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You see, here’s the thing. The blue MOROTSMOTT would fit the pillow better, but it’s not 100% percent cotton. But it’s cheaper. Then there’s the SKÅNEFIBBLA, which is a bit more expensive, but at least it is not polyester. But it doesn’t match the living room curtains. So he could pick the SANDMOTT, but that one isn’t quite as nice to the touch. Plus it won’t go with the bedsheets. Unless he picked different bedsheets? But even then, what would he wash it with? What if the black patterns bled into the other laundry? Maybe he could get the VILDPERSILJA, that one is pure cotton and it’s a nice, calming vanilla colour. But what if he gets a nosebleed and the whole pillowcase is ruined? Oh, what is that? These pillows over there are rectangular, instead of square? What if he got those instead? But then he would have to find a rectangular pillowcase, too. Oh, they have a purple VILDPERSILJA in that shape? That would be lovely. It would match the curtains. But there’s only two left, and he needs at least three! Could he order them online? But then he would have to pay the shipping, and while he does have the money, he needs the pillowcase now. When did the lights get this bright, anyway? Oh, sorry, I’ll move. Right. So, square or rectangular? Which one??
Warren whimpers quietly like a pet snake whose tail got stepped on.
VILDPERSILJA. VIL-DPE-RSI-LJA. That’s a good one. VILD-PERS-ILJA. Yeah, he got the memo. Now shut up. SAND-MOTT. SAN-DM-OTT. SA-NDMO-TT. Oh, come on. ROT-VEC-KLA-RE. No, not an eleven one, not in the bedsheets isle. ROTVE-C-KLARE. ROTV-ECK-LARE. ROT-VECKL-ARE.
Warren has thought many times about what would happen if he went properly crazy. Like, covered his ears, started banging his head against the wall and screaming SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!-kind of crazy. But he’s a civil man and he can control himself and he is fairly healthy and he doesn’t even take medication and he’s probably faking it anyway, so instead, he calmly sets his IKEA shopping bag (Like the yellow bag? Buy a blue one) down behind a showroom sofa and follows the arrows to the nearest bathroom. Not the showroom one, although it could be really funny to take a piss in those fake toilets there. Or go fully crazy. Like that one scene in 500 Days of Summer, except instead of a couple in love he would pretend to be an old crazy man who forgot to take his pills. The aliens are speaking to me through the sink, my dear wife. But they are ALI-ENS and you can divide six by three, so I know they are friendly and won’t hurt us.
As he calmly walks down the stairs (STA-IRS, ST-AI-RS, STA-IRC-ASE) he fully takes in all the people walking past him. Famillies (FAM-ILL-IES, in case you care) (and you care) scurrying around with their shopping bags and little kids clutching their BLAHAJ. He wonders how many of them spent fifteen minutes picking out a pillowcase. (PIL-LOW-CASE no PILLO-WCASE.) How many of them ever cried while packing pants for a two-day trip. He wonders which of them will joke about having OCD because they like arranging books by colour and which ones will burn he skin on their palms off with bleach just because they touched the lightswitch.
But he’s perfectly fine, not crazy at all, so he just walks to the first floor and then to the men‘s bathroom (you see, BATH-ROOM is eight letters, like 4x2, but if you add MEN’S and ignore the apostrophe, you get MENS-BETH-ROOM or MEN-SBA-THR-OOM, which could be seen both as 4x3 and 3x4 and also 2x6) and pushes the door open.
It’s nicely quiet in there, a stark contrast to what is going on in his brain. (IN-HI-SB-RA-IN. INHIS-BRAIN. BATH-ROOM. BA-THRO-OM. BAT-HR-OOM. But he already did ‘bathroom’, didn’t he? Oh, silly Warren, that’s not at all what this is about.)
It used to be just numbers. Is this registration plate divisile by nine? Is the date? Make sure to notice the number on the page you’re reading, just one more page and it will be divisible by both three and nine. Sorry, I wasn’t listening, but did you know the phone number on that billboard is also divisible by nine? It was a cool party trick for a comp-sci freshman. Tell me a long string of numbers and I can tell you if they are divisible by three or not. But then it shifted to this weird lettery thing and the chicks aren’t impressed anymore. Actually, noe one is impressed anymore, Warren. You’re not a supercomputer, you are just serotonin defficient. Now choose what to wear already. What are you, five? A girl? Come on, just throw something on and let’s go. God, why does it have to always be so complicated with you, Warren. Always something with you, Warren. What do you mean you can’t decide? You’re staying home instead? Why?
He shuffles near the closest free bathroom stall (all of them seem to be free, actually) and locks the door. (LOCKS-THE-DOOR so like LOCK-STHE-DOOR or LOC-KST-HED-OOR) (SHUT UP SHUT UUUP).(SH-UT-TP.) But that’s not how it works. He knows he needs to calm down. He knows it’s just because he’s tired and nervous and there are too many people and he hasn’t slept all too well. (ALLTO-OWELL) (HASNT-SLEPT) (SUPER-COM-PUTER)(SUPE-RCOMP-UTER)(WAR-REN)(WA-RR-EN) (WAR-REN FRI-ED-MAN) (WARR-ENF-RIE-DMAN)
What did he even do to deserve this? Not in a philosophical sense, but purely pragmatically – he has not had caffeine in weeks, he tried to get nine hours of sleep, he went on a walk… Was it the sugar in the apple pie he had earlier? Was it the slightly negative tweet he saw in the morning? (SLIG-HTLY-NEGA-TIVE) Is it something else that is slowly poisoning him? Should he stop burning candles? (BUR-N-ING. BU-RNI-NG. B-URNIN-G.)
He pulls out his phone. But who to call? It’s not like anyone could help. He just needs to… God, what does he do? And then it hits him. There is nothing he can do. No meditation (MED-IT-AT-ION) or mindfulness (MIND-FUL-NESS. MIN-DFULN-ESS) has ever done much. He could try retail therapy, maybe? Buy another candle? Another polyester comforter whose particles he could slowly inhale at night until he is infertile? Or maybe a pillow? Why can’t they just sell it in one shape? Capitalism breeds innovation, but right now it also breeds decision paralysis, so maybe no pillow for him today.
Warren sighs and zips up his pants. Just as he is unlocking the stall, he hears someone come in. (COM-EIN. SOM-E-ONE. SO-MEO-NE. At first, it was the words he saw written down. Then also the words he could hear. And lately it started happening even with the words he thought.) (Are lobotomies still legal?)
He walks up to the wash-basins. As he runs his hands under warm water (he was never concerned with contamination, the one good thing he still had going for him) (not that he would ever admit it. Because when you admit good things, they disappear) (If he says he doesn’t have contamination OCD, he will get it tomorrow), he can faintly hear the newcomer breathing loudly in the last stall. Try eating more fiber, buddy.
His reflection looks at him from the NYSJÖN mirror. It is the image of a normal, healthy young man. Nothing wrong with him. His suit is pristine and spotless. He wears the same one every day – the same model, not the same piece of fabric, of course. He has multiple of them. His comp-sci friends recognise the productive, hyper-utilitarian nature of an IT innovator who only wears one type of clothing because he could not be bothered to worry about his appearance or waste his energy on such trivial decisions every day. He, on the other hand, recognizes a fashion lover who had to subdue his passion for various extravagant outfits due to an illness. He never wants to cry in front of his closet again because he had to decide between black and gray jeans, so he will simply never have to decide again. How efficient. True grindset.
But his nails are sharp from his constant biting. He is starting to get wrinkles (at twenty-three!) and his acne is coming back (at twenty-three!) - but someone said vitamin B helps, so he will continue overdosing on it until his face rots off and his kidneys fail.
The breathing in the last stall gets louder. Jeez, what are they doing there? Jerking off to the IKEA catalogue? Warren takes a tentative step towards the exit door when he hears something else. A sniff.
Oh. The other guy is not having fun me-time, he is crying.
Warren stops in his tracks and turns around. He’s definitel not doing emotional labour for free for some dude who just lost his phone or dropped a KALLAX on his foot. He’s not paid for that! He’s not paid for anything! It is a cruel world out there and so ‘every man for himself’ is what he lives by. He’s not doing too hot himself, he shouldn’t have to comfort anyone else! This is IKEA, aren’t they like, really progressive and stuff? There’s probably a call button for crisis intervention here somewhere. Or a therapeutic pony in one of the showrooms.
Plus, he has a job to do here. He came by to buy a pillowcase, goddamnit. So now, he will go back upstairs and pick out the ugliest, tackiest and fluffiest MOROTSMOTT and go on about his day.
Right, the pillowcase. Which size, though? Square or rectangular? Cotton or linen? Blue or green or pink or purple or grey or white or-
The guy in the last stall now almost sounds like he is choking. Those are not Sad Man Gasps, those are either Big Asthma Gasps or Adrenaline-Fueled Panicking Gasps.
Fuck it. Sick lobotomy-waiting-list freaks have to stick together.
Warren shakes his head and walks to the stall door.
“Uh, everything good? Should I call someone?”
For a few seconds, there is nothing but more sobs. But then a shaky voice chokes out:
“I don’t know.”
Well that makes the two of us, buddy.
It was the fucking coffee, wasn’t it. The fucking Lidl iced coffee with 0.7% coffee extract in it. That Jay had five hours ago. Queir mom drinks at least three cups everyday and she is fine but as soon as her child gets a millidrop, the quick-time action countdown appears and the adrenal glands get to work.
There really is no better way to describe it than a videogame quick-time event where you can clearly see the time running out but you have no idea what you are supposed to do. What is the threat? What are we running from? Which button do I press? Why is my sweater suddenly woven from barbed wire and my face too greasy and my hair touching it feels like bristles and everything is itchy and there is no oxygen and the lights are too loud and the sounds are too loud and everyone is looking at you like you are the freak hyperventilating in the IKEA showroom but in reality you are a primordial hunter running away from an enraged tiger with sharp teeth and pointy claws except the tiger is a LUDDHAGTORN shower curtain. You guys won’t get it, you are all just gatherers. There is no time to think and absolutely no time to breathe so you switch from fight to flight and you book it to the bathroom and hear the boomer across the isle complaing that some young man left his shopping bag on the ground but you are no man so it does not concern you and the staircase is too crowded move can’t you see the tiger come on man where is the bathroom???
So now you are hyperventilating in the last stall and some dude is also there and he is pissing and you can not quite catch your breath. What do you want me to do, name five things I see? Why would I worry about that, there is a tiger chasing me and he is almost about to get me. Plus I can’t see shit because the automatic light just turned off, great. But Prince Charming is done pissing and in his fervour to get out of here he turned them back on. Everybody say thank you, Piss Prince.
Qui is starting to get really light-headed from the deep breathing. Could qui actually pass out from that? Like in elementary school when they made art by blowing through a straw onto water colour, except this time it won’t be acceptable if you run out of the classroom choking because you got a little too hot and there were too many people around.
In queir past life, Jay was the best hunter in the village. Qui came back home every night with a mammoth slung over one shoulder and a tiger over the other. Qui could detect danger faster than anyone else, could outrun the bear every time. But now qui is a pathetic college student crying in a shopping mall because no one else sees the tiger.
Suddenly there are footsteps coming closer to quem.
“Uh, everything good? Should I call someone?”
Is that Piss Prince?
“I don’t know.” God, getting those three words out while actively gasping for air made quem feel like throwing up.
“Do you, uh… Water? Want some cold water?”
I DON’T FUCKING KNOW. I DON’T HAVE THE TIME TO THINK ABOUT THIS. I CAN’T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING. LEAVE ME ALONE.
Leave me alone, please. Make it stop. Don’t go away.
“I don’t know.”
Piss Prince, much to Jay’s surprise, sounds quite chilled out.
“Alright, well, I’ll be somewhere nearby. If you need something, just shout, okay?”
As if Jay could even talk properly right now.
“Okay.”
“I honestly have no idea how to help but if there’s anything, let me know.”
And with that he walks away. But Jay doesn’t hear the door shut. Piss Prince hasn’t left the men’s bathroom.
Ten minutes later Jay walks out of the stall. Queir armpits are sweaty and qui feels as if qui had just run a marathon. Or had a great orgasm. Not relaxed or happy, mind you, but so, so tired. Qui just got chased by a tiger, after all. There was no solution, no secret mindfulness technique or mantra qui used to calm down. The wave simply washed over quem, the adrenaline rush passed on its own. It usually does.
Much to queir surprise, Piss Prince is still there, leaning on one of the sinks. And wow, the nickname Piss Prince was just a joke – Jay secretly expected him to be a nice middle-aged dad or something – but he really is quite handsome. Although wearing a suit to Ikea is a bit of a red flag.
“Feeling better?” he asks in one of those British, old-money-coal-baron-Great-Gatsby-ass accents.
“A bit. Thank you.”
“That’s good.”
As Jay washes queir hands (chipped nail polish, bitten nails and skin, marks and tiny scars from digging queir nails into queir palms), qui notices the stranger’s don’t look all that different, despite his well-kept appearance.
“You, uh, your mascara is smudged. Unless that was the look you were going for.”
Jay can’t help but chuckle a little. It feels so fresh, always does, that first smile after crying for a long time.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly going for Avril Lavigne when I put it on, but I think that is the least of my problems right now.”
“What happened?” Piss Prince asks quite bluntly. Rude much? What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? But it makes Jay feel a little warm inside, to see that someone cares. So qui decides to be honest for once in queir life.
“Honestly? I wish I knew. I was picking out a shower curtain and suddenly my brain said I am dying.”
“Oh, I see.”
Does he think qui is a freak now? A crybaby? Snowflake generation, weak generation, back when men were men, just toughen up, you just want attention-
“My brain said I should get the VILDPERSILJA pillowcase because the number of letters in its name is divisible both by three and four.” Piss Prince suddenly speaks up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You know, this morning,” he fixes his hair and tie, “I had to decide which stocks to invest in. I either loose all my money or I am set for life. Pretty high stakes, huh? I was done in two minutes. Both seem equally promising, so let’s just pick one and see what happens.”
Trust fund kid, huh. Bitcoin Bro. Plutocracy Prince.
“But just now, I needed to buy a new pillow. I got here and found out they have two types. “
He turns to Jay, who once again notices that he is not bad looking by any means.
“Got stuck there. Fifteen minutes in the pillow isle. And I just couldn’t decide. Not that neither of the options were good – my brain just… couldn’t. Computer shutdown. Tu-du-du-duh.” He mimicks the Windows XP shutdown sound.
“Haha, I think I get what you mean. I get that too, sometimes. Then I end up like this. Sorry for holding you up, you probably have your, uh… Stakeholders waiting for you?”
“Shareholders, if anything. And I don’t, thank god. What about you? Are you sure I shouldn’t call someone?”
“Like an Unsupervised Child Announcement? Dear customers, one of you left your crybaby kid in the men’s bathroom. Please pick quem up.”
“I guess?”
“I’m here on my own.” But I shouldn’t be saying that to strangers in the rest rooms. Even if they are handsome. And seem to care.
“I see.”
It is quiet for a bit. Jay awkwardly shuffles to get a paper towel, careful not to set off the air dryer. If that loud-ass thing turned on right now, qui would just book it back to the stall for another anxiety attack, thank you very much.
“This happens to you often?”
Jay could never quite get quemself to talk about queir anxiety to others. Make crass jokes about it? Sure. But an actual, honest explanation of how qui feels? That has always felt like an obstacle qui could not even imagine jumping over. Yet with this random stranger in the bathroom, it feels different. They don’t know each other at all. They might never see each other again. So qui tries.
“Oh, if only you knew. Yeah. Sometimes I get why, sometimes it’s random. I know there’s stuff that makes it worse, like crowds or loud noises, but that’s not always the case. It makes it hard to breathe. Feels like something is wrong and I have to fix it immediately, but I never know what the problem is, so I just sit there and want to tear my hair out. Um. You? You get this… undecisiveness a lot?”
“Only sometimes. It’s usually the counting. Counting letters I see, letters I hear. Letters I think, even.”
“That sounds quite intense.”
“It doesn’t always get this bad. Sometimes it’s just at the back of my mind, like the voice of an annoying Um-Akchually classmate who won’t ever shut up. Other times, it’s worse. Like when I go shopping to the Kingdom of Long Foreign Words Plastered Everywhere. Don’t know what I was thinking, honestly.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, how are you now? You still look a bit shaky.”
“I think my blood sugar is low.” Wait, is that it? That’s it, isn’t it! Jay just had a full-blown anxiety attack because queir last meal was hours ago! It wouldn’t be the first time and it would make a lot of sense. But come on, couldn’t qui just get hungry like everyone else?!
“You should eat something.”
Actually, qui still feels nauseous. Plus, qui knows what is best for quem, thank you very much. Stop commanding me, Handsome Stranger. How would you even know?
“We could get food if you wanted,” he offers suddenly.
Oh? Wait, like get food?
“Like, together?”
“Well, I mean, if you wanted. To replenish blood sugar. Plus crying cots a lot of energy. And this stuff tends to get worse when you are hungry.” Handsome Stranger tries to play it cool, but Jay can see he seems nervous, his eyes darting everywhere but never looking at quem directly.
“I think I’d like that, yeah.” Qui smiles.
As they exit the bathroom, leaving behind the voices and tigers at least for a minute, Handsome Stranger opens the door for quem. "I'm Warren, by the way."
"Jay."