Fiction: Meat Me Halfway

By Mark D. Morrison

 

I have allocated myself a small corner of Paradise where irony makes the world go ‘round. Forced to live with fortitude, resilience and an ambiguous acceptance of what is, where the whole hell on earth scenario seems plausible. I’ll eat your scraps, sure, but that doesn’t mean my palette is less discerning or refined, just that my hunger is more engaging. I’ll take your alms but still believe I have a purpose greater than yours and justify my existence with imaginary future propositions. I just travel to this dark place to become great. It’s all for the sake of Revelation! A justified life is the life for me, so long as I don’t have a moment of clarity now. Then I’ll be in trouble and just may suffer cognitive impairment faster than you can say the words frontotemporal dementia ten times, ten times fast. All started out promising, but curiosity and intent can often be nullified by progressive degeneration of the brain’s frontal and temporal lobes. It happens.

My first high, for example – amazing! Who knew God loved me that much? I immediately became a believer of Jungian proportions. I didn’t think Angels even still whispered in the ears of humans – I thought they were busy drawing Jesus on the side of Tim Hortons or whatever - until every worry was replaced by that blank slate JJ Rousseau liked to talk about. The fourth wall crumbled and everything in front of me became code, ready for manipulation. My chains broke and my birthright of freedom reclaimed. Imagine getting another go in life at the affordable cost of $10 a hit? But yeah, end results, cognitive dissonance, mushroom shaped shadows and all that. Now I’m a homeless junkie (or is it housing insecure mental health struggler?) willing to eat scraps and take charity from the oblivious looking to buy their way into Heaven with me as their modern indulgence. But why cry over spilled homes?

Every morning, I wake up dope sick having injected what I bought for that moment either before bed or through the night. Delayed gratification isn’t really my speciality. I went to bed 31 and woke up 107 feeling like an ancient star being crushed by Gravity on the cusp of becoming a black hole if I don’t force myself into action. One cell at a time – how aptly they are named – I begin to function and gear up to be a productive member of society. I am the zeitgeist! Though I won’t be even fully human, let alone the spirit of the times, until I feel that warmth. In this moment my mind is unfocused, seeing the world through a tunnel. My first practical thought: how can I get money? Hitting the grocery store for some meat is always a positive start, though it is still something I prefer to do as a last resort. Unfortunately, last resorts often come trailing behind first thoughts in a matter of seconds out here. Meat run it is.

The grocery store is about a 20-minute walk and my aged body – decreased bone density, loss of coordination, urinary incontinence, pressure ulcers and all the joys of reaching triple digits – doesn’t want to move. But hesitation is rarely an option and the early junkie gets the meat. I’m glad I’m an early bird and not an early worm – no one ever talks about what happens to the early worm wishing he had just slept in while being eaten. Anyway, I’ll get the meat and then go to trusty Peter, who has a bicycle, meaning he can travel faster, and can always trade it for some pills or cash and then get the pills. The former can be minutes faster, so I always offer my prayers up for that outcome, seeing as I am one of Gods chosen disciples. It’s usually the latter. Plan equals formulated!

I feel the heat of the spotlight soon as I enter the grocery store – from invisible to the fulcrum of all eyes - which is being operated by my own paranoia and anxiety. I’d like to thank my father for not loving me enough and my Mommy for being a Freudian cliché. Or am I the Freudian cliché? Well, it’s definitely one of us. I think. Isn’t he the guy who made the speech about having a dream? This damn spotlight is blinding me. Where was I? Oh yeah, get this fucking mic away from me, I have meat waiting to be stollen.

My system is flawless, and if you follow these steps you will be a successful meat connoisseur in no time. First, look as presentable as your situation allows. I can still manage to look like a normal human being and not a golem leaving a trail of clay. I am decked out in my finest threads, and even washed before coming. I put my backpack in the grocery cart on the end closest to me, already covertly open, and begin my shopping excursion. Never go straight for the meat. In Glace Bay that is like announcing your purpose. We have the highest meat theft per capita; it is a main artery of our economy. We are out here doing Gods work, feeding less fortunate families at a 50 percent discount. Once I have several items in the cart, I allow myself to go to the meat section, looking more like that monster from Jewish mythology with each passing second. Now I know people always want wings and bacon – idiots clearly have never worked in the non-profit sector and don’t understand the concept of maximum return. That would fill my bag and get me $5. Only take expensive meat: chicken breasts and premium steak. Now, if you don’t know how to use your peripheral vision on some Jedi Ninja shit, don’t even begin this mission. I am a professional. You can’t have your head swivelling, looking for cameras and floor walkers. Clock the locations of the cameras the whole time you are in there and find the blind spots. There are always blind spots, and you can know where the cameras are by pretending to look down the aisle for an item and moving your eyes like Alex in A Clockwork Orange – Kubrick not Burgess - when he is joyfully undergoing the Ludovico Technique. Speak Nadsat with your eyes and create a Horrorshow. You don’t want any viewers to pony the slovos. So yeah, soon as you hit your chosen blind spot, casually transfer the already grouped meat into the bag as if doing your job. Act as if you are doing nothing wrong. You should already know if anyone is near, having taken in the surroundings before making the move. Always know your surroundings within the isle without overtly looking. I know at this point - since by now your ass is clenched to stop your stomach from falling out, your skin has amalgamated every color and you’re shivering while sweat pours, so you need your fix – I know you just want to get out of there, but not yet. Think about your next spree and ensure this isn’t your last. Some more facsimile shopping is a must to get you back closer to the doors. You also want to see if you get approached, at which point it still technically isn’t theft, just shame and embarrassment on par with the memories of the many nights you were coked up crying in the middle of a party talking about your father leaving and your mother grieving with unrivalled powers of articulation – not your finest moments, despite the snow covered confidence. Of course, deny the accusation levied at you and still say you planned to pay for this bagged meat against all logic, if you do get approached. Don’t judge me by my obvious mental illness. You are what’s wrong with society; pre judging me because I am all about time management and don’t want some poor minimum wage working single mom to have to bag my groceries. Do you know how much meat I steal here? I mean money I buy here? Yeah, I’ll just go now. Once done pretend shopping and in line with the exit, this part is key – fake an emergency phone call that changes your affect. Don’t be too animated but appear disconsolate and say some words. What happened? Is she okay? Okay, okay. I’ll be right there, just let me grab my bag of meat out of the cart. Throw your bag on and casually, yet expeditiously, walk out the door, while using those erratic eyes to make sure you aren’t being watched. Floor walkers are overly ambitious so you will know, if you are at all perceptive. If they ever became undercover cops – clearly they want to be cops but failed the psychological evaluation and became the CCA’s of their profession – they would be killed on the first day after saying into their shirt “the drugs are in the room.” I wonder if they get benefits that cover having the shit kicked out of them for chasing a desperate dope sick thief. If you do notice eyes following you and around those eyes the manifestation of authority, abort the mission and find a way to empty your bag – back to the blind spot. The most important meat stealing commandment: always be willing to walk away at any point throughout this whole process. Or at least be willing to threaten the life attached to any hand that may land on your shoulder once you pass the threshold. In my experience, both choices are equally effective, but only the former ensures your next visit. Once you are outside, make it look like you are heading to a car, not right to the street. Exit through the parking lot. Feel the relief with each step, but keep your ass clenched, and now make your way to get your dope.

So, now that I’ve detailed how it’s done, it’s time to execute the plan and follow the natural laws bestowed upon me by the Gods – Do not covet thy neighbor’s meat, but when he isn’t home finishing fucking his wife and steal it. I enter the grocery store and am feeling sicker than usual and must go straight to the washroom. I make it with minimal leakage, but after I flush I notice a splatter of shit on my pants and while trying to clean it off I can barely stand the smell and throw up all over the sink. The washroom looks like the one from Trainspotting when Mark Renton dives into the toilet and I look like him after he comes back out. I make my way back to my cart feeling weak and slightly unhinged. My head seems unable to not follow my eyes as I try to scan my surroundings which results in a human sized bobble head leaning on his cart smelling like shit, but no one see’s me yet. This is still salvageable despite a rocky start. I’ll never abort the mission once here! I go straight to the meat and start filling my bag indiscriminately. Something doesn’t feel right but I don’t have time to worry about it, my stomach is almost through the eye of the storm and my appendages feel as if I’ve been nailed to a cross like the protagonist of the New Testament – what’s-his-name – Hayzoos. I can feel the determinate propulsion in my every movement, a pre-ordained mission to become the first meat martyr. Once my bag is full of whichever meats I grabbed I throw my bag on, tip the cart over with clear authority and start making my way to the exit. I feel like I missed a step either before or after the tipping of the empty cart? I think it had to do with prayer for safe passage home; I drop to my knees in the dairy isle and ask God to guide me out of the store successfully: I know I don’t believe in you and have called your character a masochistic egotistical insecure asshole many times, but do me a solid and make sure I’m invisible because I haven’t followed a single commandment and I can feel the shit leaking out as I speak right now. Oh, and do you mind doing the whole world peace thing? Thanks, dogg. Up and moving, I remember the phone call I’m supposed to fake but then remember I don’t own a phone so I hold my hand to my head: what? Who? I didn’t steal any meat Asshole! I have vitamins in my bag and need to hurry up and trade them for meat. Shut up, I’m trying to act normal here. You just had the baby? I’m on my way! I see a guy standing by the door as I holler this last part in the voice of a dying cockroach – I see more than one of him with my dry, yet somehow watery eyes that are burning and squinting. There are at least 10 of him. My disciples have arrived! I must be on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, not in a grocery store. I approach them: come, follow me. “No Sir, you follow me.” Well, a good leader is someone who knows how to follow.

The cops took pity on me and after hours at the police station they let me go with a promise to appear. I went to high school with the arresting officer and she told me how I used to be such a nice guy who she believed would go far in life. I sat across from her feeling like my skeleton wanted to break free from my skin, questioning why I’m alive and how I ended up here, on an emotional pendulum going from radical anger to drastic melancholy – both with a gift wrap of suicidal thoughts. The comedy of it all was lost on me.

By the time I get back to my enclosure at the bottom of the proverbial mountain, I clasp the last idol left from the day – my golden domesticated cow in the form of a capsule. I managed to get cleaned up and steal a drill from another store and get two pills for it. The first one nullified the overwhelming shame of my experiences earlier in the day, and this one led me to quiet contemplation as I held it up to the ceiling – the moon – and thought about the power of this tiny artifact. And I don’t want to hear some vapid ideology about “Thou Shall Not Steal.” When God fingered that tablet from his cloud Friedrich Serturner was yet to isolate morphine from opium; Francis Rynd hadn’t introduced the hollow needle, nor had French physician Charles-Gabriel Pravnaz created the piston syringe; Alexander Wood didn’t consider Himself god while shooting up patients; William Morton’s demonstration on the effects of inhalational anaesthesia wasn’t published; Charles Romley Alder Wright hadn’t yet synthesized diacetylmorphine and named it Heroin only to be later marketed as a nonaddictive congener of morphine and used to treat opioid addiction (Methadone by dammed!); World War 2 was still thousands of years in the future so Germany hadn’t synthesized meperidine and found it to be an effective analgesic to treat injured soldiers; Fentanyl wasn’t made by Paul Jansen and John Purdue Gray hadn’t sold Purdue Pharma to Arthur Mortimer and Raymond Sackler, who in turn didn’t send Pharmaceutical drug pushers to GP’s all across North America with their new wonder drug, OxyContin. Had all of that, and much more skipped here in deference to brevity, happened - Moses himself would have carved an amendment with the tip of a half inch 25 gauge needle between nods. But I must admit, I hope the groundhog see’s his shadow soon because living like this is a matter of burning a finite number of bridges in a self-perpetuating – self being more literal here – cauldron of desperation. I need a break. I need a vision on the road to the meat store to beget belief in something more than immediacy. But I’ll save that for another day, because right now the fear of tomorrow is threatening to ruin my high.

 

 

 

 

 

Mark D. Morrison is an emerging writer from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, on the east coast of Canada. This is an area with long ties to storytelling. Having struggled with mental health and addiction since a young age, Mark found his release in words. He has a BA in English and History from Cape Breton University, as well as a Diploma in Mental Health and Recovery from Nova Scotia Community College. You Can follow him at Mark D. Morrison on Instagram and Facebook.