death and vegan baked goods

sara and i are on our way back to atlanta.

"the world is ending." she says, and i feel depressed.
"it's just that all these deaths are making me over-contemplate my own mortality."

*              *               *

my manager's aunt died.

it's a thursday, so no one's in the store, and the internet tells me farrah fawcett is dead. tim comes in a few hours later, and we talk about macrobiotic diets.

"what kind of cancer does she have?"
"same thing. i told her i'd put her on a macrobiotic diet..."
"did she seem up for that?"
"yeah, but she mentioned it to the oncologist and he told her it doesn't matter because nutrition doesn't affect cancer once you have it."

"yeah," tori says "doctors don't get any nutritional training in school."

it's friday night. i'm running on six cumulative hours of sleep the past two nights, and it's late, but we stay up talking.

we talk a lot about birth, we talk about government, and lesbianism, and sickness. i don't kiss her, i don't ask to kiss her, because i'm tired. i listen to her, i listen to her listening to me, and, i want to kiss her, but i don't ask to, and i don't try to.

because i'm nervous.

*           *            *

"what time are you leaving tomorrow?"
"i don't--i guess around nine."
"do you want me to go?"
"you don't have to work?"
"no, i don't go in until wednesday. do you want me to go with you?"
"ok, that'd be nice. just tell your father so he doesn't leave without you."

in the waiting area at the cancer center, i drink a big jar full of tea that tastes a little like the salsa it used to hold. it's chocolaty and still hot after the long drive, but i cry anyway.

a nurse checks her vitals. "We're just going to Check Your Vitals."

the african doctor thumps his fingers against ma's swollen belly; it makes a strange hollow sound. he peels down her eyelids but doesn't comment on the yellowing.

*             *              *

"it's complicated. sometimes i'm just so mad at her. she needs me to be compassionate and forgiving, and i don't always want to be. i want to be mean, i want to tell her that she can't have that, because i didn't get that."

tori looks up at me. it's past five. we're almost finished baking.

*              *              *

"I think she's pretty." sara says. "i really like her body. i like her chubby belly. even though it's--...i just feel a lot more accepting of women's different bodies."
"me, too. i want to feel it. and i know what you mean, i just like everything."
"yeah!"
"...i like her b***s."
"me, too. they look really nice."
"i like that she's chubby, and that she likes to bake." i say. "usually, i wouldn't like that, but i like that with her. i like that she's chubby and she bakes so many cupcakes, i don't know why, i find it adorable."
"no, i know exactly what you mean."

*          *         *

it's victoria's ring, so i pick up the phone.
"Michael Jackson is dead!" she's crying a little.
"What?"
"He's DEAD! He went into cardiac arrest and he died!"
"wow. uh. okay...?"
"ARIELLE! doesn't this make you sad? he's an american icon! he epitomizes our culture in its duling elements of good and evil: king of pop, alleged child molester--"
"Victoria, i have to get back to work."
"FINE!"

*         *          *
"Peachtree Natural Foods This Is Arielle How Can I Help You"
"It's Dee."
"I know, Dee, and I already know Michael Jackson's dead, my sister just called to tell me, but thanks for thinking of me..."
"Yeah, Felicia just texted me, that's not why i'm calling."
"I know, Dee."
"How are things? I wanted to call you sooner to find out if Tim ever made it in."
"They're ok. He's here, he got here a couple hours after Trina left. How's the funeral going?"
"we're about to start the ceremony in a minute, but i wanted to ask you to remind tim to fax the paperwork to corporate tonight because he keeps forgetting."
"oh yeah, i'll let him know. thanks, dee."

*          *          *

"Michael Jackson died." mom says.
"Victoria told me."
"Me too, she was really upset. started talking about him in this strange way. something about good and evil..."
"yeah. i got that, too. farrah fawcett died." i remind her, but if it hits some chord for her, she doesn't show it.
"ed mcmahon died yesterday."
"oh yeah?"

*          *             *

"GET OUT OF THE F*****G WAY. GODDAM IT WHY WON'T THIS F*****G CAR MOVE?! 
JESUS MOTHER F*****G CHRIST! anyway, i'm really sad that Michael Jackson died." sara says. we're driving through a foggy north georgia morning on no sleep while the sun comes up.

"i know that the pedophile allegations really affect how people view his life and death. it's like, that's what people think about... MOTHER OF GOD! Get out of the way. I'm going to F**K YOU WITH MY CAR! Daddy needs room!"

she starts to explain how forcing cars out of the left lane is similar to dogs humping each other for dominance but stops to laugh at a bilboard featuring the open arms of jesus and a message about his eternal love.

"i'm sorry, i was distracted by Our Lord."

another that reads "Heaven or Hell: it's your choice."

we drive faster than any car on the road and manage to make it to greensboro in under four hours. the GPS gives us wrong directions and we end up in a dead zone trailer park in Bumblefuck. we listen to banjo music and singing.

"i took a look in
the Joy of Cookin
Joy of Cooking oh-i-oh
'fi’m not mistaken
the answer’s bakin'
answer’s bakin' oh-i-oh."

*           *            *

"I'm really tired of people talking about Michael Jackson's death."

i  might have been amused by the fact that tori is bringing the subject up unprovoked, but i'm distracted by her features and unexpectedly southern accent. the long dress her little feet seem to trip over when she gets in and out of the car.

"i mean, it seems like everyone's so sad, but all i can think is that he molested children!"

her baby is adorable and quiet in the back seat.

"oh yeah?" i don't say much, either.


*           *           *

on saturday, it rains, and no one buys anything at our vegan bakesale.

we get an early small dinner after and i drink a red bean bubble tea for the sake of interest. i like the feeling of the pearls in my mouth, and with sara back from her mini-camping trip, her presence comforts me enough to be sexual. the three of us talk about our mutual love for breasts.

i make squash for tori for a midnight supper, and there are moments i think we could kiss. but oscar is too energetic to sleep and  i have no nerve. when The Darjeeling Limited ends, we watch an episode of The Nanny and gripe about gender roles and the representation of childbirth in the media before we succumb to exhaustion, stumble our way to distant bedrooms.

*          *             *

"Hey, Dad, happy birthday!"
"thanks. where are you?"
"a few hours away."
"oh ok"
"yeah, we're in south carolina, mile seven."
"I have some bad news." dad says over the phone.
"what is it..."
"Billy died."

  --

"Billy Mays is dead!" victoria had said moments before.
"Him, too?! God, you know, i was just having this conversation with myself how he should be in I<3 the 2000's...or...00's? single digits? i dunno--for his memorable work with OxyClean. Talk about American Icons..."
"Arielle!"
"how'd he die? why do you only call me when people die?"

"Billy Mays is really DEAD?" sara screams at her brother. "WHAAAT?"
"i think it was Vince" she says.
"is that the shamwow guy?"
"yeah. oh--oh yeah he his in jail" she says into the phone."
"he's in jail?! what'd he do?"
"clocked a hooker!"
"WHY?"
"why'd he hit her, michael?...oh, she bit his c**k."

  --

"what?"
"Billy died. your rat."
"Billy Butters." i corrected, irritated that he could leave this vague enough for confusion.

I hold percy for a while when i get home.
"how do you think he died?" dad asks.
"most likely, congenital heart disease. maybe exacerbated by the mycoplasma when he was little..."

but i wonder if it's a nutritional deficiency, and i wonder about percy, since i've read that staring over the edge of high ledges is a symptom of heart disease in rats.

*          *           *

i lay on tori's leather couch contemplating my sunburn, and the leather. they were her father's couches, before he died.

"you know, Michael Jackson ate a vegan diet" tori mentions spontaneously.
"yeah, but he still used animal products, so he didn't live a vegan lifestyle."
"i've been thinking about converting to veganism for a while, now, but it's a really difficult transition..."

we get into discussing needs for iron and b vitamins and free range and that "this fall my brother is going to stay at this farm in Santa Fe, and he's going to kill a goat and cook it."

but i don't know how to mimic the tone or relay significance of that conversation with Dave to tori, and especially to sara later in the car.

"Why would anyone want to do that?! that's disturbing."
"because he eats meat. he's a meat eater and he wants to fully understand the process. he wants to be an active participant in that--i mean, it's really easy to eat meat as long as someone else is killing it. i mean, i could never do it."

"that just proves people shouldn't eat meat at all. i mean you don't have to eat meat to survive."

"i mean the animals are free range," i say, "so it's different than a factory. and he's really nice to the animals before he kills them."
"so what? it's the same thing in the end. it's disturbing.

she's coming off as weirdly moralistic, which is unheard of with sara. she refuses to accept the idea that respecting and slaughtering an animal aren't necessarily two mutually exclusive activities. that i don't want to acknowledge any universal morality about the value of life, and how to measure it.

"i just don't understand how someone could ever want to kill something."

but, i understand my brother's desire to have this experience. "i know it's going to be really hard," he'd said. "the way he does it shows so much reverence." and he explained the process his farming friend takes in slaughtering the animals. there is a good meal, a blessing, a walk to a peaceful place near the woods, gentle talking-to.

and then he cuts its throat.

there's so much difference, he says, than the animals in factories. they don't seem to feel so afraid.

i feel sad everytime i kill a bug, and usually i pray to a god i know isn't there, but i don't know what i'm praying for, exactly. that it's painless, that the bug forgives me. maybe for good karma, or that the universe knows i was sad to do it, but that i did anyway, that it's ok.

that death isn't something that rubs off, the way i've felt gross sleeping in hotel beds and guest beds lately. it's the transfer that concerns me--"i mean, if even celebrities die!"--that Percy will die for being near Billy.

to understand the sacrifice food makes.

for peace. between me and death. me and the dying, me and the dead. that i don't feel so afraid.


'fi’m not mistaken
the answer’s "bacon"
answer’s "bacon" oh, why oh.

Reviews

[MirrorandError]

Your thoughts on your mother’s death from cancer are poignant and I am grateful for them, as my father is wasting away back home in Ga as I sit here doing my own version of it in this bullshit a*s city.

[Looouise]

I'm not sure if you want comments on this,
but I felt compelled to type.
Not sure what I want to say,
at all.
It just gets people thinking.
Death. Karma. Morality. Reason. Stardom. Shadows.
I don't know.
Too many people died at once.
Makes it a pretty clear reality that we're all going at some time.
:/