Grocery outlet.

That’s Spandau Ballet playing.

I

know

this

much

is

Today: the day after Thanksgiving. Me: purchaser of more than intended (Abundance mindset).

At the self-checkout, attempt to stuff my reusable plastic bag with:

1 gallon: milk,

1 6-pack: PBR,

1 loaf: Wonder bread,

liquid All (Free and Clear; body can’t handle dyes without an EpiPen).

Fuck. Bread: crushed.

See and add 1: seasonal Cinnamon Broom, those made for hanging on walls and never for brooming.

Does not fit in bag, but

Believe. I believe. I believe I can carry all this.

A store associate: No optimism: ‘Would you like a bag?’

‘No.’

No bursts forth. Too short. Too harsh. Unintended. Add, ‘I have one,’ softer, tone of a marshmallow, suggestive of my range of reactions.

Manage, mostly, holding bag handles like shining a bowling ball. Tuck the cinnamon broom between neck and shrugging shoulder.

Should have driven. Why didn’t I drive? Why didn’t I drive? Why did the Grocery Outlet have such good deals on things I didn’t need?

I slowly walk home, waddling like a penguin carrying its groceries home to the igloo; do penguins live in igloos? (Sorry, lost the metaphor)

Air is sticky like sap, the world a leaky tree. An occasional gust strangles the palms, rattles the sleeping fronds. God’s matador.

Steps are small victories. The broom’s repeated falling are small failures. Success is not zero-sum.

Take a break, rest my hands. The circulation returns. The dark red ripple marks dissipate. Skin is memory foam.

Gloves for carrying groceries should be a thing. I should make that a thing. Gloves are pillowcases for hands.

Press on. Four of five blocks now, only left: the last.

Then:

In the dark.

A small parking lot, a person lies there.

Face down, head against a curb.

I pause, stare. Try to see if there is any movement: breathing, anything.

Huge gray coat blankets signs of life.

Set the bag of groceries down.

Place the cinnamon broom atop.

Call out. I call out to the man.

There is no response.

Louder. Still no response.

A car pulls up.

A woman rushes out of it. ‘Oh my god oh my god oh my god.’

Says: her husband was on a walk, his phone shares its location, she noticed he had stopped moving.

I call 911.

Best approximation of our location.

Dispatcher walks me through CPR.

Press. Press. Press. Cinnamon-scented glitter all over the man’s white shirt.

Trying to follow along, trying to count the seconds between presses.

A minute: an eternity.

What channel does his mind tune? Is there only static at the end?

I, cliche. I say: ‘Come on.’

Coax life from the lifeless.

Hope for an awakening or yelling…

Response. Any response.

Hear the siren. Tell the wife to flag them down.

The paramedics take over.

They press the man’s chest. Under force it moves like swells in the sea.

They attach a defibrillator and shock him several times.

I, apologetic to the paramedic…

I was just passing by, wish it could have been sooner, wish. Wish.

Paramedic’s face is blank. His day is the same as any day. Mine: not.

Unconscious man’s daughter arrives.

She is around my age.

No, younger.

Share a hug with the mother and daughter, like some member of the family.

Can’t think of what to say, can’t emote hope.

Think, think. Say.

Say: I promise I will pray for him.

Truth: I don’t recall the last time I kept a promise.

Doubt I will remember how.

The paramedics load the man into the ambulance.

Lights, sirens recede into void.

All that’s left: Earth’s silent heartbeat, the gravitational pulls of planetary desires, the threads of crusting human webs snapping.

Cruel clock.

Indifferent.

Distant dong.

Tick tick tick.

You hear the sound of the same night every night.

Can you taste the flavor of the moment so your tongue never forgets?

 

Never know. I’ll never know what happened to the man, will I?

Gather up my groceries, the rustling bag sickles the silence, and I continue the walk.

Wonder: was I witness to medicine or audience to ceremony?

 

When I get home, feel the need to call you. The need to tell you. The need to hear your assurances.

‘Oh I’m sure he’ll be ok,’ say.

‘Oh they only use a defibrillator on those they can save,’ say.

Dial your number. Almost press send.

Remember: you’re gone.

 

 

You were the one who introduced me to cinnamon brooms.