There was a dog that came into the store. He was on a leash. I know that he was a boy because I asked the person who was walking him.
The dog was chewing on his leash. That’s why I asked about him. I wanted to alert the owner, and I wanted to get the dog’s proper pronoun before doing so.
The guy knew what the dog was doing. He said that the dog does it all the time. He said that he has to buy a lot of leashes because of it.
While they were shopping, the dog suddenly walked up to me behind the counter. He had chewed through his leash. He was so nonchalant about it. The door to the store was propped wide open. The dog could have walked out into the street if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead he had walked back behind the counter like it was no big deal.
Later in the day, I took a package to the shipping center. There was a man who came in after washing the place’s windows. In a loud voice he announced that he had gone to the doctor yesterday and been diagnosed with congestive heart failure.
The doctor gave me five years to live, he said.
Nobody responded.
The man looked from one person to the next, searching for a receptive ear.
He landed on me.
I’m fifty nine years old, he said. I’ve been athletic my entire life. I have three children. My oldest is thirty nine. My youngest is eleven. I know that these projections aren’t absolute. I just want to be there for her. I want to help her grow up. If I can get her to twenty one, I’ll be happy. Then I can go. But five years… She’ll only be sixteen.
I knew that there was nothing I could say that would make things better for him. He wasn’t looking for somebody to say something. He was the one who needed to speak. He needed to be heard. I couldn’t help it. He’s dying. I know that we’re all going to die, but it’s not every day that death comes presenting itself before you.
I was grateful to listen. He was grateful to me for listening. He shook my hand. His hand was moist. I couldn’t help but feel that the wetness was the congestion of his heart seeping out. I knew that it wasn’t contagious, but I sanitized my hands anyways.
Returning to the shop, the oppressiveness of time settles rapidly back in. Not being able to write is maddening. There’s no release. I have nothing else to do. I end up pacing, staring at shelves, looking for little adjustments. Trying to look productive is terrible. I look forward to more orders coming in for me to ship so that I can get out, away from the cameras. I’m tapping my fingers, praying for a customer.
I’ve got ten more days before I’m gone. It’s not so many when you factor in my days off. It still feels like a lot of hours though. And it’s worse this week because I covered that shift. I didn’t have as many days to recharge. My energy is not what it’s supposed to be. It’s hard for me to write when I get home. There are a lot of empty spaces. My brain lulls like a boat in calm water. I’m riding little breezes, inching my way along. The bed is enticing, but I’ve got a schedule to adhere to. Just because I had to work an extra day, doesn’t mean that I get to neglect my greater duty. At least at home there aren’t any cameras on me. I’m adhering to my own inner voice. It’s a great weight of responsibility, but I’d much prefer the pressure that it imposes compared to that which Ulric does. I can just sit, in my still waters, vaping the hours away until I can die another dream. At least I put my time in. That’s all that I can ask for, someone to man the shop and catch the butterflies when they stumble in. That dog behind the counter. The congested heart.
Originally published at appropouture.wordpress.com on March 10, 2016.
