He’s a rebel and he sees with eyes close to crystal.
With their Harleys outside leaning their great weight on their sighing kickstands, the Cali Scarecrows sit twelve strong at a long and sturdy wood table, holding lengthy menus in their meaty hands. Steps away, the waitress is waiting, pen tapping pad, but Ken can’t choose. Fingering the finger that used to penetrate a wedding band, he feels sick to his stomach, no appetite at all. Not for food anyway. Sometimes a long walk out of a doctor’s office only leaves you hungry for more life. He stares at the menu another second or two and decides to make his stand instead, his thoughts a string of wasps exiting their hive.
“What they should do is, instead of listing calories, they should tell you how much life your food will take from you. A hot dog is a half hour. Bang, just like that. You eat it, you die a half hour sooner than you otherwise would. Eat two and it’s a whole hour. That’s what I learned recently, and I haven’t been the same since. That knowledge is a black star in my brain. Food gives and food takes, but we never know how much. We’ll eat something and we’ll know that it’s unhealthy, but the consequences hold no weight. And this needs to change. We should go to the supermarket and instead of reading a list of ingredients, we should be able to see that a bag of Doritos will steal forty-five minutes from your life, a box of Trix 15, that a pint of blueberries will give you back five minutes, because it’s far easier to lose than to gain. This is what life should be, right? Let the buyer beware. What do we know of calories? Of grams of fat and vegetable oils? These are phantom threats. It doesn’t feel real. We speak in minutes and days. Months and years. We speak in life. We speak in death. It’s much harder to eat those fries, those cookies, when you know what they’re stealing from you. Are they worth ten minutes of life? A conversation with your kids? Are they worth a ride through the mountains when the stars are out and you’re still going up and up and up and you think you might just reach them? What about hearing an accent you never heard before or having your dog’s head in your lap in front of the TV while it plays the last ten minutes of the best damn show you’ve ever seen, something that actually inspires and changes you? What about one more chorus of “Happy Birthday” from your friends and family before you blow out your candles and make your wish, one more glimpse of lightning so bright you’d swear it was day? Are you willing to make that trade? Those numbers add up fast. Ice cream goes down differently when you know it’s an assassin. This should be our purpose. Go to the scientists, get an approximation, and if they won’t do it we’ll print up the labels ourselves and stick them on every package all across this cemetery of a country. People will learn. They’ll follow. This is our mission. This is our fight in the world. I see it now. Scarecrows keeping Death away. That’s what we are.”
He’s surprised that he’s standing. Everyone’s silent and staring, even the waitress whose mouth is open wide enough to show her pink wad of gum and the indentations in it. They all look incredulous, as if a spell has been cast. Even beyond their table, everything’s as still as a desert landscape at night, but Ken senses a glorious dawn. Then someone belches something volcanic and laughter immediately follows as does the rapid string of familiar jokes and conversations of decades old sitcoms, as if it were life that was in syndication. They go on to order the usual meals of spicy buffalo wings and bottomless cokes, mozzarella sticks and two fingers of scotch, double burgers, loaded fries and bottles of Guinness, almost as if Ken had never said a word. Feeling heavier than ever, he sits back down and doesn’t speak again. They’ll understand tomorrow.
Michael Paul Kozlowsky is the author of SCARECROW HAS A GUN. Writing as M.P. Kozlowsky, his children’s novels include JUNIPER BERRY, FROST, ROSE COFFIN, and THE DYERVILLE TALES. He lives in New York with his wife and two daughters.
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