The Man Who Retired to the Moon
The closed sign was flipped some three hours before the convenience
store actually closed, as is my custom, yet was unable to deter the man
whose night could have been no less trivial.
He walks in and slams a pizza box down, authoritarian in posture.
“Read the word right before pizza, would you?” he leans back,
expectant.
“Says supreme,” I offer, taking my elbows off the counter and
standing upright.
The game begins.
“Yeah, supreme. Now guess how many olives I found.”
The eight p.m. to four a.m. shift is the mesmeric shift. Staring at the
long fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling brings me visions of serpentine wisps
dancing outwards. I forget I am human during this shift. The bulbs are souls
and the wisps are larvae. What does that make me?
“I am entirely unsure as to how many olives you found, sir.”
“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t, so I’ll tell you. Two.
I found two olives. So it seems to me that this is not a ‘supreme’
pizza but more so a ‘minimal’ pizza. Wouldn’t you agree,
young man, a ‘minimal’ pizza, far from ‘supreme’?”
For some reason, at this point I remember that there are certain types of
flies and mosquitoes that only live a day, maybe at most a week. The fluorescent
bugs live an even more transitory life. Eight p.m. to four a.m. to be precise.
“I suppose you would be correct in such a statement, sir.” Closed
means closed damn it.
Memories and hours pass with rigor in the still night. They pass like the
man so easily slighted, his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth
on his heels, teeth gritted to the exact measure of his disappointment.
“Well you can keep it, I paid for a ‘supreme’ pizza. I
don’t want this one, that’s ridiculous,” he sighs with
a slight motion to depart unfulfilled [quintessential movement of the scorned
customer looking for justice].
“Sir wait,” [he stops] “I cannot even begin to express
my equal dissatisfaction with your situation. Allow me to personally resolve
this.”
I place a hand on my hip, open the register. If I only had a day to live,
I’d move in one direction for twelve hours, then turn around and die
at the exact moment of my return.
Scratching my lip, I smell the scent of pennies on my finger. How long does
the average penny live? With a light laugh, I collect a stack of twenties
from the register, then the tens, the fives etc. leaving the pennies. His
bemused look is my supreme payment as I leave the store.
It’s about one a.m. but there’s little sign of movement outside;
the sidewalks are quiet. Even if I walked all night, the edge of the city
would still dwell in unapproachable distance; only the moon would eventually
escape. Only the moon, having shown up and expended its light, would retire,
around a curve of wakening light. I wish so dearly that same opportunity
was mine.
Closed means closed.
Dave De Fina is 24 and attends the Iowa State University MFA Program for Environmental Writing. He knows the whole alphabet by heart and always shares his crayons.