All the King’s Men…
So, I’m in the return line at Lowe’s yesterday, and the cashier needs to see me ID to assure–I’m guessing–that I don’t make a weekly habit of going into Lowe’s with a bunch of unused sconces demanding merchandise credit. (I do.)
Uh oh, she says. What? I say, afraid I’ve been found out. That’s a bad idea, she says. What? I say.
She holds up my license. Organ donation, she says. Terrible. My dad runs a funeral home, and he says they just cut you all up and then it’s so hard to put you back together, and you’re just laying there a total mess. Nobody even recognizes you. Just guts, you know, with nothing else really in there.
Uhm, thank you, I say.
Any problem with the lights? she asks. I shake my head, take my card. Well, good luck with the baby. She smiles–her teeth, an unsettling white–and points from my belly to my face, my face to my belly. You two have a fun day, she says.
Uhm, okay, will do.