Yesterday, 05:34 AM
When I Go to Costco, No One Tells Me They Love Me
I thought it might be pleasant
to give up on life again. I explained this
to my friend, who did her best to save me: “When a plant
is placed in shade,” she said, fingering a piece
of her dead mother at her neck, “it grows
toward the light.” I took her meaning, seven pills,
and the twenty-two express returned me to an anxious dog
unbroken as an egg. So now I think it’s good,
sometimes, to have a human friend.
My membership to Costco lapsed and
no one told me this until I went to buy ten pounds of ham
and cheese snacks with the little crackers
and a dry woman named Claire
declared me out of date. Everyone in line behind me
did the little dance that means “This man
has inconvenienced us. This man deserves
to die.” Jerkily she pulled her service rifle
from her shoulder, held it level with the grassy knoll
between my glassy eyes. The whole place
smelled like hot dogs. You could tell
she didn’t want to do it, but
a job’s a job. Sweating now,
I rattled off the usual excuses: “I swear
it’s in my pocket. My wife will be here soon.”
Claire grimaced, pulled the hammer back,
mouthed “I’m sorry, hon.” About this time I realized
her nametag said Chantal, and
I didn’t want to die. To leave this world
mistaking someone’s name would be too much.
“I don’t want to die, Chantal,” I said, and “You’re a good
Christian, aren’t you? Jesus tells us if you take
a plant—no, when a flower and another flower
love each other very much—I mean, if it’s shady down there,
trees can make their branches stretch so high
they touch the sun. Then they bask there all day long,
I guess, until they feel brand new. The light
solves all their problems. Doesn’t that sound
nice, Chantal? Can’t we just agree today
that I’m a kind of tree?”
I thought it might be pleasant
to give up on life again. I explained this
to my friend, who did her best to save me: “When a plant
is placed in shade,” she said, fingering a piece
of her dead mother at her neck, “it grows
toward the light.” I took her meaning, seven pills,
and the twenty-two express returned me to an anxious dog
unbroken as an egg. So now I think it’s good,
sometimes, to have a human friend.
My membership to Costco lapsed and
no one told me this until I went to buy ten pounds of ham
and cheese snacks with the little crackers
and a dry woman named Claire
declared me out of date. Everyone in line behind me
did the little dance that means “This man
has inconvenienced us. This man deserves
to die.” Jerkily she pulled her service rifle
from her shoulder, held it level with the grassy knoll
between my glassy eyes. The whole place
smelled like hot dogs. You could tell
she didn’t want to do it, but
a job’s a job. Sweating now,
I rattled off the usual excuses: “I swear
it’s in my pocket. My wife will be here soon.”
Claire grimaced, pulled the hammer back,
mouthed “I’m sorry, hon.” About this time I realized
her nametag said Chantal, and
I didn’t want to die. To leave this world
mistaking someone’s name would be too much.
“I don’t want to die, Chantal,” I said, and “You’re a good
Christian, aren’t you? Jesus tells us if you take
a plant—no, when a flower and another flower
love each other very much—I mean, if it’s shady down there,
trees can make their branches stretch so high
they touch the sun. Then they bask there all day long,
I guess, until they feel brand new. The light
solves all their problems. Doesn’t that sound
nice, Chantal? Can’t we just agree today
that I’m a kind of tree?”