Tissue Mission

by Alexandra Helfrich

The dreaded reality must be faced. I’ve scoured the garage, every cabinet and box. Each bathroom cupboard has been opened and searched. Tragedy has struck. The bounty of toilet paper hoarded through the worst of covid shortages has dissipated to zero and I have no choice. I buck up my courage, strap my crossbody purse across my chest, pick up the car keys, and head out the door. It’s time to go to Costco. In preparation for this eventuality, when in person shopping will resume and toilet paper will once again be needed in the household, my lovely Lexus Hybrid SUV+ has been specially modified to take on today’s quest. Before starting the car, I check the tires, make sure all gears are operational, double check the skylight and ejection seat, and slide behind the wheel. I power up the engine and make my way down the hill. The line up to enter the parking lot is long. At least forty cars inching forward at a snail’s pace will all vie for the scarce remaining parking spaces. Few of the drivers will have passed high school geometry and will demonstrate their lack of spatial awareness while doing their best to make it impossible to get from one end of the massive parking lot to the next, tempers will rise, and fury will ensue. 

As I make the final turn into the ramp to the parking lot, I push a button on the fine walnut dashboard and razor-sharp edges punch out from each hubcap, letting all drivers know that they dare not come near lest their own tires be punctured. I pull a lever forward on the steering wheel and high black rubber bumpers pop out of the front and rear fenders, allowing me to push any other vehicles out of the way. I contemplate the red knob on my armrest. Dare I? Will it really be needed today? Fuck it, it’s fun. I toggle the knob to the left and three long, steel spears with fierce two-foot-long arrows at the top lurch upwards from the exterior of the driver’s side door, ready for my hand to reach through the window and thrust them toward any driver foolish enough to try and steal the coveted spot closest to the entrance. It’s mine. I see a Toyota Prius with open windows zip around the corner and try to maneuver its way to the spot, the driver pretending she doesn’t see me. Without hesitation I turn the radio knob to the right and a cloud of smog laced with sleeping gas shoots toward the overly botoxed frozen faced person behind the wheel. She gasps, takes a deep breath and slumps, crushing her face into the steering wheel. Using my rubber bumpers, I gently shove the Prius into the shopping cart carousel and back into my rightful parking space, powering down all custom features. I take the Costco card out of my wallet, and heroically go get the toilet paper. Next stop, Trader Joes.