Shift

An elderly man prepares broccoli with slivered almonds and lemon juice, his hands shaky. An elderly woman snores and dreams in her cane rocker, Brahms crescendoing on the radio, Wheel of Fortune muted on the television. Rain falls. Two young parents joke about the horrid smell emanating from their baby’s diaper. Thousands die in a tsunami. A dozen die in a supermarket shooting, prompting a grisly chat room comedian to write, “Cleanup in aisle 9,” and, in fact, someone does fetch a mop. Retired insurance adjusters rejigger their rejiggered golf swings. Puppies tumble over puppies. My mother coughs her chronic cough. The Dow gains seventeen points, the Nasdaq five and a half. Historians in a Zoom meeting argue the relative evils of twentieth-century dictators. At the edge of the playground, past the monkey bars, a little boy kneels and proposes to a little girl, who says, “Already married to myself for forever, sorry.” Many people fail to come home from work for many different reasons. River otters glisten and bark. A newspaper runs an article detailing the demise of the newspaper industry. An amateur photographer snaps a photo of shrimp tacos. A professional photographer carefully composes a photograph of shrimp tacos. The sun slips behind a screen of gray clouds. Rain falls. I fill the crock-pot with vegetables, lentils, broth. Prisoners rattle chains. Guards rattle keys. Rattlesnakes rattle tails. A purple-haired DJ rolling on ecstasy builds the tension beyond what her flesh, her heart, her spirit believe possible, then, finally, blinded by tears, she drops the beat. Fires destroy a slum. Rain falls. Floods cancel a parade. Presidents on every continent except Antarctica, which has no president, lie through their pancake makeup, smiling. Kittens tumble over kittens. A librarian feigns anger before saying, “If you really, really enjoyed reading it, I’ll waive the late fee.” Activists fight activists with wooden bats and bicycle locks for weapons. A rookie, a nobody, throws a perfect game. Crowds cheer and crowds boo and crowds lynch and crowds keen and crowds hum in harmony. Vigil candles flicker because the crosscurrents of breath, the mingling exhalations, will not be denied. The gravedigger collapses while shoveling. The doula learns she’s pregnant. A hundred-ton blue whale breaches, crashes, vanishes. Rain falls. Rain falls. On the back of a torn envelope, a brave, lonely, world-weary thirteen-year-old scribbles a poem that opens, “Doc sees a shadow on my lung? Well hell, don’t we all got one?” Having forgotten to plug in the crock-pot, I call Triscuits and ice cream dinner, though I stop short of calling it a meal. Someone dumpsters a mop. The mountain underfoot grows a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of an inch. At midnight, rubbing red eyes, Wednesday arrives to begin yet another shift, asking Tuesday out of habit, “Anything to report?” Tuesday lights a cigarette, takes a deep draw, and answers, “The rain, look, it’s turning to snow.”