A couple of weeks ago, the professor for my creative writing class had the students go inside different stores in downtown Westerville, taking notes on the people and things they observed. I spent quite a bit of time in an antique shop, which provided the basis for the following story.

EIGHT STEPS

They looked perfect. Those classic ice skates that hung on the wall of the antique shop. Illuminated by a dangling light bulb, every part of those skates — boot, laces, heel, blade — appeared to be in mint condition. Maybe they would be a perfect fit for me, too. Of course, I would have to try them on to find out.

The skates were about 25 feet away above a cabinet filled with cups, saucers, and other glassware. A narrow aisle offered a straight path to the skates, and for anyone else, going down that aisle would be easy. But not for me. Because on both sides of the aisle were towering masses of indistinct objects. They were probably just old things the store was trying to sell. Things like pictures, toys, books, desks, and dressers all piled on top of each other. But to someone like me — a claustrophobe who once spent a whole night trapped in a dark, cluttered attic — they were objects of terror. Just the idea of walking past them sent drops of sweat streaming down my forehead.

Nevertheless, I wanted those skates. Wanted them so badly, I could already feel them nestled around my feet. I flicked the sweat off my face and peered straight ahead. In my mind’s eye, I watched myself walking down that aisle, unflinching, looking neither left nor right. I did a quick calculation and concluded I could reach the skates in eight steps… eight steps that I could take if I focused on the prize and not my fear.

I took a deep breath and put my right foot forward. Step one. No problem. Now came the left foot. Step two. Still no problem. Now the right, again. Step three. No problem…well, no big problem. However, I was now aware of a shadow across my face, a shadow cast by the objects piled up on my left. What were they? Never mind. Keep moving. Step four. The shadow extended over half my body now. Ignore it! It can’t hurt you. It’s just a shadow. Keep moving. Step five. Now the shadow covered my whole body like a grayish-black cloak, the illumination from the hanging bulb blocked by the bulky things on the aisle’s left side. Beads of sweat re-emerged from my forehead, and my hands began to twitch.

I looked ahead toward the skates, and my heart sank like a torpedoed battleship. Despite the progress I’d made, they didn’t seem one inch closer. But I’d reached the point of no return. There was nowhere to go except forward. With a left foot as heavy as an anvil, I took the sixth step. Nausea gripped my stomach and a wave of dizziness surged through my head. A new feeling, worse than the others, came over me. A feeling of things wriggling over my skin, things like bugs and spiders pitter-patting over my arms, my legs, my chest, my face. Going forward was no longer a matter of reaching the skates; it was a matter of survival.

The seventh step — more like a stagger — sent me reeling against the objects stacked on the aisle’s right side. A book grazed my elbow as it fell to the floor and a metal tray struck me on the chin. I went to my hands and knees with sweat-blinded eyes, a twisted stomach, and flesh ready to crawl off my bones. The eighth step wasn’t a step at all. It was a plunge, a dive, a lurch forward that brought my shoulder into a thudding collision with the cabinet below the ice skates. Staring upward, I hoped to at least see my perfect skates before I fainted, but something else met my gaze. Something with a face, and eyes, and hair, and an open mouth. And it was coming at me — fast. As the thing fell upon me, I screamed and flipped around onto my back, my hands trying to push it away. “Get off me!” I screamed. “For God’s sake, get off me!”

Suddenly the entire room filled with light and a gruff voice cried out. “What the heck are you doing with Shirley?”

Still on the floor, I looked over to an open door where the store’s owner stood with one hand by a light switch I hadn’t seen until now.

The store owner folded his arms and frowned. “Young man, do you want to buy that doll or not?”

Doll? Shirley? What was he talking about? Then I glanced to my left and answered my own question. There in a box was a two-foot-tall Shirley Temple doll complete with curls and dimples. It must have fallen on me when I rammed into the cabinet.

Embarrassed, I rose to my feet. “No sir,” I said. “But I would like to try on those skates.”

The owner pulled them off the wall, and I put them on. Unfortunately, they were too big, but I bought them anyway for $12.95. I had to have something to show for all the pain and misery I went through. Don’t ask how many steps I took when I left the antique shop. It’s too hard to count when you’re running.