtown. “Downtown” is a small clump of shops, cafes, and also a pizza parlor all crowded around the town’s only four-way intersection. I said if they can call it a downtown, they should be able to have parking lots as a requirement. My dad said that is not how it works, even though one time he took me to the city where he works, which is also called downtown, and I saw lots of parking lots.
Honeysuckle Farms, parking dilemmas aside, is really quite charming at night, because all of the chainsmokers have gone home to scratch their lottery tickets instead of hanging out in front of the trash can. The hot dog machine is broken, so there are never any hot dogs for sale, just warm sushi; and one time half of a burrito. The light that hangs over the Slurpee machine flickers. The door to the back storage room creaks very slowly whenever someone walks by. The refrigerator is packed with expired energy drinks and chocolate milk that tastes like someone mixed in chocolate syrup with butter. It’s very homey, if your home is haunted.
I am in the candy aisle, because my parents told me to go to Honeysuckle Farms and not to come home without candy. The candy aisle is in the very back, in front of the coffee machine that drips even though no one has used it for years. The coffee machine is named Angus because I think that Angus is a very coffee machine name.
The broken Slurpee light keeps flickering and it gives me a headache, so I shut my eyes and the shelves of candy disappear. I try to breathe through my nose and out through my mouth, in a triangle like they told us to, but I have a stupid head cold and I hate being a mouth-breather so I ditch that idea because breathing is stupid anyway, and how are you even supposed to breathe in the shape of a triangle. I open my eyes because if I can’t breathe I need to at least be able to see, but the candy shelves are still there and I still don’t like it.
I pick up a bag of gummy bears. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I pick up a bag of caramel chocolates. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I pick up a bag of M&Ms. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I’m not allowed to come home without proper candy, and “proper candy” has to come from the candy aisle and not the cookies aisle because cookies are not candy, and neither are chips.
I pee in my pants a little bit by accident when I walk up to the counter, where there is a guy with a mustache who used to go to my school but then dropped out.
“Are you hiring?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. He sucks in air from a vape pen, and exhales it in a cloud over his shoulder. It smells like cotton candy, but the fake cotton candy scent they use for hand sanitizer that doesn’t smell anything like real cotton candy.
“Okay,” I say. “Do you have a bathroom?” I forgot to wear a pad today in case I peed in my pants a little bit by accident.
“Not for customers.”
“Okay.” I don’t know how I’m supposed to start a new life at Honeysuckle Farms if they don’t have a bathroom, so I go back to the candy aisle, because I am not allowed to come home without candy.
I look at the gummy bears and try to remember that no food is bad food. The first thing they told us is that no food is bad food. I told them that can’t be true because Twinkies are banned in other countries. Like Austria, because of the coloring dyes. Maybe Sweden, too. I had to go have a “conversation” after that. A “conversation” is not really a conversation. A “conversation” is when a clinician takes me out of the group room and tells me I can’t say stuff like Twinkies are bad, and also I can’t know how many calories are in a Twinkie. They say it very gentle like they’re only asking but they are not only asking. I am not allowed to say anything back, like in an actual conversation, because a “conversation” is not a conversation.
I pick up the bag of gummy bears again. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I pick up a candy bar. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I pick up a bag of sour gummy worms. I turn it over. I put it back down.
I am very frustrated with the candy selection at Honeysuckle Farms. Behind me, there is Halo Top ice cream in the freezer, but I am not allowed to eat Halo Top, or frozen yogurt, or gelato; only regular full dairy full-fat Ben and Jerry’s with giant chunks of fudge in it. Ice cream is also not candy.
The bell on the door dings, and two girls from my school walk in. I pretend not to see them. If I pretend hard enough then they won’t see me either. This, however, does not work, and we make very awkward eye contact and pretend not to recognize each other for the remainder of their visit to Honeysuckle Farms. I know they are whispering about me and speculating about my disappearance from school because they are not very quiet. They do not come in the candy aisle, and when they leave I am still staring at the bag of gummy bears.
I pick up the bag of gummy bears again. I turn it over. I clench it in my fist. I put it back down.
I pick up a bag of peach rings. I try not to turn it over but I do by accident. I put it back down.
I pick up a different candy bar. I don’t even have to turn it over before I put it back down.
I am not normally supposed to buy food by myself but my parents thought it would be nice if they gave me some autonomy so I could practice buying food by myself. My mom says I have to learn to be independent because one day I will move away and I will have to buy all of my own food and do all of my own cooking. She tries to teach me how to cook so I can try new things. Trying new things is apparently the same as being independent, because my mom says when I buy food by myself I should pick food that I don’t know just so I can try it. If I was buying food by myself, I would not be at Honeysuckle Farms and I would not be in the candy aisle, so this is really not very good practice if you think about it.
The light over the Slurpee machine is still flickering and my headache is getting worse because the light over the Slurpee machine is not flickering with the same rhythm that Angus the coffee machine is dripping.
The sun is gone and I’m tired and I want to go home and watch funny TV on the couch but I am not allowed to come home without candy so I pick up the bag of gummy bears. I groan in my head, but not out loud because I’m in public, and you are not supposed to have feelings in public. I clench it very tightly in my fist and pretend like I am suffocating all of the tiny little gummy bears, because maybe if they die, all of their calories will die with them and they will just be like sugar free Jell-O. But I would like to be independent and move away but they told me I can only do that if I get better. If I get better and move away I would not have to try to find parking at Honeysuckle Farms. Buying gummy bears is getting better and better would be nice but my body does not like it.
My body also does not like standing in the candy aisle at Honeysuckle Farms.
In my head, I march up to the counter and slam it in front of the cashier, like a man on a mission, but in real life I shuffle over and place it gentle.
“You find everything you were looking for?” the cashier says in a monotone. His mustache is crusty and thin and not very flattering.
“Yes,” I say. The Slurpee machine is behind him and the light is still flickering. My old favorite flavor of Slurpee was Blue Raspberry. Blue Raspberry was always run out, but it is not run out today.
“$3.19.”
I hand him the five dollar bill my mom gave me before I left.
“Change is a dollar and eighty-one. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
I take the bag with the bag of gummy bears inside and I go to my car and I sit down behind the steering wheel and I have to take a deep breath because my chest hurts. I think about throwing the gummy bears out the window. I think about all of the gummy bears dying tragically in a freak accident of mass suffocation. I think about sticking all the gummy bears under the kitchen table like gum. I think about chewing up all of the gummy bears and spitting them out. I think about eating the gummy bears and my chest hurts more so I have to take another deep breath. Then I drive home and I play music loud.
Kiki Em is a writer from Boston, Massachusetts, currently in pursuit of her Bachelor’s degree. You can read her previously published work in Cathartic Literary Magazine.