Pete asked on his way out if I wanted anything from the grocery. I did. I told him to get me a carton of Whoppers.
I think I mentioned the studio has been a busy place. I've turned a blind eye to new ideas, and put my head down to make the pieces I’ve already seen. It’s how the work gets done.
The work is getting done.
My hands look a bit like I’ve taken up cat juggling. I assure you I have not, unless you count Gurtie here on my lap as a really slow motion toss.
There’s no time for a vacation, or even much of a break, so the only substitute really, is a carton of Whoppers, a glass of milk and some REZ. Because, I’ve learned, getting into the zone works like a charm to ease tension. I must check into that one. See what’s known about how that works, exactly.
I offered some Whoppers to Orion, who took the carton, shook out a couple he then handed to me and walked away with the rest. I think he said "thanks" as he rounded the corner.
The What-What?? Was what my mouth said.
In my head, I flashed back to a recent moment in Walmart, that retail Hell, number 666 in the endless strip-mall every town is morphing into before our eyes.
Walmart sells paints and brushes. Walmart sells stains and sandpaper. Walmart even sells Dremmel.
Walmart sells these things cheap. Cheep. Walmart is five minutes away. My tiny soul grows ever blacker.
Ben went along with me. We got separated, which can be a big deal in Walmart. I was about to call him on his cell when I spotted him, gazing at a huge display of plastic Easter eggs. You know, the kind I’ve ranted about before. The kind many a well-meaning grandparent fills with money.
Easter is a religious holiday, celebrated by Christians for the resurrection of Jesus the Christ, after his death by crucifixion at the hands of the Romans.
It was weird enough when I was a little girl and there were baby chickens for sale at stores, with their downy baby feathers dyed blue or pink or orange or some other unnatural color. When I woke up on Easter mornings with a chocolate rabbit or egg that didn’t nearly compensate for having to wear a hat and a stiff new dress and go to church for hours.
So I stood and marveled with Ben. There were camouflage eggs, pink camouflage eggs, Spiderman eggs, Superman eggs, Dora the Explorer eggs…it went on for aisles. And there were baskets too…
Tell me, what does a fat kid running around his grandparent’s back yard looking for money-filled Spiderman eggs to stuff into his Darth Vader basket know about Easter?
Likely, nothing. He’s high on Peeps and getting a rash from his new Sunday chinos, already planning to raid his sister’s Barbie basket for Reeses cups and dreaming of what he can spend his change on. At Walmart, of course.
I can’t take it.
So, Orion and I have a talk. We laugh and giggle and settle down in front of the Playstation. We each have a glass of milk and put the candy between us, for sharing.
We talked about sharing and decided that we share because, like most kindnesses, it makes the most sense. It’s logical. Period.
Imagine there’s no Easter Bunny.
Imagine there’s no Walmart.
Is it easy? Should we try?