“And please bless this food. In your name and for your glory, Amen.”
Now to savor my dinner. Marie Calendar, The Thanksgiving Meal version. Before I was married and cooking for one, I considered myself a very loyal Banquet frozen meal customer. Some time in between then and my latest run as a single man, the brain trust at corporate decided to mix the desert choices up. Now, the pizza meal is stuck with gooey pudding while the warm, delectable brownie now shares the same space as the chicken nuggets. Nothing against the chicken nuggets but I have always felt that there is no more perfect frozen food combination than pizza and a brownie. As a valued Banquet customer, I promptly passed along my displeasure of the switcheroo. After several form letter responses, I decided it was best to take my dinner desires elsewhere. Hungry Man. Swansons. Michelenas. I tested almost every choice in the frozen food aisle (except for El Fenix. No one should eat El Fenix). I found that everything else paled in comparison once I had a taste of Marie’s cooking. Whether it was the lasagna with noodles or the savory turkey medallions with mashed potatoes and dressing, there is no second choice.
Of course, any meal is better when someone is not constantly banging on the door. With a new meth dealer in the complex, it is inevitable that some of his customers get confused and visit me in apartment 131 instead of him in apartment 313.
“I believe you are looking for apartment 313. This is 131.”
“It’s me jackass, let me in.”
Instead of a quick visitor, the knock at the door is my ex-wife Brionna. Along for the visit this evening is her boyfriend of the last six months, something something.
“What brings you by this evening,” I ask as Brionna shoves her way inside. I have little to no care as to the true nature of the visit. I just want to get the conversation ball rolling so I can get back to my meal.
“Have you heard anything about the money yet?” The money Brionna asks about is a life insurance policy she has been waiting almost a year now to collect on. That is, a life insurance policy for her own “death”.
“No body…” I fade out because she has heard the rest. Seems that insurance companies do not make a priority to rush payment on a policy that has yet to supply a body of the deceased. Brionna and something take a seat on my cardboard box couch. Since this visit already feels like it is going to last a while, I take a seat in my old brown recliner. The one that doesn’t recline.
Something is off with Brionna tonight. It is not particularly cold outside but a lot of times she wears some kind of jacket in case someone is too in love with their air conditioning. I guess wear would not be the best word to describe her jacket usage this evening. More like dangling like a shawl.
As I try to place what is out of order with the ex, her boyfriend removes his backpack from his shoulders and sits it down on the floor in front of him. Maybe he needs help with his math homework. I was always the numbers guy. Brionna believed more in words. Instead of books from his bag, the boy pulls out a giant mess of foil and Saran Wrap stuffed inside a giant freezer Ziploc bag. Maybe someone cooked something for me. More likely, it is something of mine that Brionna still had that she either broke and the million little pieces are inside for me the reassemble.
The boy unwraps the present himself. Save me the pain of unwrapping whatever tragedy lay at the center. Layer upon layer of are removed with no site of the contents underneath. As the object takes shape, it leaves me more and more clueless as to what it is. Once everything is unwrapped and laying out visible on the floor, I regret ever being curious.
“That’s one fifth of my body, bitch,” Brionna announces like she has just pulled a full house and stolen the pot. As she stands, her jacket falls back onto the couch. The severed arm on the ground matches the emptiness underneath Brionna’s right shoulder. At least it makes sense now why the jacket arms were empty. Why put one arm in if you can’t put both. “If that’s not proof enough for them, I don’t know what is.”
“Money money money, Money,” something proclaims. Brionna wraps her left arm around him and they dance in a circle using the arm like a sombrero marking the center to revolve around. The couples comfort around the arm allows them to jostle about without worrying about puking all over the floor. I am not in such a Zen like place with the severed member.
“All you have to do is go bury it where I “disappeared” from and then go back in a week and stumble upon it.”
“Money money money,” something sings again. Dancing follows. I make a bee line for the kitchen. I don’t imagine that the original design of my garbage disposal was to ingest my last three meals but sometimes the best inventions carry multiple benefits.
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