It’s another Dog Days Saturday in Dixie. Anybody living in the humidity-soaked South knows what this means. Sweat.
I’ve been validating this thesis on the back porch, assigned to an ‘attitude evaluation project.’ Women validate their own thesis: men need remedial adjustments early and often. Today is mine.
The project is assembling new porch furniture. It’s shows up disguised in a Gordian array of disassembled parts, each numbered for reference and arriving in boxes large enough to bury a Sumo wrestler. I consider hiding in one to see if anyone notices.
I never ask, “Why not buy this already assembled?” Her answer is obvious: “It’s cheaper and besides, they deliver it to your door.”
There’s a downside to home delivery of disassembled products. You must take valuable time away from pleasurable pursuits. Today I’m testing the validity of the “it’s cheaper” concept, aided by Allen wrenches and screws large enough to rivet together Boeing 727 fuselages.
I writhe on the floor beneath a chair making quarter-inch twists with the sharp, diabolical little wrenches. Not only does my attitude suffer, but so do my knuckles. Neither finds joy in this process.
After long, sweaty hours of ‘evaluation adjustments,’ my ego has made noticeable progress, humbled by the minutia of assembly. I notice the chairs are manufactured in Viet Nam. Revenge comes in many forms.
The labor has aroused a powerful hunger, an urge that needs no adjustment. A mild sense of joy pats my back as I admire the handiwork. Happiness is short-lived, for ‘projects’ never end. Which accounts for the proliferation of golf. Hiding out on the greens has benefits.
My hunger and I have been fantasizing about the thinly-sliced, rare roast beef waiting in the refrigerator. We take out the last of the Durkee’s, the mayo, the mustard, the end slices of kosher dills, lettuce, tomato and cheese. We’re ready. Now the bread.
We open the bread basket. Arnold’s whole wheat loaf waits. I open it. Instantly I know my attitude is going to need more ‘evaluation’ after this. Waiting inside were two solitary slices of bread…the end slices. You know what my first response was. Verbal, out loud. Same as yours. Not necessarily one describing a condiment suitable to savor fine roast beef.
“Who would do such a stupid thing?” I say out loud to no one listening.
Sanity quickly returns. A blameless saint I am not, and only reluctantly repentant of my own habits of hypocrisy. Every man finds ways to justify his own particular follies.
Hunger and I assess the situation. We slather up the rejects, toast them and make-do. My mind pictures the head of the perpetrator sandwiched between these cast-off scrap slices, marinating with the mayo, the roast beef and kosher dills. I soon dismiss the thought, knowing it would be a profligate waste of good beef and cucumbers.
I consider the plight of these pitiful, reviled end slices. It’s kind of like life. Nobody, not even dough, wants to be an end slice of anything, despised and heartlessly discarded as revolting. Life in the middle of the loaf is soft and dainty, sliced especially for the banquet table. Not so the end slices. If they were human, they’d be wearing overalls; the rest would be clothed in fine linen and tuxedos.
But alas, we’re not all going to be part of that good life. Fate has its own bag of tricks, and somebody always has to take the heat for the team. The furnace fires of affliction are no respecter of persons or bread.
If these end scraps could speak, would they thank us for giving them the last measure of respect before the green mold gobbles their crusty remnants?
I doubt if vengeance is in their mixture, but maybe they would appreciate some small measure of recompense to the heartless culprits who cast them to the compost pile.
Fairness in life and in loaves often requires requiting tit for tat, measure for measure, a slice for a slice, so to speak. So I take the end-slice’s protest and shove an empty bread wrapper back in the basket. Its message will soon be heard.
In preparation for it I dust off the proper response when someone shrieks, “Who is stupid enough to…”
The end slices and I will gloat with pleasure when answering, “Does ‘Not Me’ still live here?” Things will get sliced up soon.
Good luck with your slices, whichever they are.
Bud Hearn
August 10, 2018