Out of Line

The checkout line two aisles away looks much shorter. So I push my grocery cart to that one.

Soon, the shopper at the front of my new line is having trouble with her credit card. And the other lines are shrinking.

So I move again.

But dizziness overwhelms me. The feeling runs out of my feet and head. My shopping cart disappears. I reach to hold onto a magazine rack and close my eyes tightly. I feel that I am sitting somehow. A classical piano piece is playing, but where?

I slowly open my eyes and look down at my hands. They are moving effortlessly and masterfully over the keyboard of a grand piano. And with great flourishes. I am mesmerized--and bewildered, because the only instrument I can play is a guitar, and I am just a beginner.

An arpeggio ensues followed by a low chord--and loud applause. I look up and people are clapping wildly. The audience fills a massive auditorium. I feel myself stand, take a bow, and run off stage.

I am met by at least a dozen people. A young man is telling me to get changed because we have to fly to Boston for a concert. An older woman tells me no, the schedule has changed. I have to go to Milwaukee to sit for a deposition in my divorce case, before I fly to Boston. Another aide says I am now the target of class-action lawsuits in Austin, Texas, and Reno, Nevada, because I skipped concerts there due to my illness that...that nobody wants to say the "c" word in front of me. Somehow I know this.

"You're next."

Who said that? I'm next to what? To die? To lose my spouse? My money? To...

"Sir, you're next!"

I blink. And I am back in the supermarket line. I look down and see my hands placing groceries on the conveyor belt.

The sense of dread is gone. And I silently thank my Lord that I am just a middle-aged bus driver with a loving wife and two children and a penchant for finding sales when I shop.