Life’s responsibilities can cause us to misplace our priorities. Doing so can have unexpected consequences.

However, when you least expect it, you may be forced to face the reality of the situation. This is what happens in . . .

Mist Opportunity

     “Dammit, nothing’s going right. No matter what I do, it turns out wrong,” I screamed, not paying attention to the people within earshot in LaMont’s Grocery Store.

     “What’s your problem, sir? You’re upsetting the children,” a chunky, redheaded woman spouted.

     Water from the market’s produce mister dripped down my face. I stared at the kids, a redheaded boy and brunette girl. Both appeared to be under five. They tagged alongside her shopping cart and seemed oblivious to me. “Don’t you see what happened?” I asked.

     “Yeah, there are a lot of artichokes on the floor. You knocked them down. So what? Just put them back and stop whining about it. And wipe your face. It’s dripping all over everything.”

     “Put them back? But they’re all dirty and bruised. That’s not right. And furthermore, this is just a symptom of how my whole day has gone.”

     “Sir, it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. So stop complaining.”

     “But you don’t understand.”

     “Yes, I do. But for now, I want you to shut up and stop making my boss’s children uncomfortable. She’ll have my head if you upset them. Just move on and let me finish my shopping.”

     ”Lady, those kids don’t even know I’m here. They’re too busy taking things off the shelves and putting them into your cart.”

     She spun around and screeched, “Jacob, Polly, cut that out, you little . . .”

     At that point, I’d had it with her. I scrambled to pick up the artichokes and tossed them into an empty box sitting on the floor beside the counter. I ran my shirtsleeve across my face soaking up some of the water, grabbed my cart, and disappeared from “Madam Big Mouth’s” sight.

     The one thing she did get right. It was 10:00 a.m. But that didn’t make me feel any better. I now had the whole day ahead of me and my life was in crisis.

     I pulled my crumpled shopping list from my pants pocket and scanned down the ten items. I’ve got all but one, I thought. And I can get that one on the way to the checkout counter.

     “Ah, there it is, Milano Tomato Sauce,” I muttered. I pulled it off the shelf, placed it into the cart, and shuffled ten feet down the aisle to check out.

     The guy at the register stared at me and sputtered, “Your eyes look all foggy and wet.”

     “I’m living my whole life in one big haze,” I groaned.

     “Huh?” he gasped, as he handed me a rag.

     I ran it over my face and eyes. Life was still a bit fuzzy, but I could see better. I unloaded my ten items from my cart onto the conveyor belt. My mind wandered, and then . . .

     “Cash, check, or card, sir?”

     “What?”

     “How are you going to pay for your groceries?”

     “Credit card.”

     “Please insert it into the machine.”

     “Okay.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Jeffries.”

     He loaded my cart and I pushed it toward the door and out into the parking lot to my 2010 Dodge Charger. I shoved the three small, but expensive, bags of groceries into the trunk. I’d spent $83.00 for almost nothing. It was Saturday morning and the bread, meat, and veggies might not get me through the weekend. I shook my head in dismay.

     “Life isn’t fair. Things cost too much. I’m living alone and shouldn’t be. I don’t deserve this,” I mumbled.

     “Maybe it’s your fault?” a voice chanted.

     “What?” I looked around, but saw nobody.

     “Aren’t you going to respond to my question?” the same voice asked again.

     I scanned my surroundings, but couldn’t make out where the voice had come from. I yelled, “Hey, if you’re there, show yourself.”

     Nothing. No one appeared. So I opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. I buckled my seat belt, stuck the key into the ignition, and started the car.

     It must be my imagination. I’ve been living in the clouds lately, I mused.

     I rolled out of the parking lot, hung a right onto Collins Avenue, turned left onto Flowers Way, and drove three miles to Lambeau Drive. On the corner of Lambeau and Flowers sat my 1800 square foot ranch style home. I pushed the garage door opener, watched the door jiggle back and forth as it opened, and drove in.

     Once inside, I sat and stared at the walls of the garage. I had trouble getting up the courage to leave the car and go into an empty house. For the past week, I’ve lived alone. July 8, that was the day Marsha left me.

     I slept late that morning and when I awoke, I was alone in bed. I pushed the covers back and made my way to the kitchen. On the round, glass kitchen table, I saw an envelope. Scrawled on the front were the words, “It’s your fault I’m leaving.”

     “God, everything is my fault,” I moaned.

     “Only if you want it to be,” a voice resonated, causing me to jerk my head around to catch the intruder in my garage.

     But I didn’t see anybody. My God, I am going crazy . . . losing my mind, I thought.

     Nothing has changed. I’ve been in a fog since that morning, adrift in a sea of emptiness. Why did she leave me? When I removed the note from the envelope, I thought I would have the answer, but I didn’t understand what it said. Just three words, “You did it.”

     “Did what?” I groaned. I tried to be a good husband. I have a good job as a senior partner in Jordan, Rockwell, and Smith, a prestigious advertising firm. We live in a nice house. Not huge, but comfortable. And the kids are doing great. Kyle is a successful attorney at a large law firm, Grant and Associates, in town. And Mona, a banker at Grace National Bank, acts as the financial advisor to the mayor. But I haven’t heard from them since Marsha left. And I haven’t figured out why.

     I’ve got to go into the house. I can’t stay in the car. I’ve got to get my life back. The tears fell from my eyes. My body quivered. “Am I having a convulsion?” I screamed.

     “No, you’re not. Restrain yourself,” the voice echoed.

     “Okay,” I responded, as I tried to control my trembling body.

     “That’s better, much better,” the voice uttered.

     Confused, I shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

     The response didn’t make sense. “Remember the words.”

     “What words?” I implored.

     “The other words on the note in the envelope.”

     “What other words?”

     “Clear your head. Concentrate. Don’t let this opportunity get away like you did the other.”

     “All right. Yes, I do remember. At the bottom of Marsha’s note, there were words printed. I read them, but they didn’t sink in, since I was so upset she’d left me. I’m having trouble making them out now. Everything’s hazy.”

     “Focus.”

     “But who are you and why are you helping me?”

     “I am the guardian angel of mist opportunities. You know, the fuzzy, blurry ones. It is my role to clear your cloudy mind and open your foggy eyes.”

     “Are you kidding me? Guardian angel? You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

     All of a sudden, the car’s headlights went on. Then the lights on the ceiling of the garage created an aura over the front end of the car. And there stood the chunky, redheaded woman from the grocery store.

     “What the . . .? You followed me home?”

     “Well, yes and no. I am at your home, but I didn’t follow you. I just appear when needed.”

     “But why would I need you? And if I wanted a guardian angel, she’d be beautiful and sexy.”

     “Your vision is more blurry than I’d imagined, for I am beautiful. And your concept of spiritual beings is quite distorted.”

     “Where are your halo and wings?”

     I only wear the halo at night to provide light, so I don’t scare people when I appear. And my wings, they’re here. However, they can’t be seen by the naked eye, unless I want them to be. Look closer and squint.”

     “Oh my, there they are. So what do you want from me?”

     “Think hard about the words you read in the letter, but can’t remember.”

     So I did. At first I saw one word and then more started to appear. The words floated above my angel. I focused and read, “Michael, your work world has overwhelmed you and you pushed me aside. I need some time to think. The kids and I are going to a bed and breakfast in the mountains. Call me when you are ready to talk.”

     “Oh, my God! I did do that—pushed her aside,” I whimpered. “I guess it is my fault. And I haven’t called.” Tears welled up in my eyes.

     I looked around to thank my savior, but she was gone. The garage was dark and I sat alone in the car. Through my tears, I reached for my phone and dialed Marsha’s cell number.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.