You all get out of your cars. You are alone in yours, and there are three teenagers in theirs, an older Camaro in new condition. The accident was your fault, and you walk over to tell them this.
Walking over to their car, which you have ruined, it occurs to you that if the three teenagers are angry teenagers, this encounter could be very unpleasant. You pulled into an intersection, obstructing them, and their car hit yours. They have every right to be upset, or livid, or even violence-contemplating.
As you approach, you see that their driver's side door won't open. The driver pushes against it, and you are reminded of scenes where drivers are stuck in submerged cars. Soon they all exit through the passenger side door and walk around the Camaro, inspecting the damage. None of them is hurt, but the car is wrecked. "Just bought this today," the driver says. He is 18, blond, average in all ways. "Today?" you ask.
You are a bad person, you think. You also think: what a dorky car for a teenager to buy in 2005. "Yeah, today," he says, then sighs. You tell him that you are sorry. That you are so, so sorry. That it was your fault and that you will cover all costs.
You exchange insurance information, and you find yourself, minute by minute, ever more thankful that none of these teenagers has punched you, or even made a remark about your being drunk, which you are not, or being stupid, which you are, often. You become more friendly with all of them, and you realise that you are much more connected to them, particularly to the driver, than possible in perhaps any other way.
You have done him and his friends harm, in a way, and you jeopardised their health, and now you are so close you feel like you share a heart. He knows your name and you know his, and you almost killed him and, because you got so close to doing so but didn't, you want to fall on him, weeping, because you are so lonely, so lonely always, and all contact is contact, and all contact makes us so grateful we want to cry and dance and cry and cry.
In a moment of clarity, you finally understand why boxers, who want so badly to hurt each other, can rest their heads on the shoulders of their opponents, can lean against one another like tired lovers, so thankful for a moment of peace.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
For the love of butter
His grandmother was obsessed with butter, no one knew why; it had something to do with cows. When she wasn’t eating butter she was hoarding butter. When she was neither eating nor hoarding butter she was warning everyone in shouting distance (and she had quite the pair of lungs, so this really meant something) to lay off her butter. His grandmother was nuts everyone knew that.
Every morning his grandfather left the house. He’d retired, years ago, from the plant, so no one knew where he went. Finally, one day he stopped, he had to, he was dead.
Then his father died. It could have been an overdose.
Then, it was just his grandmother, her butter, and he. One night, over the empty table his grandmother said, “You know, they never listened. Did I not warn them? I told them to lay off my butter.”
The grandson asked, “How do you feel about salt?”
“Salt’s fine. Live it up. Just lay off the butter and we’ll get along fine.”
He did, and things were, in fact, fine until one day, unthinkingly, he brought home some olive oil.
It was a blood bath.
Every morning his grandfather left the house. He’d retired, years ago, from the plant, so no one knew where he went. Finally, one day he stopped, he had to, he was dead.
Then his father died. It could have been an overdose.
Then, it was just his grandmother, her butter, and he. One night, over the empty table his grandmother said, “You know, they never listened. Did I not warn them? I told them to lay off my butter.”
The grandson asked, “How do you feel about salt?”
“Salt’s fine. Live it up. Just lay off the butter and we’ll get along fine.”
He did, and things were, in fact, fine until one day, unthinkingly, he brought home some olive oil.
It was a blood bath.
Last Slice...
It must be depressing being the last piece of bread in a sliced loaf. I imagine it’s almost as bad as being the first tiny slice—a thin sliver of tan dough that tastes and looks like spongy leather. Only the last piece is worse. For while the first piece might feel self-conscious by its size or color—further exacerbated when someone finally unwraps the loaf and tries to skip the first slice in favor of the second, or if they’re especially picky the third—the last piece suffers alone. It suffers the fate of watching everyone else get picked in a timely manner and then being abandoned.
At first, I imagine, the last slice tries to come up with logical excuses for its abandonment or lack of being chosen, reasoning that maybe someone wanted to make a sandwich but they couldn’t with just the last slice. Or maybe, someone had called dibs on the last slice but then forgot—prohibiting anyone else from eating it for the sake of decency, inadvertently keeping the last slice in solitude.
But eventually, I guess, the last slice realizes this must not be the case. After the initial curious peeks into its yellow wrappings and then brusque tosses back into the fridge; after getting pushed further and further back, losing its honorary placement of front row middle shelf within hand’s reach, to being bent and squished in a dark corner where the small light bulb can’t reach, next to a crusty mustard case that’s probably passed its expiration date; after all that, it must realize it’s been rejected.
From there I think there are two plausible circumstances. The last slice might accept its fate as a loner and calmly accept the mold that arrives on its once pristine edges—viewing it as age spots with the belief that they act as proof of its existence, its resilience—with open pores. It does this while waiting patiently for the day when it will go to the tiny place in the sky where little French breads and little rye breads can join together to form a single loaf, where bread slices aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their yeast.
But, in the back of my mind, I think the last slice is probably more pessimistic. It has, after all, been slighted twice by the hands of fate. Well, by the hands of machines most likely as it was unlucky enough to be one of the two awkwardly cut end pieces in the beginning of its creation as uncooked dough. Then, in its early adolescence it’s slighted again by being placed in the bag first, forcing on it the title of last slice forevermore. This resentment probably leads to a spiral of depression for the last slice once its all alone. The crawling of the mold onto its skin later on only increases its dejection and acts as yet another confirmation that it is unworthy. To be even more dramatic, I picture its mortification to be complete with the arrival of a brand new loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a replacement added before the last slice is removed.
I hold the last slice in my palm, deeply sympathizing with the hand it’s been dealt in life, and with the gentlest caresses I’ve ever given garbage, I lightly place it in the trash.
At first, I imagine, the last slice tries to come up with logical excuses for its abandonment or lack of being chosen, reasoning that maybe someone wanted to make a sandwich but they couldn’t with just the last slice. Or maybe, someone had called dibs on the last slice but then forgot—prohibiting anyone else from eating it for the sake of decency, inadvertently keeping the last slice in solitude.
But eventually, I guess, the last slice realizes this must not be the case. After the initial curious peeks into its yellow wrappings and then brusque tosses back into the fridge; after getting pushed further and further back, losing its honorary placement of front row middle shelf within hand’s reach, to being bent and squished in a dark corner where the small light bulb can’t reach, next to a crusty mustard case that’s probably passed its expiration date; after all that, it must realize it’s been rejected.
From there I think there are two plausible circumstances. The last slice might accept its fate as a loner and calmly accept the mold that arrives on its once pristine edges—viewing it as age spots with the belief that they act as proof of its existence, its resilience—with open pores. It does this while waiting patiently for the day when it will go to the tiny place in the sky where little French breads and little rye breads can join together to form a single loaf, where bread slices aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their yeast.
But, in the back of my mind, I think the last slice is probably more pessimistic. It has, after all, been slighted twice by the hands of fate. Well, by the hands of machines most likely as it was unlucky enough to be one of the two awkwardly cut end pieces in the beginning of its creation as uncooked dough. Then, in its early adolescence it’s slighted again by being placed in the bag first, forcing on it the title of last slice forevermore. This resentment probably leads to a spiral of depression for the last slice once its all alone. The crawling of the mold onto its skin later on only increases its dejection and acts as yet another confirmation that it is unworthy. To be even more dramatic, I picture its mortification to be complete with the arrival of a brand new loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a replacement added before the last slice is removed.
I hold the last slice in my palm, deeply sympathizing with the hand it’s been dealt in life, and with the gentlest caresses I’ve ever given garbage, I lightly place it in the trash.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)