August 13, 2009
posted by Caroline Picard
- On the third day of his Master Cleanse a boy grumped down an alleyway at eight o’clock in the evening. While considering the various meals he could but would not eat–pepperoni pizza, spaghetti bolognese, pad thai, hamburger with bacon, bacon, bacon and eggs, steak and eggs, steak and frites and horse radish–meals he had missed–cereal, ramen, a ruben sandwich, a vietnemese sandwich, potatoe chips, hot wings, beer, whisky, a late night burrito–he happened to look at the ground–orange juice, pancakes, coffee–where his eyes caught the street lamp casting a pool of light on the cobblestone ground–jasmin rice, garlic naan, indian curry from the take out place down the street–melting in a puddle of ice a pile of unopened beer cans lay scattered in the street. The boy stopped. He stared at the ground. He imagined what the beer would taste like. He felt like a leprechaun. He looked around in case there was a leprechaun. He studied the ground again. He could still taste cayenne pepper in his mouth and he imagined going home to his supper of lemon juice. He squatted down, untied and retied the laces of his shoes. He burped. He tasted bile in the back of his throat. The hair on his arms stood raised, bristling and he broke out in a sweat. Shaking his head, he nevertheless walked away, throwing his arms up in the air. For the next seven days of his cleans, the boy would return to that very spot and imagine again the beer that lay there.