It starts out as ‘one of those days.’ The ones when even sunlight augurs ill, your skin crawls and you’re certain The Fates are stacking the deck against you. Your Horoscope warns with words like, “Beware, seek cover, blood, taxes, bankruptcy.” You can feel ‘it’ coming. Not if, but when.
I leave home wary. A black cat crosses the road; a rollerblade skater freaks out. The aftermath is ugly. I scrape her off the street, search for her missing teeth while fumbling with the Band-aids. The stupid strips won’t open. I rip them and curse. They mock me. Time is precious. Aghhh, what idiot packages these, I scream. The woman writhes in pain. I can’t open the bandages. Life hangs in the balance. Somehow she survives.
I walk into my office. Just my luck…the printer’s out of ink. The replacement cartridges are packaged for life. They defy extrication from their clear plastic sarcophagus. I search for opening instructions. In 9-font print I read, “Beware. Good Luck.” Is this a joke? Does this guy package Band-aids too?
I pull, bend, tear and rip at the Gordian enigma. Nothing moves. I search for an entrance. Surely there’s one somewhere. Ah, more small print in the corner. “Try a knife,” it reads. I do. I plunge the dagger into the skin of the steely beast. The plastic cover is like glass. The knife glances, lacerates my hand. Blood spurts. I utter the ‘S’ word. Twice. Somewhere the packaging monster is laughing. I contemplate carving out its heart. Meanwhile, my blood pours from my veins.
One hand is now useless, so I get a bigger knife. I slash open a small crack. I stab again. Oops, mutilation of the other hand. I utter a double-word expletive. Then instantly pray for forgiveness. Blood everywhere. I attack the repugnant package with my teeth and gnaw it like a ravenous dog on a bone. With help from scissors, the package opens. I assess the cost… a quart of blood and two hours of my life.
While having a blood transfusion, the cell rings. It’s the neighborhood security patrol. “Sir, we have bad news for you. It’s your wife. She’s safe, but we have her in custody and under observation for her own protection.”
“Huh? What? Did she have a pickle jar?” I ask. The voice says, “Yes, in fact. We apprehended her as she hung from the back bumper of the UPS truck. We wrenched an unopened jar of pickles from her iron grip.” I ask for details. I regret it.
He says, “Witnesses say she was standing on the curb, clutching a jar of pickles, shouting for help to open the jar. Somehow she chased down the UPS truck. The driver dropped her off here at the guard gate. Can you retrieve her?”
I pick her up along with the pickle jar. I inquire, “What were you thinking, chasing the UPS truck down the Drive?” As cool as a pickled Cairo cucumber, she says, “I was starving, made a turkey sandwich but couldn’t open this pickle jar. I had no choice. What are turkey sandwiches without pickles?”
I’m about to warn her of the consequences of such outrageous behavior when she blurts, “Do something!!” A woman’s short, emphatic sentence, punctuated by exclamation points, requires immediate action. With mangled hands I open the pickle jar and then call the Cairo Pickle Plant. I plan to give them a piece of my mind.
They expect my call. A mechanical voice answers. It advises me to listen, as the options have changed. An hour later I choose Option 186. The machine sounds sympathetic, says to wait, that other customers are being assisted. Two hours later I hang up. Some packages can’t be opened by design.
Things get quiet. She’s on the phone embellishing yesterday’s hole-in-one on # 7. I pick up the paper. The headlines are bleak: wars, rumors of war, famines, pestilence, disasters and protests everywhere. Some pollster reports the Presidential race is tight. Says the respective machines have ‘neatly packaged’ each candidate. Can’t wait to see what crawls from those packages in November.
As I ponder the day’s absurdities, the words of my Horoscope hound me: beware, seek cover, blood, taxes, bankruptcy. I can feel ‘it’ coming. Not if, but when…and sooner than later.
Bud Hearn
June 7, 2012
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