Fair is Just a Half-Pretty Face

week 3: featuring killer snowflakes

                It was a snowflake that killed him.  I know you think that’s outrageous, but it’s true.  And you know what?  It wasn’t even necessary.  The best and worst things in life are usually like that. 

                “Is that all you’re getting?”

                I glance over my shoulder, eyebrow half raised.  The body matches the voice: an old man whose bones were as frail as his voice.  I can feel the surprise stretch my face, and hope he won’t take it for a rude grimace. 

                “I only need what’s on my list,” I say.  “Some bananas, plain rice cakes.”

                “But the weather: you know they say it will be bad, very bad.”

                The old man takes my arm, turns me away from the checkout lanes.  I’m too startled to brush him off, and even if I did, I wouldn’t do it for fear of hurting him.  I didn’t know it then, but there was a snowflake with his name on it.  Just one, just for him.   

                Despite the mad rush of shoppers, the old man seems to make his way through crowded aisles as if he were already a ghost.  People nudge their carts out of the way or shoulder past, unconsciously giving him a wider berth than any of the other shoppers.  I trail behind him, feeling a subtle curiosity steal over me.  It’s like when you’re a kid, and a stranger offers to buy you a treat or help you find your parents.  I half expect someone to call my name over the intercom, requesting me to report to the pharmacy or the customer service area at the front of the store. 

                Instead I find myself pushing a cart, staring at the items it holds with quiet wonder.  Two bags of granny smith apples, two value boxes of multigrain cereal: no added sugar, helps lower cholesterol.  Three bags of baby carrots. 

                “Why get all this?”

                “Don’t you know how bad they’re saying it’s going to be?  You children have news at your fingertips every minute, night or day--and you didn’t bother to check the weather? Read the warnings?”

                I can’t think of what to say to that.  I’m not used to thinking about how well I fit into this particular juncture in history.  Compared to him, I might be young, but I wonder how old he must be to consider someone in their early thirties to be a child. 

                “Crunchy or creamy?”

                “What?”

                The man wiggles his fingers at the peanut butter options. 

                “Creamy?”

                I didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.  The crust is okay, but can you cut it in triangles?  I bite my tongue to keep the words in my mouth.  When had I become a child again?  The peanut butter goes in the basket.  The jar looks like the size of a watermelon, but maybe that’s just my head being a little foggy. 

                “Eat it with the apples,” he says. “The carrots too, in a pinch.”

                No need to worry about the crust, after all.  I nod, swallowing back a burst of laughter.  It gets stuck in my chest, makes it hard to breathe.  I cough it out of the way, and notice a few more items in my cart.  Honey lemon cough drops.  Nearly a gallon of hydrogen peroxide and two rolls of medical tape.  Bulk-bargain paper towel.  A 120-piece container set.  And then we are in the freezer section, faced with the flavors of ice creams, gelatos, sorbets. 

                “Pick three.”

                “What?”

                “Do you have those bud things in your ears?  Can’t you hear?”

                I don’t know whether to shake my head no or try to explain that I just can’t follow where all this is going, so I just stare back at him.  He does his hand waggling motion again, and I notice the far two fingers on his left hand are curled.  He’s not holding anything in them; they simply don’t stretch or bend.  I look at the ice cream, but I’ve forgotten what vanilla or strawberry tastes like. 

                “Sorbet’s a smart choice,” he says after I decide on one raspberry and two lemon flavored pints.  “Mix it with the ice outside and you can make it last a good while longer.”

                “That’s what my Aunt Wilma would do in the summer, when making juice smoothies.  Us kids would always want more, and she would add ice to our smoothies instead of making another pitcher.  It was so hot that we barely noticed the change in flavor.  We just wanted something cool to drink.”

                I don’t know why I say all of this.  I haven’t thought of my Aunt Wilma in at least two decades. 

                “Wilma--your aunt must remember, then.”

                “Remember what?”

                At least this time I managed to say more than just what?  I don’t want this guy to feel more sorry for me than he apparently already does.  Maybe that’s just me being narcissistic.  Why should he care?  Why assume that he does? 

                “The one in ’62,” the old man says.  “The reason why everyone is here.”

                “Sixty-two was a long time ago.”

                “Some things have a way of sticking.”

                Dental floss, toothbrushes, and nail clippers have appeared in my cart, along with three bars of soap and two hair brushes.  Before I can ask why, he explains.

                “It’s the little things that’ll keep you sane.  Better to be able to brush your hair every day, than get crazy and take some scissors to it.”

                “But I already have a brush.”

                “How long have you had it?”

                I shrug.

                “If it breaks, you’ll want another.”

                “But why buy two?”

                “It’s the little things,” he says again.  “You kids, you don’t ask the right questions.”

                I don’t say anything to that.  We’re back to the checkout lines, this time much further back than I would have been the first time.  I don’t mind, since apparently I’ve got this old guy for company. 

                “I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” I say.  “A little snow, a little cold, but nothing we can’t handle.”

                “I told Ellen that.”  He nods as if he agrees with me.  “It’s not bad yet, and it won’t get bad.  Not the weather.  But the people?  The people will make it awful.”

                “Then why buy all this?”

                He narrows his eyes at me.  It’s a shrewd look, or maybe just disappointed.  We kids don’t ask the right questions, after all.  I give a helpless shrug by way of an apology, and he waves it off.  Those two curled fingers again, clutching an invisible something. 

                The lines are moving faster than I expected them to.  It’s almost as if the employees are trained in emergency-weather price scanning.  I look over and realize that, despite filling my cart with unneeded groceries, he’s picked up nothing for himself. 

                “Were you just waiting for Ellen to finish?” I ask.  “Is that why you helped me?’

                “We never just do, or just are, anything.”

                Okay…  This old man is full of cryptic life lessons today.  And I get the feeling that I’ll have at least three days to mull them over, sitting in my apartment, trying to find a book I haven’t already ready two or three times.  Eating my apples and carrots. Bananas and rice cakes.  I’ll have to eat the bananas first, now that I think about it.  They won’t last long at all.   

                Five minutes later, I’ve paid for my odd collection of groceries and am bundled up to brave the cold.  Usually I hate spending money on food.  I hate spending money at all, unless it’s to give gifts or spoil my friends.  But this time, the fifty bucks doesn’t bother me. 

                “Where did you park?” I ask him. 

                The sliding doors open, and the cold sucks the air from my lungs.  For a moment it’s as if my whole body goes into shock.  I can barely hear or see, and the ground might as well have disappeared from underneath my feet.  I look to my right, hoping I might be able to read the old man’s lips even if I can’t hear his words.  He’ll probably lose his patience if I ask What? one more time. 

                “I’m too old to drive.”

                His voice is surprisingly strong, almost booming--or maybe that’s just the blood circulating every which way, trying to get to all my extremities at once.

                “Did you take the bus?  Do you need a ride?”

                He shakes his head, waves me off.  He’s about to tell me to go stow my groceries, to get home before it gets worse.  There’s a car stopped just past the pedestrian crosswalk with its four-ways on.  The driver turns over the key the same moment he tries to speak. 

                I wish only his words were lost in the rumble.  Instead there was a gush of wind.  A snowflake in the wrong place, at the wrong time, down the wrong pipe.  I saw his eyes widen: not with fear, but with recognition.  This is it: this is how I die.  The end. 

                Somehow I know the truth.  Maybe I recognize that look because I’ve searched for it in my own eyes, even though I’ve never found it.  I shove my cart out of the way of busy shoppers and put an arm around his shoulders.  I lead him out of people traffic, to the bench by the brick wall. His chest is heaving.  His eyes water.  There is no time for ambulances, for rescue missions, for everyday heroes.  Only an old man coughing out his last breath, and me beside him. 

Author's Note

short story number 3. i didn't think i would have one this week, but maybe i just have to trust that the story will come :P rough draft, so helpful criticism and comments are always welcomed!

Reviews

[roarke]

Bravo. kinda of like stream of conscious existentialism??? maybe. Victor, you make the reader interested, curious, and deliver each paragraph. Kind of like the old man did for the younger shopper. Your story is a good illustration that most of us don't know what we need, and life or art's purpose is to introduce us to those things. Another great piece here.