jessewestend

The Pickle Jar
One night, in a rare moment of openness he walked up to his favorite waitress Sandy, a woman whose life had been one tragedy after another, and said You dont need to look so worried about tomorrow, Sandy.
She just sort of cocked her head to the side and said Whatever, you say baby. Whatever you say. She was good at ignoring customers. In fact, thats the reason she was such a popular waitress. She really didnt give a shit. She could play along all day if necessary but she would never get too involved. She could always laugh at the right times, and feign interest when need be.
No, I mean it...Its ok. he said, Its like... its like today is already gone. You know? You cant worry about today or even tomorrow cuz its already yesterday. I know its easy to worry about all our statistics and our tragedies but... but look over there. Do you see the horizon? Do you see that burnt sunset? We are the setting sun. You know? I mean, were already the period pieces of tomorrow; and we dont even know it. Shot out of context with awkward accents and quaint rituals. I mean, why worry? None of this will matter to whoever takes our jobs, our homes, our names after we have passed.... Its almost as if it never even happened. I mean havent you ever wondered if... His voice trailed off as he looked into her tired, sagging eyes.
He would have kept going because he was enjoying his awkward attempt at dramatic speaking but Sandy seemed to be getting upset. He could feel her thinking all the wrong thoughts; could almost see the images in her eyes.
Sandy wasnt thinking. She was remembering, like watching a movie in her head. There were no thoughts because she knew exactly how she was supposed to feel. She had no choice but to grieve. She remembered the son that fell off the couch and onto his head. She remembered how he nearly lost all of his motor skills. All the work she missed staying by his side and whispering into his ears that Momma was here was made possible by a big pickle jar with a picture of her boy, Tommy, and the simple sentence: HELP SANDY. She remembered how hard he had fought to walk again, and how much progress he was making with his speech. She remembered how much money it had cost to get him such good therapy. The stacks of bills piled up in her dimly lit kitchen in between the coffee machine and the toaster. The donations had helped, but not enough. She remembered going to see a man at the bank about borrowing money the morning before her house burned down with him and everything she owned inside of it. She started to shake and once again she wondered what the hell she was working in dive like this for. These kids, she thought, they just get weirder every day.
Sandy started to turn to the back for a smoke break but Austin stopped her. His heart felt dead and his chest felt empty. It seemed like every time he tried to speak, the room got colder. Like he was speaking with ghosts, or maybe like he was one... He knew she wouldnt understand, apologized, and told her to have a good night. The twenty dollars he gave her for a tip might have seemed excessive, but what is money to a dead man? Talking to ghosts was a waste of time, he decided. A vow of silence was beginning to form on the tip of his tongue and he laughed a bit at the thought. How odd, we have to speak to say we are done talking.... Quiet mouse, still mouse... Go!