I just got done getting new glasses. So I’m killing time in this little lakefront community of just under three thousand. And I’m here to take something away beyond Harry Potter-looking frames. It’s all too easy to imagine, anyhow. There’s a gentle warmth in this town, not the heat I’m used to in the deepest hills. There’s a giant market with green and brown walls—with more than four aisles. This place even has a kickass selection of booze. Elegant wines, brandies, champagnes, even—fortresses of temporary euphoria, booze fit for a king. In here, freezers emit overwhelming coolness, a whoosh and I can’t help but stick my head into a few, pretending to look for who-knows-what. Man, I wish I could just fall asleep among that whoosh. It’s like a mother, promising something sweet. A new home, more money, a better job.

The floors are even polished and not just rife with tired linoleum, like back home. And the scents of pizza and hot dogs complement this whole scene, although the grease makes me want to ralph. Not because it’s a bad scent, but because it’s a reminder of the peanut butter sandwich I had coming up here.

But the PA system plays music that’s upbeat. Little Richard shrieks with joy. Drums and bass thump with the motion of carts in some song I don’t know. Some people shake their hips too, while they rush from aisle to aisle with a frightening briskness, carts clattering away.

“Need any help?” a clerk asks. He wears a purple smock and white button-down short-sleeve shirt. He has big owl-like eyes, a hooked nose, and he smells like mint soap. His tag reads Travis. He probably thinks this is a good job. He’s probably twenty, twenty-one and I hope he’s still not working in this sort of place when he’s my age. Thirty-six. But then again, he probably comes from money. He could quit right now.

“No thanks,” I say.

“Nothing in particular?”

“I’m still thinking,” I say, because that sounds reasonable. That sort of answer reeks of being organized, having the ability to browse— to buy.

“No problem,” he says.

To say I’m thinking also conceals the truth. I’m a long-haired man in blue jeans among people clad in crisp Khakis, Capris, and tan shorts. I’ve got forty dollars in my wallet now. And I’m wearing Harry Potter frames, thanks to near-sightedness. I fucking asked for the small round ones, the type John Boy wore on The Waltons, something intelligent. Something that screams ambition, thoughtfulness, achiever. But now I look like I’m about to cast a spell on this lakeside town. And I smell a little too, like a cross between an armpit and a stale foot. But sometimes you make the choice between dinner or a shower.

“I’m just thinking,” I repeat.

 “Take your time,” he says, and I smile, a smile that’s wobbling. And I realize I’ve been running through the store myself, my feet the thump of insistence, of hurry. So I slow down.

These men and women, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters actually carry food. Real food. Steaks, vegetables, fruits, God forbid, chocolates too. And brand ice-creams. Good old Ben and Jerry’s. Haagen Daz. I subside on onions and crackers, peanut butter, and Diet Pepsi. Not even real Diet Pepsi, but a store brand. They, on the other hand, pack their carts until they burst.

Back home, people carry Bud Light, Coors, and Miller, the holy trinity of liquid dinners. The one true, small treat. I’m no exception there. Even I need a little liquid courage to complement the onions, crackers, dust-filled rooms, and heat. If it means one less shower, so be it. If I didn’t drink beer, I’d be a freak.

Meanwhile, away from home, they shove their groceries across smooth, swift belts. Bag them with an almost frenetic, robotic motion. Then they rush to minivans, BMWs, even a few Subarus. I should leave now, but there’s a little time. Standing in the parking lot, watching the shoppers leave, I imagine them packing oak and mahogany tables with feasts. I conjure dirty jokes and laughter rising, preserved forever in these rooms with actual space. An image: they are talking of plans, plans to enrich themselves, renovations, new homes, tearing things down. They talk like this simply because they can.

They don’t eat at plastic tables covered with wine stains and pen marks. They don’t worry about rude customers behind cash registers. Here people don’t juggle credit card bills, tucking reality in the drawers until they pop out again. Here everything’s a plus sign. The plus signs swell, they shrink, but they’re always plus signs. And no one’s a risk, no one’s delinquent, no one’s another case.

I discard my truck in the market parking lot, the mud streaks and dents on the Chevy all too visible. I’ll come back soon enough, though. I trample the parking lot, traipse down Lake Avenue, late afternoon following me around. Streetlamps line both sides of the street and clay pots sprinkled throughout contain lilacs. The air turns cooler the closer I get to the lake. Not freezer cool, but gentle. I savor the beige and tan buildings, mixed with a few brick structures, the clean plate glass. Chinese and Mexican, a pizza joint, some knickknack shops, a lawyer. A bookstore too. Even a little dollar theater.

This beats home, where you have one street that sweeps into town and out into nothingness fast. Buildings are all faux rustic. A market, a bank, two bars, a hardware store, a gas station. That’s about it. And people don’t walk or stride, rather they waddle, in bib overalls and camo. They have the saddest fucking smiles. And the only music back home is The Eagles wafting from trailers and cabins that lean on hillsides and threaten to plunge into the valley. Well, and whatever the bar chooses to play. Dueling Pianos. Buford and The Good Times Band. Two chords over and over again.

I don’t even realize I’m just stopped, staring at the buildings around me, until a woman in a lavender blouse and Capris asks if I’m lost. She wears these big cat-eye glasses, and I think of her as some professional. An accountant, perhaps. God forbid, a lawyer. No, an accountant. Lawyers can grandstand, whip out fifty-dollar vocab words and harangue. She’s the sort to add things up and make a cold, precise decision.

“No ma’am,” I say. “Not lost at all. Just looking around.”

“Are you sure?” she says. And the way she assesses me, me with my Harry Potter frames, my blue jeans, even my long hair, I know what she’s thinking. Smelly, freak, drifter.

“I’m fine,” I say, voice rising. “Just looking around.”

“What do you need?” she says. I wonder if I look homeless or something. “I’d be glad to help you. Is there something you want to buy? Are you looking for a store?”

“I can find it,” I say.

Of course, I can’t fucking buy anything. But how do I tell her that? She’s the sort to think everything is your own fault. Bootstraps. I’ll bet her great-grandfather got off the boat a century ago, learned to speak English, and picked himself up. But not before being mugged, kicked, and beaten a few times. And paying more than a few bills.

“I didn’t mean any offense,” she says, but I know that her eyes are bearing into me, that she’s waiting for me to do something stupid. Punch a wall. Beg for something. Demand a slice of pizza. But I won’t. I’ve seen people with signs outside the market back home, along the highways, and the shame on them is unbearable.

“You didn’t?” I say.

“You just looked, well, lost,” she says, and she tries to smile. Her smile looks more like constipation though. I hate that word. Lost. Lost. Lost. I know what I’m doing here.

“Fuck off, asshole,” I say and march off. The harshness of the words hangs over the swath of blue sky and sun, but there’s a power to it. An odd, crude dignity. And yet a shame. But I can’t think of that now.

I walk down Lake Avenue a bit further, road sloping as it gets closer to the lake, an expanse of blue and ripples. I absorb the breeze, the Ponderosas swaying. The easy laughter rising, the tan shorts, the T-shirts festooned in blue, purple, greens. The scent of Chinese and Mexican sizzling through windows and not oil, Camels, and exhaust. I try to not think about the food I can’t have, about that lady’s judgments. And I don’t make eye contact with people.

I could leave right now but going back would be too much. Where else could I even go? The towns between here and back home grow smaller and smaller, more boarded-up, full of weeds. And I don’t have enough gas to just drive north into the wheatfields.

I try not to think of the sun sloping downward bit by bit, even if it doesn’t actually get dark until late. I walk closer and closer to the lake, the ripples welcoming. I imagine just walking further and further, into its depth, not giving a crap. Hell, I could just float and let the water wash over me. Crisp, cold, no bullshit. But a boat roars across the lake, bodies waving and laughing, relishing the ease of space. The ripples are broken, the boat sputtering toward some point. Probably a cabin, surrounded by other cabins, a place where neighbors exchange easy greetings and don’t look twice at the people around them. A place where no one is lost.

They’d probably call security on this Harry Potter-looking guy. No explanations asked, nothing. Their word would be enough to bank on and the guard would whisk me away, while the neighbors turned away, making up even more stories about me.

I turn back. Look back up the avenue, that steep hill. I turn forward. And then back. I imagine continuing my march into the lake, but it’s all broken now. The lake looks almost menacing now, something that never ends. So I start the trek back to the truck, splattered in mud. One step. Another.