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| So delicious, so deadly. The Twinkie that changed everything. |
I
His body somehow knew it before his brain did. His extremities went numb. His jaw went slack. His stomach felt like an elevator whose cables had snapped.
The blue and white box. The cheerful red logo. The cowboy-hatted mascot. It couldn't be true. But it was true! The Twinkie had returned!
Ray had just turned a corner with his cart at the Shopway when a display in the middle of the aisle stopped him cold. Twinkies. Boxes and boxes of Twinkies arranged into a pyramid. Panicked, Ray grabbed the fluorescent vest of the first employee he could locate, a wispy lad of about 15 with a vague expression on his face.
"Is this... I mean... are these permanent?"
A pregnant pause, then finally a response from the kid:
"...What?"
"The Twinkies, man! The Twinkies!" Ray gesticulated wildly in the direction of the pyramid. "Golden sponge cake! Creme filling! TWINKIE THE KID!"
Total incomprehension on the kid's face.
"Useless! Absolutely useless!"
Ray staggered out of the store, a man possessed. He practically had to remind himself how to walk. One leg in front of the other. Repeat. He felt weirdly disconnected from his surroundings. The volume had been turned down on the outside world, but there was an audible throbbing inside his head. Oblivious to the world around him, he stepped in front of the path of a shiny black RAV4 in the parking lot. The driver, a suburban mother, was able to slam on the brakes in time to avoid hitting the seemingly-intoxicated man, who walked as if he were in a trance.
Once he'd reached a vacant section of the parking lot, Ray stopped and breathed deeply. He held his arms out at his sides. His rational mind was beginning to reassert control over his body. Unselfconsciously, he started to verbalize his thoughts:
"This is happening. This is happening. This is happening. Your name is Ray Dauber. You are 40 years old. You work as a computer programmer. You live at 2307 Creighton Avenue, Apartment B. You have a sister named Dale who lives in Utica. You're in the parking lot of the Shopway on Frontage Road, near the highway."
He slapped himself across the face.
"C'mon, man! Get your head in the game!"
He slapped himself again. Harder.
"Okay... okay... okay...." The word became a mantra.
More deep breaths, then a pronouncement: "Home. That's where you need to be right now. Go home. Go home, Ray. Go home."
A beat.
"Where did I park?"
