Chapter 20.5

T H E   S U P E R M A R K E T   I S   V O I D of sunlight and darkness. It escapes natural time. The fluorescent beams above buzzing, working around the clock to provide queasy inanimate glow. This is my insomnia personified.
   I take out the dirty blood stained paper with Tyler’s scrawled words like hieroglyphics:
   2 gallons of Sunny Fresh orange juice concentrate
   white vinegar
   cat litter
   fifteen rolls of industrial grade duct tape
   bleach

A blonde with her silicon tits and American Eagle outfit pushes the trolley. Its contents pro-biotic yoghurt, organically grown kale and tofu. Diet fit for a health conscious L.A. type. Somehow the exterior doesn’t match the interior. 
   Before today’s advancements in technology and science, patients were injected with breast implant fillers such as ivory, glass ball, ground rubber, ox-cartilage, formaldehyde polymer sponge, paraffin and tissue harvested from benign tumour.


   "Without their death, their pain, their sacrifice, we would have nothing," says Tyler. Somehow I don’t think it applies here. Now it’s said that explosives can be sealed within implants to avoid detection from airport scanners. Could this blonde be a potential Al-Qaeda terrorist? News paper article show concern and genuine fear over these deadly weapons. 
    "We have been told to pay particular attention to females who may have concealed hidden explosives in their breasts.” 
    "This is particularly difficult for us to pick up but we are on a very high state of alert," leading to longer waiting quos at Heathrow airport, and such. 

I wonder how much good her diet of kale and tofu would do if her breasts exploded. She brushes past me, leaving scent of floral air freshener in her trail. Tyler would wonder what kind of a wax job she has.
   I am Joe’s shameful erection.

Rows of hair dye products in various colours. How many different shades of blonde can there be? With the low price of $8.90 you can dye-job yourself into a bubbly blonde this week, to a sultry redhead the next. The hair models gleaming beauty pageant faces look like decapitated heads floating in space. 
   Because you’re worth it! 5 Diamine, Ethanolamine, Hexylene Glycol, Resorcinol, p-Aminophenol, Toluene 2, Sodium Metabisulfate. Where’s the FDA when you need them?

The first rule about Project Mayhem is you don’t ask questions about Project Mayhem. Why all this orange juice concentrate? Tyler could have sent a space monkey for this brainless honour, instead he sends me. 
"Mix gasoline with equal part of orange juice concentrate you make napalm," Tyler says. 
   I am Joe’s hurtful rejection. 
Tyler and I were the beginning of Fight Club, and now I've been reduced down to an errand boy. How does the content of my trolley define me as a person?

"Clean up on aisle six." The omnipresent voice commands through the overhead speaker. An employee mops up the burst can of pea soup on aisle six. If only life was that simple. At this time of the night the ratio of Super’save employees outweigh the customers. On every aisle is a worker bee maintaining the orderliness of its hive, making sure that items are displayed correctly and that they don’t run out of stock. A worker bee tagging discounted price on all the singular packaged bars of soap with a price gun. Click, Click, Click, Click.

  Here's an entire generation slaving away for minimum wage. Your employer would like to pay you less, only it’s not legally possible. We’re living a day by day on the generosity of Mr. Visa, Mastercard, American Express. You and your entire life can be summed up numerically. Your bank account balance, hourly wage, purchase transactions, student loan, credit rating, mortgage, insurance payments, the $19.99 charge on your credit card for pay per view porn on your last business trip.
   This is your life, ending one minute at a time. Another employee is restocking fabric softener. The worker bees with the same zombie expression on their faces like Raymond K. Hessel’s before I had a gun down his throat. 
   Or was that Tyler?
We work jobs that we hate to buy things we don’t need with our minimum wage. Out of the million items available for purchase at Super’save, what do you need for your basic life-survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? What are you actually saving here?
   Are these thoughts mine or Tyler’s?

I fondle my pockets searching for a wallet. 
   Shit. 
   I apologize, defeated.
   Ready to abandon my trolley of stuff. "Don’t worry sir, it’s on the house." I see the raised flesh of a kiss mark on the checkout boy’s hand. Soft and pink like a new born baby. He can’t be a day over eighteen.     
   All hail the first church of Tyler Durden.

The checkout boy doesn’t bother to scan the items. He takes care to stack them inside a heavy cardboard box and carries it to the bus stop. "Good bye sir." The boy’s mouth shapes these words as the bus drives away.
   
Where is Tyler now?