Journey into an Alternate Universe

Beyond the doors lies a different world, a world filled with determined men and woman, a world filled with hungry citizens. Walking in, the satisfying yet hectic journey beings; one immediately becomes overwhelmed: countless amounts of colorful products lined neatly upon the hole-riddled shelves, children swiftly darting through the aisles, the elderly slowly strolling through the store, middle aged woman urgently throwing food into their overflowing carts, the methodical sound of barcodes being scanned, the incomprehensible loud conversations going on at all moments in time, the glistening fruits and vegetables stacked neatly and efficiently upon the stands, the disorganized chaos of carts and their owners impatiently awaiting checkout; all of this, every second, every minute, every hour, every day at the glorious Safeway.

Inside, to the left lies dull, black, scratched plastic baskets, perforated with small, box-shaped holes of various sizes, stacked upon the floor, and the intimidating clean cart wipes encased within a brilliant white and shiny red plastic. Directly diagonal to the entrance stands a tall, sturdy black, fixture—upon the grey-brown wood textured floor—lined with colorful gift cards, each with their own signature logo, with their own colorful design.

Within the organized aisles, a sense of overwhelming to a newcomer is common with salt and sugar and soup and sauce and soap and sweets and snacks all smushed into the perfectly parallel aisles. As one steps away from the manufactured products—cereals and bread, water and sodas, jellies and peanut butter— the temperature gradually dips to a crisp temperature. Directly in front of this, the fresh fruits and vegetables are artfully laid for customers to marvel in their perfection upon the hard plastic fruit stands, with wood texture engraved into the sides, and the small divots in the sides holding the plastic bags, and the signature red ties made out of paper and a thin piece of metal. Lining the walls on both the left and right side sit the large stands for various packed and unpacked vegetables, with mirrors on all of the inward exposed edges. Then, at predetermined intervals of the day, black nozzles shoot out fine mist and vibrantly colored vegetables become shrouded in a cloud of pureness; they become lightly sprinkled with crystal clear water.

Beyond the wholesome fruits and vegetables stands a single open refrigerator, containing various packaged lunches for the grubby hands of little children, who crave the artificiality of Lunchables, who crave the signature yellow and red box, who crave the unappealing cardboard texture of the “pizza.” Flustered mothers pull their children, whose faces are strewn with tears, whose eyes radiate redness from bloodshot eyes, whose clothes have small wet spots, away from the enticing food.

To the left of this is an endless expansion of meat products, and even further, the dairy section, and even further than that, the bakery section. Within the meat product section lays rows and rows of cuts of every type of animal possible—frozen or defrosted—such as poultry and pork and beef and veal and salmon and scallops and lobsters; the aisles resemble a library of many varieties and many decisions to be made Standing behind the slanted, clear window panes that separate customer from the brilliant red salmon and the glistening multi-colored scales of sea bass and the pink hue of poultry and the harsh lobster tails and the soft white flesh of scallops and the grey tinged shrimp and the gaping mouths of rainbow trout, a worker dressed in an all white lab coat stained with the faded innocence of animals. Behind them white walls, stainless steel tables, boxes sagging under the weight of its own contents, and small red tiles line the whole expansion of the back room. They work in a morgue.

Lining the side of the wall on the way to the bakery section are rows upon rows of packaged meat products. Each packaged good looks identical to the next—same brand, same color—yet each packaged good is different to the next—different animal, different farm. This endless row of brilliant red meat encased in clear plastic wrap and laying upon black styrofoam boards, goes on and on until the once chilly temperatures ease into a warm and welcoming temperature leading into the pharmaceutical area where rows upon rows are filled with the same complicated cap, with the same promises upon the same white encasing yet each product claiming to alleviate a different ailment.

Just beyond this stretch comes the warm, homey welcoming only brought by baked goods. Breads, cakes, buns—the familiar scent of fresh baked bread wafts through the air, caressing the skin ever so softly, tickling the nose with its sweet, yet savory scent, gently whispering words of enticement to a hungry stomach. The whole area is a plethora of varying shades of brown, with counters packed with cakes and cookies behind. The whole baking area lies filled with stainless steel racks for the cooling of steaming, fresh baked sourdough loafs. The cakes are created in every shade imaginable—periwinkle blue, forest green, citrus yellow—all lined neatly at a child's height for admiration of the hungry kid with the paying mother. Beyond the soothing bakery section appears the vibrantly lit premade goods section containing mashed potatoes, and jalapeño popper peppers and sandwiches all lined strategically within a silver counter.

Finally at last, the last stretch comes; the last stretch comes where it first began; the traditional run around the glorious supermarket has been completed. The conveyor belts hum; we place our items upon them. The cashiers smile; we smile back at them. The cashiers hustle along; customers hustle along with them.

-Tina

Past the baggers wheels squeak against the linoleum floors—perpendicularly in front of the cash registers—lined with shiny, square tiles that squeak as the worn down sneakers of frustrated children scuff against the polished surface, which serves as an exit way for the ant-like humans, hustling and bustling, with their food in tow.

People come. People shop. People leave. This endless cycle, day in and day out, occurs in many small journeys in this separate world dubbed Safeway. This parallel universe is so unique, so entrancing, so different, watching us through a vortex of time. It is our reflection, the wormhole in which the universe parallels itself. Safeway is a universe in itself: its endless amounts of products parallel the countless, small, gleaming stars that make up the universe, and we are the matter that drives its success.