'We brought bread and fall flowers'

We brought bread and fall flowers, even though it was summer and I’m gluten-free, but, hey. The party was at the House of the Future, which was a bit of a misnomer because the house was built in the ‘50s. I think the future of the ‘50s is much more interesting than the present of today. We have a lot fewer starburst clocks now.

My dad always says he wishes he could live long enough to see the end of the world. I never understood that. I remember the first time I found out the Earth was going to be swallowed up by the sun. I panicked. Then I heard it wasn’t going to happen for thousands — millions? billions? — of years and I relaxed. It doesn’t make sense, though, because either way I’m going to be dead.

One time I was watching a meteor shower with a roommate of mine and she explained some phenomenon that would essentially mean the Earth would be eliminated in the blink of an eye. Maybe by a black hole. I said I hoped that wouldn’t happen. She said we wouldn’t even notice it because it would be so fast. But I think I would notice. And I wouldn’t like it.

We brought bread and fall flowers to the party at the House of the Future. It was full of Burners — Burning Man fans. A group I finally realized I will never, ever, ever fit in with. Even if there was a  party at the House of the Future the day before the sun swallowed the Earth, I would still be the one in the corner wearing my Ann Taylor Loft walking shorts and wondering why people felt the need to wear balloons on their heads encased by pantyhose. Maybe if there was a joke in there I could understand? Some sort of sly reference to the plight of the bourgeoisie? Nope. Just balloons in pantyhose, floating on by.

One year at Burning Man I decided to join the playa choir because I thought it would give me a purpose out there in the desert. We practiced at 10 each morning. My lungs caked with dust as I belted out our hallelujahs. We performed in center camp on Sunday, the last day of the event. Bodies writhed in front of us, contorting in drug-fueled yoga poses. “Why does your wife look like she’s not happy?” someone said to my husband when he pointed me out from the audience.

One of our singers stood in front to give a speech. She started talking about how much Burning Man meant to her, and not only that, it had meant a lot to her dad. She was holding something in her hand. What was it? It looked like a pill bottle. Was she about to dose herself in front of us. She started talking about how much her dad had wanted to attend Burning Man this year. Hmm… She looked down at the pill bottle. No. no no no no no. This is not right. She opened the bottle. She explained that she had brought her father with her this year. Right here, in this bottle. Dad’s powdery ashes spilled out from the bottle in a semi-circle around her feet, right near where the bodies had been writhing before. After the performance I couldn’t help but walk to the front area to get off the risers. My feet shuffled through a combination of humanity and alkaline dust that I’m not likely to experience again in my lifetime.

'The morning sunlight advanced across the powder blue carpet'

The morning sunlight advanced across the powder blue carpet. She had chosen powder blue because it was soft. Not red like the carpet in the church, spilling its way up the altar for communion. The world was harsh, black and white and red. But her room was gentle. Just this one space in a house full of exposed beams, cobwebs, and the flickering of blue light from the TV.

Keep hand moving. Brain not working.

I didn’t see morning sunlight for a long time because I worked at the newspaper. My friends and family thought I could adapt my schedule on my off days. I said it would be like them deciding to get up at 3 in the morning on the weekend, but they never really understood that. I was so happy when I stopped working there and I could see not sunlight but sunsets. So, so pretty. My favorite time of the day. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sounds good.

The morning sunlight advanced across the powder blue carpet as she waited for her interview to start. This was the first time she had thought to work at a candy company. The carpet was powder blue, the tables were candy apple red, the chairs were sour apple green, and the receptionist was far too perky for 7 a.m. When Janie was told to have a sweet, sweet morning she knew this might not be the place for her. She also expected to see Gene Wilder’s wild hair peeking out from the hallway. Roald Dahl was quite an odd guy, wasn’t he? Janie thought about the dark books and movies she had been exposed to as a kid. They scared her and gave her depth at the same time. Willie Wonka into the cave of nightmares or whatever it was. Did everyone escape that? Remember that kid that got sucked into the chocolate tube? Oh my god, why am I here?

Before Janie’s thoughts could tumble into her running out of the room screaming, a woman appeared from the hallway. Hair not unlike Gene Wilder’s, Janie noticed. The woman introduced herself as Maria and shook Janie’s hand. Janie appreciated the handshake, just the right amount of pressure. People with weak handshakes made her suspicious. People with strong ones made her feel tiny. But Maria’s was just right, like the perfect combination of crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle that the food scientists say is the key to creating an addictive substance. Drugs, food, everyone is pushing something.

Janie again tried to get the negative thoughts out of her mind. She needed this job because she could barely keep regular food in her house, let alone sugary and/or savory frankenfood. She did realize, though, that the secrets of both sausage-making and candy-making should remain in the closet (She had helped her husband make sausage once. Since then the food processor attachment had sat alone at the back of the cupboard, a safe home for one or more enterprising spiders). With that thought in mind, Janie walked through the crossed candy canes that marked the entrance of Maria’s office and took a seat on a pleasant looking lollipop chair. 

“So,” Maria said. “What brings you to our land of candy?”