Applicant One
Or, How To Chop An Onion Like a Marxist
Laura lost my application so I need to make dinner. I’ve been told I conflate things that don’t belong together.
Let me tell you an inside joke: I talk for a long time before reaching punchlines. On route to the library I pass an abandoned church. The road is busy. I step over a puddle. My eyes still hurt from reading books in bad light. The light wasn’t bad like naughty or evil. The light wasn’t even ill. The light was simply not enough for me.
I filled out three forms even though I couldn’t think straight. This is why things are as they are. I’m thinking pasta. I need to chop an onion, which reminds me not of class warfare but of an emotion that resembles the concept of class warfare. I slice an onion. I don’t know if I do things the “correct” way so please don’t be a scoundrel about my story. I slice an onion.
First, I write an important letter and send it to an important location. Second, Laura loses my whole application; therefore, I need to make dinner. Outside the library, a fat squirrel contemplates lighting fixtures in the earth, the kind that shine upwards to dramatically illuminate statues. But there are no statues here. A crow eats crumbs off the sidewalk, maybe from a footlong sub or a taco. An elderly woman contemplates the squirrel but not the crow. An elderly gentleman contemplates the crow. He stands across the street but I don’t know why. It would be strange if he sat. No benches. We’re not meant to sit on sidewalks or streets. I don’t know why any of these people are here. Probably going to the library, like me. To return or pick up books. I return three books; I send them down the chute. My eyes are like freshly sausages, raw and red.
Onions. The ways I dice or mince. I don’t know the proper jargon because cooking argot baffles me. I cut the onion into tiny pieces because it needs to be done. Yet some pieces refuse to be cut; they cling to the edge of the knife, the edge I can’t see. They’re hiding, and too large! I catch them and brush them with a single finger back onto the cutting board. Then I cut them but they don’t cut. I cut them but they don’t cut. Too big for their britches, ruining this for everybody.
I’d tell Laura about my onion but she couldn’t care less.
I might as well burn down the house.
Not for real. Just an expression.