Tuesday, April 15, 2008

You say Milton, I say Muenster. Or possibly Munster

I know where I am going to die. The exact spot.

Every time I stand there, I feel my respiration slow. Sounds become muted. It's the strangest thing. Time loses its meaning and I literally lose the will to go on.

I get a little hypnotized. It's like a Monty Python afterlife (the only kind of afterlife I could remotely envision), or experimental theater. The indecision. The inane pleasantries. The meaningless quarter-pounds of meats and cheeses. The single deli guy glacially slicing away as two or three others bustle about, casting clandestine glances my way. I know they can hear my thoughts. Oh, I may be fussing at the kids, trying to keep them from mouthing the edge of the cheese display, from poking holes in the plastic bread bags.

But I'm thinking, "What the fuck are you doing back there? What party tray is so urgent you can't come up here and slice some turkey for me? Yeah, I'm looking at you." But if they catch my eye? I smile. I come here all the time. I can't let them hate me. Then they will give me the old baloney, the tainted ham.

And one day, the call will finally come, "What'll it be, hon?" and I will be mute. My expiration date will have been met.


Either that, or I'm going to die in the bathroom, after having driven a toothbrush straight through my eye and into my brain because I just can't bring myself to explain how to wash one's hands for THE EIGHTY MILLIONTH TIME. Water! Soap! Rub! More water! Oh, it's too hot? Turn on some cold! There you go! How HARD is that?!