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Rachelle: Is everything okay?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: Well, I don’t know why Netflix would be down.
Rachelle: But you’ve already seen Making a Murderer three times.
Rachelle: Yes, your thirst for justice is unusually obsessive.
Rachelle: No, strong. I wrote strong.
Rachelle: Must have been autocorrect.
Rachelle: Well, you’ll just have to be be brave, my love, I’m sure Netflix will be up and running soon and you can return to your Making a Murderer studies.
Rachelle: But tell me, how is Jones doing?!
Rachelle: Oh, he’s such a strong, little boy!
Rachelle: Well, you can’t take your eyes off him, you really can’t.
Rachelle: You should always be looking for his left.
Rachelle: Look, he always hits you with his left first. It’s his plan.
Rachelle: It’s not a dirty plan. He’s just a sweet, playful little boy!
Rachelle: So, just so you remember: The left comes first. And then when you’re dazed and trying to put your glasses back on, he will hit you with the right and then start kicking. Both feet. Every time, Pickle. You have to prepare for it.
Rachelle: I know he thinks it’s funny.
Rachelle: Well, I disagree, sometimes a bleeding nose can be very funny.
Rachelle: I know you get nose bleeds from the blood-thinning medication you’re on.
Rachelle: Sure. It’s not because Jones is stronger than you.
Rachelle: Yes, it is entirely possible you could still take Jones in a fight, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
Rachelle: He has muscle definition in his back. Do you?
Rachelle: So, he’s sleeping now then?
Rachelle: And you fed and changed him?
Rachelle: What does he look like sleeping? Does he look like an angel?
Rachelle: I don’t believe you’re in his room.
Rachelle: I think you just made that up.
Rachelle: He’s not talking in his sleep.
Rachelle: Send me a photograph of him sleeping.
Rachelle: Oh, you’re very clever.
Rachelle: I know you got over 130 on an online IQ test.
Rachelle: Pickle, you tell people you meet at parties that. You tell everybody that.
Rachelle: Yes, you are a genius, yet you still can’t drive or hold down a job. It’s fascinating, that.
Rachelle: Yes, the wildly misunderstood genius community is subject to a lot of bullying.
Rachelle: You’d think all those geniuses would be able to band together and cast a spell, but I guess I just don’t understand how genius works.
Rachelle: What?
Rachelle: Jesus.
Rachelle: Look, there is no way that Jones’ Exersaucer is haunted.
Rachelle: Yes.
Rachelle: It is creepy that it plays music of it’s own accord, and only when you’re in the room, but I don’t think it means it’s the Exersaucer of a dead child.
Rachelle: Well, no.
Rachelle: I don’t know the history of the Exersaucer.
Rachelle: Yes, I did buy it used.
Rachelle: Yes, so in theory it could have been sold by a grieving family that lost their child to a possessed and murderous Exersaucer.
Rachelle: I must say, watching Making a Murderer so obsessively really has really made you a better lawyer.
Rachelle: Netflix is back up, isn’t it?
Rachelle: I thought so.
Rachelle: Just don’t watch the horror stuff, okay?
Rachelle: It’s not good for you. Your doctors said so.
Rachelle: No, your doctors do understand genius.
Rachelle: Look, just throw a blanket over the Exersaucer if its scaring you!
Rachelle: Okay.
Rachelle: I will be back in about half an hour. You wanted the low sodium Triscuits, right?
Rachelle: Yes, I got it, LOW SODIUM.
Rachelle: Love you, see you and Jones soon, you’re doing great! xoxo
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Behind her barricade was a display of discounted Triscuits. Very carefully, I stepped out of the line-up and moved one of the shopping carts out of the way and stepped toward the Triscuits.
The woman with the mop yelled at me, “Sir, sir, this section is CLOSED!”
“I just wanted to get some Triscuits, some of the cracked pepper and olive oil, they’re very hard to find.”
“I said the section was closed!”
“Well, I said I wanted some Triscuits.”
The woman sighed and repositioned her mop, as if preparing to use it as a defense against my impending attack.
It was a standoff.
“Will you get them for me then?” I asked.
“I’m busy mopping the floor,” she countered, “you’ll just have to wait until I clean up this mess,” and then she shot the cashier a look.
Shemina, the cashier, shook her head, “I’m sorry Tammy, but the manager told ME to keep on the cash, okay?”
I proceeded as if dealing with somebody holding a gun and delicately stepped into the forbidden zone with my hands up in the air.
“I’m sorry to be entering into the restricted area, but as you can see I still have my cycling helmet on so if I slip and fall, I’ll be very well protected and promise not to sue.”
I then reached out and picked a box of Triscuits off the shelf and still facing the woman with the mop, stepped back into the line. I felt like I had rescued a baby from a hostage situation and trying to be funny, held the box of Triscuits over my head as if it was a trophy.
The woman with the mop looked angry and humiliated, the cashier snickered.
A frosh that was wearing a blue, U of T jumpsuit and face paint who was standing behind me in the line said, “I guess the old man really wants his Triscuits.”
Everybody snickered, even Shemina the cashier.
“They’re just hard to find,” I said quietly.
And then he began to spaz around, imitating my raspy voice, “I want my Triscuits, I want my Triscuits! If I don’t get my Triscuits I’ll have a seizure, that’s why I have to wear my helmet! When I was a boy I played hockey!”
The woman with the mop laughed and wiped some hair out of her face, suddenly looking completely alive.
“Thanks, I really needed a laugh,” she said to the student, “ my daughter got in a fight on her first day at her new school and my kitchen ceiling’s leaking, so thanks for brightening my day.”
And everybody in the lineup was smiling like a beautiful scene in a movie had just taken place, as if love had blossomed.
Lonely and sad, I went home, had a three hour shower and then started smoking again.
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