defectivejunk

Tuesday, the sales rep, calls me back and expects me to just sit and listen to him go through his entire spiel. I put up with it for five or ten minutes - I lost track of time since Montel was on - and finally I'd had enough and just said I'd go ahead and order. Then we got cut off and he didn't call me back. Maybe it was his lunch break. Maybe he just didn't want to have to talk to such a pathetic excuse for a grown man anymore. I put my peanut butter sandwich back in the microwave and sighed.

I hadn't heard from Shelley in two or three weeks, so I went in to work to see what was going on. Turns out they were launching the X8 rocket that day and no one had bothered to let me know. That was ok, I guess. They were pretty busy and all.

I saw her standing on the opposite end of the tarmac, so I walked myself over using leg power to say hi. She glared at me, and turned back around. Everybody else in the department looked at us, and then ignored me too. I guess they're all still mad about my promotion. I don't see what the big deal is. I worked pretty hard for that promotion, and then I got it.

You see, my name is Meat. My parents were die-hard, to the bone, strict anti-vegetarians and so they named me after their favorite thing in the world. My mom's second favorite thing in the world is diamonds, and my dad's is titties, so it could be a lot worse. I count my blessings, such that they are.

They had a going away party in my honor a few weeks ago. I wasn't at work that day, and hadn't been for a while, but when they heard I was the one that was going to take the trip to the moon they had a party to celebrate.

As you can tell, the rocket left without me.

I'm back at home now. I sure could use a shirt that fits. This one doesn't. But I do have some. The ones that do fit, they're dirty. I know I'm unemployed now and I have plenty of time to do laundry, but I don't feel like it. I'm unemployed now. My name is Meat, and I’m deep. I like old school Elvis Costello, I read Dave Eggers, I listen to obscure podcasts, and I’m unemployed.

I need to go start my tea for the day, so I have something to drink that doesn't taste like my life. Nothing. Fear. Spikes. I found a bit of a pop-tart on the ground. I hope no one ate it. I can smell the distance lurking outside and it smells painful, like an old knife. Like a washing machine dumped in 1979 outside a creek bed by someone who you never knew existed.

I wonder what happens to all those people who dump their appliances in the forest.

Like a dirt road that leads to two more dirt roads, one that leads to a grain elevator haunted by the ghosts of a million dead corn kernels, and another that leads to an empty field where there used to be a dream of a big mansion that all the farmer's children and all the farmer's children's children could live in and be happy. It's such a tragedy what happened.

But I won't dwell on it. I wasn't around to do anything about it.

Did I mention the rocket exploded? The guy they hired in my place? He died. Pretty spectacularly. As it wasn’t the explosion that got him.

My tea is done. It could use some cream.

But on top of it all, I'm lactose intolerant.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club