Marla comes out of nowhere.
 
Marla stops you from pumping gas. She is holding a clipboard. She asks you if you are someone else. She asks you if you are Craig Johnson. You tell her you are not Craig Johnson. You tell her who you really are. You tell her you are you.

She says, "Huh. Interesting. You sure look like Craig Johnson."

"Nope, not me," you say, ready to be moving on with your day.

But Marla is very persistent.

Very persistent.

"You look a lot like Craig Johnson," Marla says. "You're a dead ringer for him."
          
Over and over you tell Marla you are you and no one else. You dig inside your purse for identification, but it's too messy to find anything important.

You find yourself defending, barricading Marla. You say, "I don't even know who Craig Johnson is."

Marla smiles and says, "Oh honey. Don't you believe me? Don't you trust me?"

This goes on and on. Eventually you realize there's only so much defending a person can do.

Strangely, you find yourself giving in, sort of believing that Marla just might be right. Why shouldn't I be Craig Johnson? Who says I'm not Craig Johnson? This is a revelation.

You say, puffing out your chest a little, "Yeah, Marla, you're right. I am Craig Johnson. Just as you say I am. I'm Craig Johnson. The one and only."

How foolish you feel for denying her all this time. There's a part of you who wants to apologize.

Marla smiles pleasantly.

"I'm so happy for you, Craig. I get so so happy when someone sees what I've been telling them."

You don't have anything to say. You don't even know why you're here, still holding the gas nozzle. You realize all you want to do is go home and take a nap.

"Why don't you come with me?" asks Marla.

You think she will take you to a couch to lie on. Why would you think this? But you do. This is Marla you're talking to. Marla, your leader, she loves you and wants what's best for you.

So you drop the nozzle and follow Marla, heading away from your only mode of transportation, a '95 Neon.

Marla doesn't lead you to a couch, though. She leads you to the back of a long line. The line stretches around the corner, you don't see where it ends. People start to file in behind you.

A clown comes by. She is a sad clown. Her red lips are turned down into a frown. There are red tears drawn on under her eyes. In one hand she's clutching a bouquet of dead flowers. Out of her dirty tote she pulls out a white T-shirt. Everyone in line gets one.

You thank the clown. And you think things might be looking up. After all you have a new T-shirt. Everyone in the world wouldn't mind getting one of these.

But the T-shirt is too big. Too baggy. The T-shirt makes you look frumpy, and your boobs are lost underneath. Some people don't want their boobs lost under a T-shirt and you are one of those people. Not to mention there's a drawing of a face on the front side. A large face with eyes and nose and mouth. Under the face it says, "Craig Johnson!"

The line inches its way along. Loose McDonald's wrappers scuttle across the sidewalk. The sun beats down on you. The glare from the traffic blinds you. Squinting and sweating is all you do.

Later, the clown comes around with more treats: Fruit Loops, Warheads, and Peeps.

The sugar helps you perk up. And soon you find yourself in the shade.

"Craig Johnson loves shade," you say.

"Tell us about it," says the person behind you.

"Preaching to the choir," says the person in front of you.

Then you all say the same things simultaneously, as if you have the same brain and thoughts.

Everyone in line says, "Peeps are squishy!"

Everyone in line asks, "Where is Craig Johnson going?"


*


When you finally turn the corner you see that the line goes through a door. Above the door there is a sign that says, "CJ's in the house!"

You smile and notice everyone else in line is smiling, too.

And now you're there, through the door. There is air conditioning. Your skin is finally cool to the touch.

You find Marla seated at a table, wearing green reading glasses.

Soon you will be next in line. Soon you will know where you are headed.

When it is finally your turn, Marla says, "Craig Johnson, I presume?"

"That's me!" you say, excited to prove yourself.

"Please fill out this form and take a seat," says Marla, rubbing her tired eyes.

"Righteous!" you shout, but you don't know why. You have never shouted that word before.

You fill out the form making sure all your information is correct: social security number, address, driver's license number, cell phone number, emergency contact, etc.

And you hand back the form to Marla feeling good about your legible handwriting, sort of hoping she will compliment you.

Marla points with her thumb to another line. This line is headed up the stairs. The people in this line are singing a song, a song you have never heard before. The more you listen the more you want to learn the lyrics and sing along.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"You're nearly there, Craig Johnson," says Marla, now covering her mouth with her hand. She's yawning wide, her eyes are bloodshot.  You recognize something in Marla, a certain weight that needs to be lifted. It's clear to you that she's had a long day.



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