Black Friday is a fever dream in a fluorescent-lit store. The air’s too hot, a thick pressure of bodies pressing against one another like a mass of swollen insects. Everyone’s crammed in, huffing and puffing, reaching for the same useless junk, pretending this is a race worth winning. The buzz of cellphones fills the air, not the quiet hum of a private conversation, but the loud, tinny chatter that spills out of speakers so everyone within a five-foot radius is forced to listen. No one knows how to use their damn phones anymore, and why should they, when there’s a sale on?

People are mad. They’re fuming, shoulders stiff, eyes narrowed, their patience as thin as the plastic bags that tear open too easily. Everyone is annoyed, pissed off, a little too hot under the harsh lighting. A shopping cart slams into your ankle, the wheels squeaking like a slow scream, and you must fight for every inch of space in the aisles, navigating through a traffic jam of carts, kids pulling at their parents’ sleeves, shouting over the noise like it’s all part of the day’s business. “I want that! No, that’s mine!” The air smells like stale perfume and cheap plastic, and the scent of something…desperation? …..lingers in the aisles, heavy like a storm.

There are no manners left here. No one says, “excuse me,” no one holds the door open, no one apologizes when they knock into you. People elbow past you like they’re entitled to whatever they can grab. A frazzled woman hurls a sweater into her cart as if the fabric might bite her, like the only thing left worth fighting for is the last shred of peace before it all goes to hell.

And for what? Discounts that aren’t discounts, time wasted on things you’ll never use, trinkets and toys that won’t last until New Year’s. The lines snake around the store, endless, a cruel joke. You stand there, feet sore, staring at the racks of stuff you didn’t need and still don’t need, wondering why you came, why this is the way we live now, chasing after “savings” that cost so much more than they’re worth.

-M. S Chandler