COLUMN: A step into the forbidden
Have you ever seen the movie “Labyrinth?” Don’t act like you haven’t. Twenty bucks and my newly acquired “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” poster says you can’t get David Bowie’s “Dance Magic Dance” out of your head, now that I’ve brought it up.
If you have, you’ll remember that moment in the film when Sarah — played by looks-hotter-when-portraying-Red-Cross-personnel-in-Africa leading lady Jennifer Connelly — first walks into the ever-majestic vine-laden brick maze. For those keeping score, this is post- “just saw the castle at the top of the hill and thinks the journey will be a cinch” and pre- “just met that overly-British worm thingy that can be found on several T-shirts available at Hastings.”
It’s at this far too dramatic moment that Sarah realizes this little quest to find her baby brother won’t be as simple as she planned. This memorable snapshot in time allows us to follow Sarah on a journey that lifts the cult-classic from “an overly priced Jim Henson flick” into “an overly priced Jim Henson flick with lots of people jogging around corners.” Undoubtedly, that makes all the difference.
Well, believe it or not, readers, I think I found that place. It may not have been majestically laden with brick and vine; there may not have been many castles; and it sadly didn’t have David Bowie, but believe you, me: it certainly became one heck of a journey.
It was Saturday afternoon, generally a comfortable mainstay from the usual week of collegiate education — along with roaring pingpong matches and “Family Matters” reruns — and I was making what seemed like a harmless trip to Hobby Lobby, a run-of-the-mill big-box store that led me to believe I could simply zip in and zip out.
Big mistake.
It was supposed to be a crack job. Walk in, grab a few sharpies, swipe the debit card and make it back to the getaway vehicle safe and sound. It didn’t take long before I realized I was facing a creature far beyond my own male skill set. We dude types are used to stores that flash the likes of athletic shoes and just about anything else that can be marinated and grilled, but as I stood facing an endless wall of potpourri, oddly-shaped scissors and makeshift handmade calendars — the world over — I knew instantly I was in uncharted territory.
I tried to make sense of the battlefield in front of me. From my perspective, it seemed it was fabrics on the left, scrapbooking equipment to the right — with holiday paraphernalia at six and nine o’clock. I made an educated guess and turned right, or, in my incident-commanding brain, “north-by-northwest,” in hopes to find the permanent felt-tipped markers I so desired. What I found was paper clips. It was from here that I regrettably let my instincts kick in. A look inside my thought process explains it best:
“Paper clips? Weird. OK, lets go left then? No, no, that’s safety pins. OK, back to square one. Wait, I’m in the yarn section, how did that happen? Must’ve taken a wrong turn. No harm done, just take one step backward and we’re good as new — what? Stuffed rabbits? Where am I? And why is there a Christmas aisle? It’s September. Maybe, if I go straight, I’ll find it. OK, look at the signs, let’s see what we have: ribbons, sheets, card stock, paper, cutting boards, picture frames and pens! Sweet, so a quick look in here and we should have — MORE PAPER CLIPS! What kind of Ayn Rand school for quilt makers is this?!”
A half-hour later, and there I sat in aisle 43 — hungry, disoriented, near frantic and miles away from the nearest store workers — or as I call them, “stay-in-store moms” — to give any direction.
That’s it. Enough is enough. I stood up, hiked up my shorts, strapped myself with a vest full of Fiskar scissors, began humming Buffalo Springfield songs, and made my final stand. Dead or alive, I was leaving this spiced pumpkin-smelling death-lair with a Sharpie, and possibly some Butterfinger BB’s, just to make my point.
I snatched a two-in-one rivethole punch gun and held it to the forehead of one of those mini wood-based mannequins as a sign that I wasn’t fooling around and slowly crept around the back walls — glitter headband in tow. Time to become a hero.
Four-and-a-half hours later, I pulled my grizzled and thinned-out body across the linoleum floor, and there it sat right in front of me, my own glorious wall of permanent markers, and a small sign that spoke full volumes of my struggles that day:
“Sharpies for sale at front desk.”
I stood in pure shock. I did everything, short of actually saving Private Ryan, when it was at my fingertips the entire time. I took a handful of my black- and silver-inked victims, made my transaction, and limped my way to my vehicle. Mission: accomplished.
Lesson learned. When shopping for anything not meat or Fathead posters, it doesn’t hurt to bring a girlfriend, or a GPS. After all, a soldier always comes prepared.
— Steve Schwartzman us a junior majoring in marketing and minoring in speech communication. His column runs every Wednesday. He loves sports, comedy and creative writing. He encourages any comments at his email steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu or find him on Facebook.