garbage.
“Very good choice, Sir,” I heard the guy across the counter say.
And I knew, immediately, that I had made the wrong choice.
Not because the product that I had selected was, in any way,
inferior to the other products serving the same purpose—
or—because I had paid a price superior
to the actual economic value
of the item I had selected.
And clearly not
because both my biological parents were dying
—simultaneously—
a duly expected and
reasonably deserved,
if somewhat premature, death—
miles and miles away from
my point of purchase,
of an item I did not particularly need.
No, the impropriety of the sale
lay elsewhere.
It was more the definitiveness
of the transaction, the
irreversibility of what had passed before.
The lies and the deceptions
that had been around
for so long.
A man came into the shop where I work just before Christmas and asked for Waitrose High Bake Water Biscuits. These are crackers, which most people eat with butter and cheese. The high-bake quality gives them a sort-of nutty flavour. I like them, and had bought a packet myself the previous week. It was the second-last such packet on the shelf and this gentleman now had the last one. "When will you have more of them?" he asked. The routine I have adopted is to tell enquiring customers that I will enquire myself with the manager, but on this occasion, I said that we get deliveries of Waitrose only very occasionally, and we'd just had one, so I doubted it would be any time soon. He was not disgruntled, but disappointed, and then continued with his friend to do their shopping. I was curious, so I popped upstairs and spoke to Debs, who checked on her ordering database and said that two cases were on order and would be in within a week to ten days. I was elated and leapt downstairs to see if the man was still in the shop. I espied him at the check-outs and approached through the staff door, where he was packing his groceries. "I have some intel," I said. His eyes widened. "Two cases, maybe ten days, call ahead of time. You may be able to get one case all for yourself." He raised his hand in a fist and I fist-bumped it. "They are very tasty," I conspiratorially confided in him. He said nothing but slowly nodded his head, in acknowledgement and knowledge. His buddy looked across at me with a smile, as if he was pleased that I had brought his friend to orgasm. He and his buddy left, elated.
So: did he make the wrong choice?
Will I have
a duly expected and
reasonably deserved,
if somewhat premature, death?
Let it state on my gravestone: "Here lies Graham Vincent, who died a duly expected, reasonably deserved, if somewhat premature, death. Requiescat in pacem." I like Latin.
A relative of mine was buried in the churchyard at Mochrum. The stonemason misjudged the length of his text, which could have remained and still spoken truth. But he did redo it, no charge. It was to have read "Lord, she is thine."