February 20, 2002

Spring Cleaning

George K. George

Mark pushed his way through the automatic doors and was flooded with the mixed smells of refrozen, reheated cafeteria offerings. The pit in his stomach satisfyingly deepened. Retinal mosaic shimmered away, now out of the pale parking lot and in windowless florescent bath of rattling, squeaking shopping cart derby. An elderly man urged him a cart and some coupons, but he had only come to this Mart for one thing.

He whisked by appliances, women's and children's clothing, the pharmacy, and electronics. To the glass counter under a hanging sign, "Sporting Goods," Mark stepped up quickly and close. With gaped mouth, he was going to speak.

"—", started Mark when the balding flannelled man was through acknowledging a fellow employee.

"Well. What can I help you with, sir?" said the man, slowly, after some look of amused surprise.

"I need a—some bullet—bullets."

The man stared straight into Mark's eyes, sighing cautiously through his teeth, "Ammunition. What caliber?" he asked, and laid one elbow on the glass.

"I don't know, what do you have?"

The man in flannel took this opportunity to show just how he had become manager of the sporting goods department and was allowed to dress as he pleased amidst the others in blue stickered vests. He casually listed casing alloys, the differences in hollow point and standard bullets, and mentioned the assortment of shotgun shells in case that was what he was looking for.

Mark looked down into the case, hoping one of the small boxes would stand out.

"Are you a hunter? What kind of gun do you have?" questioned the man interestedly.

Mark reached into his sweatshirt and clumsily dropped a shining chrome handgun on the glass, which caught a few nervous glances from passing shoppers. The man's tone dropped to that of a fireman presented with a Coke bottle full of gasoline and a cloth wick, "Ah. We don't have the bullets for that," a pause, "House of Guns might have it, I used to work there—Wait they've shut down. I don't know. Sorry, sir, I can't help you. You will probably have to order it."

The Magnum's chamber stayed empty. Mark walked back, through silent rows of telephones and blank videocassettes. He was nearly lost, not sure from which direction he entered, when he came upon a wall of television sets. All mumbled something at once, except one. In its gray convex display, Mark saw himself featureless behind raining glare. The dead cell held his attention, as would a black orchid in a field of hybrid carnations. He stared straight ahead like he had several hours earlier in his evacuated studio apartment.

Furniture and framed prints were gone from Mark's small cubic home. As well as these, waffle irons, indoor grills, toaster ovens, blenders and food processors sat with their extended families, waiting to be claimed at second-hand stores. Mark had viewed, before the cable was disconnected for tardy payment, a network documentary on Eastern religion. Between five-minute breaks for sponsorship messages from businesses with dwindling warehouse supplies and full call-reception centers, words such as "fasting," and, "nothing," and phrases such as, "no possessions," and, "attaining zero," rang like the call he'd been waiting for, before the telephone service was also disconnected because of mounting late fees. When an eviction notice came the next day, Mark saw it as nothing less than, a sign from "the universal oneness," and remembered the word, "reincarnation," in the documentary's conclusion.

His indiscernible face vanished from the gray glass with a click and cathode tube squeal. A voice cracked next to him, "This is what Zenith just put out." Bright bleeding images flipped on the screen behind a superimposed menu. The young blonde-haired employee asked after an uncomfortable wait for reaction, "Are you looking for a TV today, sir?"

Mark thought of the installments in his apartment he had found no way to remove. The electric range had been there before he moved in, and the same was true of the vintage refrigerator. The wooden cabinet television set was now the only thing that provided light economically.

"No," and Mark walked blindly into house wares.

He found himself walled in by one hundred shades of off-white table lamps. One was marked, "Zero Mark-Up From Wholesale." Mark checked the tag, and saw the modest lamp as a new light. The price was almost nothing, but alas, he had no table with which to grace it. Mark focused on getting out of the Mart, but ended up in a fabricated family room complete with cardboard electronics. A blue stickered end table nearly tripped him when he thought he saw a checkout counter in the distance and began to jog. The table fell with a crack well in earshot of a permed blue vest in her thirties.

"Sir! Sir! Come back here please!" she waddled briskly after him. Mark turned with wide eyes at the approaching face.

"You're going to have to buy that table and the thing that was sitting on top of it."

"What thing?"

"Come with me," she turned her back, and relaxed in some slow walking back to the family room.

Mark followed at seven paces.

"See? The table's broken. You can't run in... the...."

"Living room," said Mark.

"And this is broken too."

"What is it?"

"It's a... I don't know. Just take these to the checkout."

"How do you know it's broken?"

"Look at it. Now, you have to pay for these."

Mark loaded up his arms with his the things he did not want to possess and could disown, swung by house wares for that priceless lamp, and followed his nose to the front of the store.

In the opposite bench of his red cafeteria booth sat cheap enlightenment, a weak device for suspension and something that might be broken. Disappearing on the styrene plate in front of Mark were a shapeless gelatin dessert, several soggy wings and, beside the plate, a generic caffeinated beverage. The lights buzzed, and the shuffling voices of the night's final shoppers grew faint. Mark was sure he felt the eternal present, the "heavenly moment."