How to Find Peace at the End of the World Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jars. Must be at least ten or so jars of pickled food and preserves. I reach up and remove a bottle. It’s large. A two quart mason jar. The lid is sealed with melted wax. The contents inside continue to move even after I’ve stopped swirling the jar around in my hands. Eggs. Pickled in clear vinegar and black pepper. I remove the other jars and set them on the counter and realize a bounty: watermelon rinds, mushrooms, some vegetable slaw, corn relish, apricot conserve, green beans, asparagus, and the large two gallon jars packed full of homemade jerky. My childhood in a pantry. I wipe my hands on my pants and look around. I need to take these. I unseal a jar of jerky and snap into one of them. So good. I realize I haven’t really eaten today, unless you count the donut I had in the morning. I look at the other jars. I am loathe to unseal them. I take the jar of jerky with me and grab the Beast and bring her out front of the old woman’s house. How should I secure my treasure? I take a comforter from the woman’s house and lay it down on the rubber lined truck bed, and then using the grooves already there, stack the jars in between layers of the thick cotton fabric. I tie everything in the bed down with bungee cords. Diamonds and watches. Hah! These jars and the bud, especially after today, are worth more to me than all the diamonds in the world, and that’s the truth. Thank you old lady with too tight running shorts. Wherever you are.

9PM. I’m so tired. There’s a possibility, I tell myself, that if I go to sleep right now, in my own bed, I will wake up tomorrow and everything will be back to normal.

I ate for dinner what I found in my neighbor’s refrigerators. I don’t know what but it made me feel better. I called it a block party. The Thomlassens brought some quite delicious pot roast. The Churofs were second place with meatloaf. Who knew I lived next to such gustatory powerhouses? Sorry for the wordiness. I get that way when I am drunk. Yes. I imbibed. I partook. The Smiths brought an excellent bottle of Pinot Noir. The Carroways some Modelo Negro, my favorite beer in the world. The Roque’s contributed a generous helping of Tamales. And I can’t forget the old jogger lady’s preserved goods. I sacrificed a jar of pickled green beans. Delicious. I ate them all, the entire two quart jar. Call me bloated.
    I’ll need to take some cans somewhere to replace these greens. For some reason it feels extra important now to eat right.
    I fell asleep, a little food coma, on my couch while watching the videos of our trip to Orlando. The happiest place on earth was also Amy’s happiest place on earth. In one shot she’s running up to goofy, throws an arm around his lanky neck for a big hug. She’s covering her eyes: she’s not even on the ride yet. We’re standing outside in line, waiting to ride the Tower of Terror. The elevator doors open up and all the people in the ride are revealed and then the elevator car drops. Amy closes her eyes and does this cute little scream/moan. “Do we have to go on the ride?” she says. “Oh come on,”  a voice deeper than I am suddenly used to answers back. Is that really my voice? I think to myself. Was I really there? Do I remember that? I feel like an intruder, watching my own video, as if I had broken into my own house and was right then watching somebody else’s home video.

I am much too drunk to drive. I’ve come upstairs and gotten into bed for a real reast. Tomorrow, then.

No. I have not done what I intended: to escape this hot zone, to go in search for my fiancée. Call it sloth. Call it my slacker ethic. Call it immaturity. I feel OK. No chemicals in the air have yet caused me to dissolve into a puddle. Bolstered by my find in the old woman’s house, I made the rounds through the rest of my neighbors’ houses. I took the fire axe to their doors. Imagine their surprise when they reappear tomorrow and find all of their wooden doors splintered open.