Plastic People HOLLER(ster) At Me

Yesterday I had a panic attack in little store I refer to as HOLLERster.  Just now, as I sit here and write about the experience, the very utterance of the store's name insights dark flashbacks of children laughing at me.  Sure, the outside of the store looks inviting, after all, that's the reason I stepped into it in the first place.  The nice, tan plastic men and women give the illusion, "Hello, you look trendy, we're trend too, why don't you come in, the water is fine!" The store's exterior encourages the average passer-by to escape into a land of tropical goodness.  The windows have shutters over them, as if to protect the store from off-shore hurricanes.  There are palm trees adorning the entrance, and racks of clothes on the promenade suggest the boutique is reserved for any individual looking for a simple shirt adorned with pineapples and palm trees.  

I walked into the store.  The nice plastic men and women seemed convincing, but the thing that really got me was the smell.  An occasional wisp of something delicious smacked me, and I had to find out what HOLLERster was all about.  

I was okay at first.  There was one path in the store, so I couldn't really get lost.  I ventured further into the jungle/beach-like atmosphere, but I did not stray from the path.  There were little alcoves along the way, but as I did not have bread to leave a trail, I decided against exploring the dark, unpredictable corners.  As I walked, the store got darker and the music got louder.  I enjoy loud music, especially when I'm listening to my African chants, but this was not comforting music.  It reminded me of some documentaries I've seen of human sacrifice.  A man, who always wears a bone through his nostrils, rips the beating heart out of the "lost" tourist.  As I thought of the tourist, I realized that I was getting lost, and I did not want to be fed to the HOLLERster breed, so I decided to turn around.  I did.  I turned around.  There were people behind me, so I turned back around, as this path was reserved for one-way traffic only, and it was at this moment that panic began to set in.  I could not find any exit arrows, lights, or paths.  I began the game I often play in large, uncomfortable places: Let's look for the (pretend) person I came with.  I started to make sure everyone around me could see I was looking for somebody.  In reality, that person was the exit, and I was desperate to find him/her.  

I continued on the main path.  I ventured off on one of the smaller paths and happened upon a dark alcove.  There was a nice person in it gathering errant hangers.  I assume the person worked in this confusing horseshoe, but I don't really know.  I was sweating, my heart was pounding, I was raising my arms up to my face and away and up and away, and I could feel the "fake" smile I often use to mask extreme discomfort.  The nice person looked at me and said, "Hi dude, can I help you?"  

"Dude" increased my panic, as I never really know how to respond to people who use "dude" freely, so I took in one deep breath and vocalized the only word I could push out, "EXIT."  

The nice man told me to follow the path, as it would eventually lead to the store's one entrance/exit.  I did.  I followed the nice man's advice, and I eventually made it out of the land of plastic palms, dark crevices, sacrificial music, and distinct odors.  

On the way out, I passed by the same plastic people who welcomed me.  I thanked them for the journey and informed them that I would be seeking out my own tropical paradise.