“He held me against the wall and said, ‘You’re a strawman, you’ll never amount to a thing,’” my butcher told me, adding a cut of meat to the scales. I stood at the front of the line, which extended out the door and into the street. “Another time, I tried to push him, but the floor had just been mopped, so I ended up slipping and hurting myself instead.”
“I know how it can be,” I started to say – but the butcher gave me a dark look, so I ended my thought there.
“I’ll wrap this up. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“The floor… had been mopped.”
“Excuse me?”
My mouth was gum, my jaw felt like it might lock: “Anything…you could do?”
The butcher gawked. I reached forward to take the package. He wouldn’t let go. For a time we both stretched across the counter, holding it between us. People began to whisper, and I forged sentences from the fragments I received:
– I’ve seen that man somewhere.
– Didn’t he used to work in the back?
– Must be his nephew, his neighbor, his cousin, his son.
– But it was years ago, in another country.
– His doctor, his broker, his landlord, his father.
– Must be, the one who was fired.
– He can’t pay, he can’t cope, let’s follow him home!
With a shudder, I tore the package away.
As I left the shop, I thought I saw a familiar face waiting behind me in line. She and I made eye contact, but I had already dwelt so long in that line, drawn such attention to myself, that I immediately looked away.
I walked home through the near dusk, package to my chest. As I passed under a streetlamp, the entire row came to life. I craned my neck upwards, staring into the sudden brilliance. The lamps were stationed sparsely along the road, and my eyes kept readjusting as I tore across the unlit gulfs.
I could discern almost nothing – an occasional face. I tried to run, but it was hardly a run: my legs fought one another, my head bobbed rhythmically, and the package leapt around in my arms. People stared; there were pats on my shoulders. There were pats on my back, my ribs, my hindquarters, my flank. Wait – I swiveled on my feet – there was that face again! But just as quickly, it had gone. The crowd was growing dense; I could barely maneuver it, let alone pursue some stranger into the night.
I’d reached a park.
Where was I going?
Home. Some memory drew me on.
I made use of the foliage, levering myself forward, accidentally gripping the wrists of a few passersby. I released my grip each time I realized the mistake, but their eyes would haunt me until the line of sight was broken.
The last few paces – and I’d arrived at the door. It was a door like any other. I fumbled for my keys, identifying the familiar sawtooth, then with triumph, brandishing…the package…the package… where was the package!?
No! I’d just had it. I couldn’t possibly go back. No. No. No. I threw my fist against the door, tumbled across the threshold, then lay in the entryway, panting, embarrassed, ready to confront my family.
They were nowhere to be seen.
Lamps trembled in the corners as I surveyed the space. There was a hallway, a total absence of furniture, a murmur of conversation behind some distant barrier. What was this place? I moved down the hallway, vexed, disoriented, nearly crawling on my knees. The carpet was missing, the tiled floor wet with disinfectant. My head contacted an unexpected wall; the house began to spin. It tumbled through the street, flattening every obstruction.
A chorus shook the rafters, louder than thunder.
– Do you think…he can hear us?
– What did he do, sneak in the back?
– Somebody slap him, see if he moves.
The roof was torn open, the streetlamp was blinding – and I was back in the shop, deposited across the counter. The crowd was no longer whispering, it surrounded me, agitated. Hands reached for my grimacing face. I tilted forward to see the scales clutched at my midsection. And she was there, too, aghast and gaping through a jagged halo at the center of the throng.
– ARE YOU ALRIGHT?
– WHAT HAPPENED?
– IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE I CAN DO FOR YOU?