Episode 83: Loose in the Supermarket
Every fortnight or so, when the wife becomes livid at the sight of her finest gown on my latest Golem – who, the poor creatures, made of top soil, lotus stems and the black magic of a gypsy’s locket, never seem to last through all of the negotiations necessary to procure the wind machines I require to stage my Hurricane vs. Tornado steel cage match in Missouri’s Ozark Plateau – tells me there’s a room with smoke-stained walls, sweat-soaked sheets, a lamp with a deafening buzz whether on or off, and the scent of urine, its source maddeningly untraceable, that one can never grow accustomed to – it fading for a time before reinvading the nostrils with an acidic burn – that’s ready for me to rent from some greasy fellow who, despite his light bulb-shaped skull, doesn’t seem to have an idea about anything, I like to let loose in supermarkets.
Yes, the Supermarket: America’s shrine to the mighty Gods Fruit, Vegetable, Deli, Meat, Frozen, Dairy and Liquor. These shrines are replicas of the temperature-controlled, price tag-affixed, fluorescent-lit mount that is home to these digestible deities.
My favorite has been Deli ever since his divine intervention of my tragic existence in the fall of 1996…
…I had kidnapped the most beautiful creature in these fair lands, Helen of Rhode Island, and had been in a bitter, lengthy war with the tiny state’s forces who were attempting to bring her back. Things had begun to look bleak for me; my finest soldier had been struck down and then dragged through the minute avenues of Providence, much to the diminutive and savage citizenry’s delight. My defeat seemed to be near at hand when I was visited by one of Deli’s fleet-footed, cold-cutted messengers, Salami. Salami said that Deli wished my victory over the petite population due to the devotion I’ve shown with my love of sandwiches. The next day, at dawn, Deli sent his greatest warriors, Rotisserie Chicken, Corned Beef, Potato Wedge and Buffalo Mozzarella, and we easily crushed the itsy-bitsy Rhode Islanders…
After paying my respects to Deli – with a sacrificial pyre of Pastrami Reubens – I enjoy wandering through the supermarket, its aisles of cereals, soups, chips and soda towering over me, while I await the perfect song for an interpretive dance routine. Though the store’s song selection is limited – the ‘Lite’ in Lite FM referring to both the airy sounds of the music and the insufficient quantity of such songs – I – rather, the Muses choose a different song each time. Unless it’s Toad the Wet Sprocket. Then I send the inspirational sprites on their way and “Walk on the Ocean” that’s located in front of the butter and eggs case for approximately three and a half minutes.
On this last dance, the Muses declared that I should let my soul guide my limbs to the rhythm of The Fray’s “You Found Me”. It took nary a second before I was making indecisive dips to the line ‘lost and insecure’ or looking up graciously at families pushing carts past me, the children too young to know not to make eye contact, on the sparkling tiles to ‘found me on the floor’.
It was a real hit. The teenage baggers and collegiate cashiers gave it an 8.1. That was a much needed confidence boost after the 3.7 I received for my decision to be the cherry tree and the cherry tree alone for K.T. Tunstall’s “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree” – I suspect 3 of the 3.7 was strictly a reward for the self-assurance/foolhardiness to be, basically, an inanimate object for an interpretive dance routine.
The following day I returned home to find my wife in the shower and a brand new gown still undulating along with the waterbed. Its metallic color gave me an epiphany: Robots, not Golems!
During our semi-annual dinner date later that evening, my wife returned from the restroom. It was obvious from the rabid gleam in her eyes and her snarling lips that she had noticed the rather large red blotches that had developed on her skin due to her allergy to aluminum. Aluminum was of course the metal I had used for my robot, which, earlier, had exceeded my wildest expectations during the first round of wind machine negotiations in my wife’s new metallic gown. Yes, the horrid expression on my wife’s visage meant that I would be buying yet another gown and staying in yet another crusty motel room. But it also meant another trip to the supermarket and a chance to top that 8.1!
