Unplugged

None of the plugs seem to fit today

The toaster's gone rogue; my world's gone gray

For none of the lamps seem to want to plug in

and I can't watch Spongebob shenanigans

The flat screen TV won't run on sun rays,

My phone can't charge--no texts to save

Disconnect         to find (how strange)
that being plugged in is much the same

To tell you the truth, I'd rather sleep in
the next time the world comes unplugged.

The third installment

An automated voice chirped "Thank you for starting your day with Start Mart" as he crept through the sliding door, knocking over the stack of bright green shopping baskets that stood beside the entrance. Five minutes late. But maybe Marge had not taken roll yet. Maybe he was still in time for the Sample Wars announcement.

Every work place has certain traditions, intended to inject vitality and ambition into an environment where the day often falls into plodding routine. These traditions usually involve competitions, tournaments that, like marathons or jousts, allow individuals to compare skill and showcase impressive talents. But while most contests are held in good humor, with an understanding that the entire thing is not meant to be taken too seriously, the weekly Sample Wars at Start Mart often escalated into something much more desperate. In a realm where work mainly consisted of unpacking oranges, sweeping aisles of canned goods and arranging packages on hooks, there were few such chances for anyone to satisfy their need to conquer, to prove their own superiority.

Contrary to its name, the Sample Wars depended a great deal more on your luck in the food draw than on any pea flicking abilities. As long as the slip you drew from the tray was a popular item, as long as enough people decided to purchase, for example, frozen chicken wings after visiting your sample stand, you would be crowned King or Queen for a day. But whereas victory was sometimes easily attainable, failure was at times just as certain. Once assigned something like lima bean dip or brussel sprouts, you understood from the beginning that it was a lost cause.The rest of the afternoon would be spent watching hordes of people gathering in front of other stands, emptying the sample trays the moment the potato wedges came out of the microwave and carting away shopping carts filled with frozen pizzas. 

It sounded comical, but these contests came to mean more than frozen foods or being crowned SMart King or Queen. They came to symbolize agency, the power to influence some course of action, if not his own, and his inability to sell lima bean dip seemed to him to summarize everything that was defective in him.

While Marge Lionel did feel it was necessary to enforce her authority as Head Manager, she did not take particular pleasure in reprimanding her staff or humiliating latecomers.  But as is often the case when it comes to human interaction, her treatment of Boggs that morning was driven by a series of circumstances that were not all directly related. She had run out of eggs and toast and so ate nothing but crackers for breakfast. After taking the elevator down to the basement she had remembered that her sister had borrowed her car for the day, and in the time it took her to remember this, she missed the bus. As shipment of bottled water was missing. There was a leak in the bathroom downstairs. 

Then there was the fact that it had been Boggs again.

His repeated tardiness despite threats of earlier shifts and extra hours confirmed what she already knew: that he would not continue to be late despite her warnings, and that there were other factors in his life that wielded more influence than she did ever could. These reminders of the one-sided nature of her feelings hurt her, and though she suspected that most at Start Mart held little respect for her, his continued disregard struck her as betrayal. That he could not see how she protected him, how she hid his tardiness from the owner though twelve late slips far exceeded the limit, how she had had a crush on him since his arrival at the supermarket two years ago seemed to her a sort of rejection. 

Nevertheless, for all her insults and threats, Marge had never planned to turn him in. But the late slips were adding up, and she could not protect him for much longer.

I love sushi.

Like a race track, a movie theater, or the lottery, a sushi bar is a place of possibility. The unpredictability of the sushi conveyor belt, the impossibility of knowing what will pass your seat next, seem to promise even the most unlikely. At any moment, you could aim for a dish of sashimi but grab a pair of arctic clam sushis by mistake, and find that you like them much more. A particularly flustered waiter could bring you a hand roll you never ordered and end up catching your fancy.You could discover that the mayonnaise-laced prawns look quite revolting up close and be caught in the act of sneaking them back onto the conveyor belt. While ordering you could be told that the restaurant had run out of salmon, only to watch several plates of it parade past your table just as you are about to leave. 

In truth, there was much we did not forsee that Friday, even before we began ordering sushis and sashimi. I did not expect to find Ann wearing mismatched slippers as she proudly showed me her spotless living room. Karen did not expect to walk up several flights of stairs before realizing that she could not find the right door because she was in the wrong building. And who would have thought that as several batches of cranberry oatmeal cookies shriveled in the oven, we would be too distracted by Scrabble troubles to notice?  

When spending time with family and friends, you often come to expect the ordinary. Because these are the people you love most, they are also the people you often find most predictable. Daddy will always do something absentminded, like wear a bib out of the dentist's office or try to force his way into a restaurant that has already closed. Mommy and Emily will never agree on which clothes are fit to wear, but will always manage to reach some sort of compromise. Ann, Karen, and Christine will never mention rabbits without adding some sort of derogatory comment involving "unwashed" and "disgusting." 

The patterns you observe become, in your mind, established facts, and you become grow certain that things could never happen any other way. You learn to anticipate their reactions and take precautions. (ex: Baby Rabbit should mentioned minimally in conversation.) And yet, somehow, even when all patterns have seemingly been noted and mapped out, the unexpected happens. Mommy and Emily actually decide on a dress for Emily's junior prom together. Daddy sits through a doctor's appointment with me without once asking me a question about personal hygiene or the last time I washed my hair. My friends overcome their phobia of rabbits and kidnap mine, only to return her to me, several hours of frantic questioning later, in a sealed sandwich bag. 

One of the things that surprised me most this Friday was the discovery that there are people who care what I write in my blog. Who leave comments so I can experience the thrill of getting feedback. Who read my posts and remember enough to discuss them over miso soup and sushi, if only to debate whether my latest story is about a cockroach, or if watermelon really can be eaten from the bottom up. 

The second installment

Like cleaning windows for a living or eating fettuccine with a spoon, being a full-time coward was no easy feat. He could no longer remember when he first realized that was what he was, but the signs had always been there, and he had been bound to catch on eventually. Who but a coward could not admit to his mother that he had been the one who unearthed her potatoes fifteen years ago to make potato stamps for his print collection? (She still suspected the postman.) And who but a coward would pretend not to notice when Mrs. Boggs from Building C dropped her quarters into the last washing machine, even though he had gotten there first?

    

Unearthed potatoes and washing machines aside, he believed he handled it well. As well as any disability, and the frustration and isolation that came with it, could be handled. In his mind, his cowardice was a disability because, much like a missing toe or hearing impediment, it made life unfairly difficult. There were too many things to avoid, too many people to hide from, too many reasons to stay crouched behind his umbrella stand.While others took buses to new towns and auditioned for parts in plays, he could not even bring himself to try buy a new brand of deodorant. He went through each day at the supermarket surrounded by reminders of his uselessness and yet constantly gave himself new reasons to despise himself, collecting vague insecurities like a lint roller until had no stickiness left and could only retreat to books of valiant knights, desperate to avoid further contact with a world that had become too much.

Pathetic. Breakfast was not even over yet, and already he had begun to feel sorry for himself. Shifting his arm to cram the last of his cucumber sandwich into his mouth, he glanced at his watch. 7:14. Eleven minutes before everyone who worked at Sam's Market gathered behind the gardening section, before Brenda began roll call and announce the Sample of the Week. Sixteen minutes before he was marked for his 55th late slip. It took about ten minutes to bike from the apartment to the supermarket-if Ms. Kendricks left No. 201 in the next six minutes, he could beat the elevator downstairs and still have a chance. 

  

Or he could just tell her about the slippers.   

It occurred to him that Ms. Kendricks might not even care. Perhaps she had not even noticed. They might laugh at his mistake, make a few jokes about his carelessness, and then chat for a while about the comforts of casual footwear. All would be well then, and he would be able eat breakfast at his dining table again, blissfully unaware of whether his neighbors had left their houses yet.

But still he remained in the dirt and bread crumbs, stooped between the wall and shoe cabinet.