Milo had found that cashiers came in two varieties. The first and more prevalent kind were nearly robotic individuals who barely took notice of the customer, the items being purchased, or what they themselves were even doing. For these employees, ringing up customers’ orders had become equivalent to turning a screw on Henry Ford’s assembly line.
Just another customer in an endless line of customers.
This, Milo thought, was probably why they appeared so mindless. Unlike many occupations, in which one assignment or task could be finished and another one started, the career cashier faced a lifetime of incompletion. Their purpose was to service a line of customers that would never end, and if it ever did, this would mean the end of their employment. Even in Milo’s line of work there were small accomplishments and notable milestones. Training a client to use the Internet. Convincing another to adopt a pet. Assisting another through the difficult process of dying. These were all accomplishments from which Milo derived great pride. For the cashier, these moments did not exist, and so most eventually became mechanical in their actions.
There was a minority of cashiers, however, who insisted on engaging their customers in meaningful exchanges of dialogue during every possible transaction. These people were typically new to the job (and therefore didn’t understand the monotony of their future) or were those constantly upbeat and cheery people whom Milo never understood. If Milo were to run into one of these cashiers, questions about his inordinate amount of jelly might arise (That’s one big peanut butter and jelly sandwich you’re making, mister—hardy har har!), and though a query like this might infringe on Milo’s sense of normalcy, he had learned to combat this reaction with the same detachment of those cashiers who understood the truth about their occupation and their future.
The cashier manning the express lane in the Stop & Shop this evening was an older woman named Lauren (or so claimed her name tag) whose shoulders appeared to be bearing the weight of a thousand jelly jars. She was short, hunched, and frowning, the archetype of what Milo imagined an older Russian woman would have looked like living through the siege of Stalingrad: hopeless and defeated. Her green smock bore a pin (flair, Milo mused) with the incongruous phrase Can I help you? written in a shade of yellow that bespoke of a happiness and whimsy to which this woman did not seem capable.
Clearly the type of cashier who would not question Milo’s purchase.
Once money had exchanged hands, Milo made his way back to his car. He had hoped to wait until he was home to begin opening the jars, but, as it was with most of his demands, the proximity to its fulfillment increased the immediacy of the need. His head was aching badly by the time he opened the car door.
Sitting in the front seat underneath the yellow glow of the parking lot’s sodium fluorescent bulbs, Milo took the first jar in his hand, fingering the round metallic depression in the lid that indicated the pressurized seal. So close to fulfillment, the need was excruciating now, but he waited a few seconds longer, as long as he could possibly bear, in order to heighten the anticipation. Like those insistent words in his head, the time leading up to the moment of completion was torturous, but the instant of fulfillment, and the seconds just before, were ecstasy.
Grasping the lid around the edge and bringing the jar close to his ear, Milo exerted adequate force in order to move the lid a quarter turn, releasing the pressurized safety seal in the process. The satisfying hiss and pop of the jar caused Milo’s tightened muscles to relax with a shudder. A second later he released a sigh, barely audible despite the quiet of the car.
Milo remained still for a moment, waiting to see if the one jar would be enough to satisfy the demand. Though rare, there had been times when a single jar would do the trick. As he waited, he thought about how different things would be if he and Christine had still been living together. He might have not been able to sneak away to make the necessary purchase, and as a result, more than a day could have gone by before meeting the need. During a delay like this, it was as if that German submariner residing in his head, possibly an admiral based on the power he wielded, would continue to watch through his periscope, slowly and steadily increasing the pressure on the dials and valves before him. The need would linger in the back of Milo’s mind, always present and ever nagging, and at times dangerously distracting and even painful, building until the needles were redlining, steam was venting from the complex web of pipes and hoses within the submariner’s vessel, and ignoring the demand became almost impossible.
Thankfully, his job offered him ample freedom during the day to meet these needs without much trouble.
Though Christine didn’t know about Milo’s demands, she knew that her husband was odd and had said as much to Milo in the past. He wasn’t surprised. Milo knew that it would be impossible to fulfill these demands on a regular basis without appearing a little neurotic and strange, but he had managed to convince his wife that his behavior was the result of his personality and not the demands placed upon him. When necessary, Milo even fostered and encouraged this belief about his peculiar personality. For example, he would sometimes find himself with the need to watch a movie that he had already seen a hundred times before, in hopes that the end of the film might turn out differently. Even though he knew on a cognitive level that this could never happen, something inside his head (that damn U-boat captain, he suspected, jonesing for a little entertainment) demanded that he watch the movie again, and regardless of what his practical side told him, Milo found himself on the edge of his seat every time, half believing that this might be the one time when things finally and miraculously changed for the better.
There were several films that Milo found himself rewatching over and over again, but one of the most common was episode 3 of the Star Wars saga, in which Darth Vader rises from the ruins of Anakin Skywalker. At several key points in this film, the fate of the galaxy rests on the actions of a single character, and in each of these instances, Milo would tense with unrealistic expectation, hoping that things might turn out better than expected. His muscles would bunch into knots, his fists would clench, and he would bite down on his lip until the moment passed, always unchanged and unfulfilled. The worst was the scene in which Mace Windu confronts Palpatine in order to arrest him and end his plot to take over the galaxy. A lightsaber battle ensues between the two, and Windu ultimately disarms Palpatine. Just as he is about to end the reign of the Sith with a killing blow, Anakin Skywalker arrives and interferes, insisting that Palpatine be spared. “It’s not the Jedi way!” he shouts to his comrade.
At this point in the film, Milo often found himself screaming at the television, reminding Skywalker that he had no problem with execution when it came to Count Dooku. And part of Milo, the part that demanded that he watch, truly believed that Anakin might listen to him and stand down, allowing Mace Windu to kill Palpatine and prevent all that was to follow. Instead, Skywalker provides Palpatine with the opening he needs to kill Windu (although Milo would also wait with great anticipation to see if Windu would return by the end of the film, since his ultimate demise takes place off-screen) and take control of the galaxy.
When the film finally ends and Darth Vader is born (after Obi Won foolishly leaves Anakin alive by the river of lava for Palpatine to find him), Milo would invariably experience a sense of relief, a release from the demand, though this feeling of fulfillment hardly provided the euphoric sensation that bowling a strike or popping open a jar of Smucker’s would.
Had Windu killed Palpatine or had Obi Wan tossed his apprentice into the river of lava like he should have, Milo imagined that the feeling of fulfillment would be indescribable. And if it actually happened someday, part of him wouldn’t be surprised one bit.
So as he watched the same dozen or so films over and over again, played Dungeons & Dragons with his thirty-year-old buddies, and hung out with what appeared to be a genuine wizard, Christine thought her husband was a little odd, but these oddities were nothing compared to the genuine demands that ruled his life. Opening jars
of Smucker’s jelly (which he sometimes did inside the store without ever purchasing the jars, when he and Christine split up in order to expedite the shopping) might not seem simply odd to his wife. It might appear downright insane. So this demand, along with many, many others, was kept secret from her.
Milo opened three more jars of jelly before the demand was satisfied and he was able to head home. But before pulling out of his parking spot, he removed the page from the Highlights magazine that he had acquired earlier that day and read through the poem once again. He hadn’t thought much of it at first, but he found that it was growing on him.
chapter 8
Milo had intended on spending part of the evening conducting research online in hopes of identifying and locating Freckles’s now deceased friend Mira. But a combination of curiosity over the next tape and his desire to immerse his mind in auditory and visual stimuli in order to stop thinking about Christine persuaded him to put the research aside for another day.
Ever since their parting outside Dr. Teagan’s office, Milo had been wondering how he might resume contact with his wife. More than twenty-four hours had passed without communication between the two, and the weekend was nearly upon them. If they were going to squeeze in at least one date this week, it would probably need to take place over the next couple of days. Christine’s caseload, combined with her aerobics and art classes and volunteer work, kept her extremely busy during the week.
Asking his wife on an official date was something that Milo had never imagined having to do again, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should he treat it as if it were a first date, or would a simple dinner be enough? He wasn’t sure. The rules for dating one’s wife had not been explained to him, and he doubted that there was a book available on the subject. Instead, he was playing things by ear.
Their actual first date had been bad enough.
Milo had been nervous from the start. Milo and Christine’s initial meeting had been a brief encounter outside of a Japanese restaurant in West Hartford Center. Christine had been with one of Milo’s coworkers at the time, a nurse at Hartford Hospital who had been working the same shift as Milo, and for the brief moment that the two of them conversed, Christine had sized up Milo and deemed him “cute.” The next day, his coworker, a woman named Nina, had passed on the favorable estimation as well as Christine’s phone number. “She wants you to call.”
“What? I’m just supposed to dial her number and start talking? What am I supposed to say?”
“I dunno. Ask her out, silly.”
This type of interaction seemed all well and good on the silver screen, but in real life, calling a strange girl and asking her on a date based on a split-second impression was not easy.
Hello, Christine?
Yes?
Hi, this is Milo.
Oh, hi, Milo. How are you?
Good. And you?
Fine.
Then what?
If the conversation proceeded thusly, Milo would be on the hook for the first meaningful statement of the phone call. He would have to proffer the next thought or idea. What might it be?
So, I hear that you think I’m cute. I barely remember what you look like from the minute that we spent together, but I figured I’d give it a shot. I don’t exactly have a stable of girls to call upon.
Milo spent hours trying to find a foolproof way to be the last one in the conversation to indicate his current state of being, thus placing the onus of the first meaningful statement of the conversation on Christine, but there was no getting around it. If he placed the call, he would eventually need to express something other than pleasantries.
In the end, he managed to make the call after a three-day cocktail of rehearsal, rescripting, and avoidance, and thankfully, Christine had made the conversation easy on him. Milo led by saying that Nina thought they might have a lot in common, including a love for hiking and the movies, and Christine essentially took it from there.
Three nights later, they were back in West Hartford Center, enjoying a candlelit dinner at Arugula. It was his first date in a long time, so Milo was feeling uncommonly normal as he sat down at the table by the window. No longer relegated to the role of the Dungeons & Dragons nerd, he was sitting across from a beautiful woman who had greeted him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant with a warm and genuine smile. Her hair was short and dark, and she appeared to be wearing little if any makeup, and it didn’t appear as if she needed any. She possessed the kind of natural beauty that seemed to require little effort. She was short, barely five feet tall, which was fine with Milo, who was only five feet, seven inches tall. She wore small diamond studs in her ears and was otherwise unadorned. Simple but beautiful, Milo had thought as she approached him on that warm spring evening. He was also pleased to see that the shirt, pants, and sport jacket had been a good choice of attire. Christine was wearing a short black dress and heels. Not too formal, yet not too casual either.
The trouble began just after they had finished ordering. In the short time that they had spent together in the restaurant, Milo had finally begun to relax at bit. The pressure of the near-blind date had been wearing on him, but after just fifteen minutes together, it was clear that he and Christine were going to get along just fine. With the relaxation came the sudden need to use the restroom for what Milo feared would be more than just a couple of minutes. Apparently the release of tension had sent a signal to his body that the time had come for him to have a seat and take care of business.
Milo realized this almost immediately after handing the menu back to the waiter, and hoped for a moment that he might suppress the need. Abdominal discomfort indicated otherwise. So with hopes of accomplishing the task quicker than usual, he excused himself from the table and made his way to the men’s room, where he took a seat in one of the two stalls.
As with many things, the need to complete a task quickly caused the process to become exponentially more difficult, as the relaxation he felt moments ago was replaced by muscle-wrenching tension. For a minute, Milo thought that he might abandon the process altogether, his body offering him a last-minute reprieve, but as he rose from the commode, his body reminded him of what must be done.
Milo was in the restroom for twelve minutes (he watched the minutes pass on his cell phone) and had no idea what to say when he returned to the table. He had been gone excessively long. The salads had probably arrived five minutes ago. Christine might already be on her second glass of wine. He could attempt to pretend that the time that he was away did not warrant mention, but then he feared that the specter of his absence would linger over the night.
He thought about telling his date that he had met an old friend in the restroom and had chatted with the guy for a few minutes, but Arugula was a small restaurant with no more than a dozen tables, all in clear view of one another. Christine would surely ask Milo to point out his friend, which he would be incapable of doing.
Unable to come up with a reasonable excuse for his delay, Milo resigned himself to returning to the table and hoping for the best. But as he exited the restroom into the narrow corridor that connected the dining room with the restrooms and the kitchen, Milo noticed that the rear door to the restaurant, one that appeared to be for employees only, was ajar.
Suddenly, he had an idea.
Four minutes later, a total of sixteen minutes after he had stepped away from the table, Milo reentered the restaurant through the front door, slowing and deepening his breathing in order to mask the effects of the sprint that he had just made around the building and down the alley between the restaurant and the adjacent gourmet dog bakery.
“Huh?” Christine said, startled to see Milo walk through the front door and across the restaurant to his seat.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting and placing his cloth napkin back in his lap. “It was stupid. There’s a door at the back of the restaurant. In the back hall. It was open a crack, and I heard some shouting coming through it as I came out of the restroom. Coming from the back parking lot. S
o I went to take a peek. A couple of teenagers with skateboards were picking on another kid, a smaller kid, calling him fag and queer, so I chased them off and made sure the smaller kid was okay. But I got locked out in the process.”
“Oh,” Christine said, eyes widening in surprise. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. I mean, they were just kids. No big deal.”
“God … I feel bad,” she said, a grin forming on the corners of her lips. “I was sitting here thinking that you were indisposed. Or worse. You were gone so long, and it was getting a little awkward, just sitting here alone, sipping wine. I was starting to get a little annoyed. But I didn’t know that you were out saving someone’s life.”
“I didn’t save anyone’s life. I just told the kids that I’d call the cops if they didn’t get lost.”
“It sounds pretty heroic to me,” she said, reaching her hand across the table to squeeze his. “A lot of people would have ignored the whole situation. And I bet the kid thinks you’re a hero too.”
“Maybe,” Milo said. “But honestly, it was nothing.”
The rest of the date had gone exceptionally well. Transforming a potentially negative moment into a positive one, Milo had managed to relax and gain a measure of poise, shedding the nervousness and apprehension that he had felt ever since asking Christine out. She had found his actions, albeit fictitious, heroic, and that had set the stage for an unexpectedly positive first impression.
It had also been the first time that Milo had lied to his future wife, and though he sometimes wished that he could have been more honest with her at the beginning of their relationship rather than starting off on fraudulent terms, this minor act of subterfuge had helped to provide Milo with the belief and the confidence that he might be able to keep his non-bathroom-related demands a secret as well.