Monday, April 2, 2007
The Time Capsule
I’ve been given a choice. Either I go in the time capsule, or I work the night shift on the pain killer assembly line. They’re waiting to seal me in, with a crew to patch the wall and put up the plaque. Or they’re waiting to drag me off, to pack up my snack cart. There is a necktie in the capsule, an earnings report, a pasque flower with brown petals. Then there is the long stairwell to the basement with its stalactites, its sales slogans, its alluring mist. I have nothing in my life; I have walked these corridors selling snacks for so long I’ve stepped from my memory like a robe. So I choose the capsule. One of the crew, who I just noticed is in a gorilla suit, readies his giant wooden mallet. It has to be a headache that lasts a lifetime, mind you. Otherwise, what’s the point?