It Isn't All About Canned Vegetables...{1}

Prologue

Grocery stores. The average person visits one to make purchases that will, in turn, satisfy their grumbling bellies.

Pork loin, roasted in the oven with rosemary. Fresh broccoli, straight from the local farmer. Corn on the cob, and maybe a glass of ice tea to wash it all down. If you’re lucky, there might be some ice cream. Sounds delicious.

It’s been over six months since my palate has tasted something fresh.

I walked down the aisle of a grocery store with my ratty canvas bag in tow. I didn’t need to plug my nose anymore. The stench of rotting food had dissipated long ago. I glanced over the rows of canned goods. Always canned goods. The supply was dwindling. We would have to relocate soon.

I stuffed my canvas bag with two cans of corn, a jar of kidney beans, some green beans, and a large container of those preserved white potatoes. Sustenance. The colors blended together well, and I figured that made a pretty well balanced meal. I meandered into the pasta aisle to toss a package of noodles into my bag, and turned toward the dimly lit exit.

And I left the building.

I wonder if anyone ever thought canned foods would become such a vital necessity. It certainly hadn’t crossed my mind. A year ago, I would have scoffed at my roommates if they cracked open canned vegetables for dinner. I’m sure I would have smugly listed off numerous reasons as to why their food choices were despicable. Sodium. Preservatives you can’t even pronounce. Let alone the mushy, insubstantial form they take after bathing in their own liquids for who knows how long. Vegetables grow in air, on stems, in sunshine. Not, I would have said, in greenish tinged juices, closed off in an opaque can.

But that was before.

Now?

Well, now I eat canned vegetables.

Chapter One: July 12th, 2013

“Today is a big day.”

“It’s been 7 months.”

“Today.”

Wringer doesn’t talk much. She hasn’t ever since…well, I assume ever since my date with Bobby Dickerson.

On December 11th, 2012, Bobby Dickerson finally asked me to dinner. It had been a long time coming, and it took several rounds of playing ‘hard-to-get’ before I piqued his interest enough to nail a date. He asked me to go to La Bella Rosa for a ‘bite to eat’.

It was a Saturday night over Christmas break. I had six whole weeks to enjoy before my classes began again, and an entire apartment to myself. I had opted to stay in South Carolina for Christmas. A decision that wasn’t entirely difficult for me to make.

The restaurant was fancy. Delicate. Maybe even romantic. However, romance was far from our minds as we ate our way through dinner, dessert, and coffee. I was 20 years old, ready to stretch my proverbial wings, or perhaps I was stretching the talons I intended to sink into him later. Neither Bobby nor I were interested in romance. We wanted physicality. It worked for us.

Fast forward. In typical ‘date cliché’, Bobby came back to my empty apartment. My roommates had all gone home for the break. I flicked a light on long enough to find my bedroom door whilst keeping all toes in tact, and the rest of the evening was spent in darkness.

The sex wasn’t passionate or life-altering, but it was satisfying. There was no pivotal moment where I realized I wanted to share eternity with Bobby Dickerson. Only twisted bed sheets, a thin sheen of sweat, and the musky scent of lovemaking.

I took a shower. Bobby slept.

It could have been something more. Maybe we would have gone steady. Maybe we would have severed all contact. Maybe he was my future.

Now? Well now, he’ll only ever be a part of my past. A quick page in my book. The night was hardly even worth remembering. But I remember it.

At 12:00 midnight I awoke from an unsettled sleep. A feeling I couldn’t quite explain swept over me like a breeze before a storm. My memories from that night are blurred at the edges, like a lens out of focus. Maybe it was the confusion. Or probably the terror. I made my way over to the bedroom window and looked out at the campus. There were people. Lots of them. Saturday nights are usually bustling with party-goers, but most of the students had returned home for the holiday. There were too many people.

I glanced back at my bed, only to find it empty. Maybe Bobby stole away in the night. Maybe he didn’t think I was good in bed. Trivial and vain thoughts flashed through my mind. I walked over to the other side of my bed, flicking on a bed lamp.

There was vomit on the floor next to the bed.

Bobby’s side of the bed.

Confusion washed over me. It quickly changed to a fluttery, nervous feeling. I hate vomiting. I’ll admit, there was even some disgust and annoyance, leaving little room for sympathy. It slowly and vaguely dawned on me that Bobby hadn’t had anything to drink. I don’t know if I had realized it at the time, or if my hindsight is simply 20/20. Maybe I’m just holding grudges against myself. I wasn't terribly proactive.

I walked out my bedroom door into the hallway of my apartment. From somewhere within the darkness sprawled out in front of me, I could hear faint retching noises. I hate vomiting.

I trailed my finger along the wall until I found the light switch. Lying ten feet away from me in a pool of blood, was my evening entertainment from mere hours ago. My reaction wasn’t swift. I didn’t dash over in a fit of proud glory. As a matter of fact, I stood there motionless. Wordless. I watched as Bobby spit up blood, his face steadily draining of color. Shock kept me frozen for several moments longer.

Finally, I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and tapped 911 into the screen.

Send.

No answer.

I tried again.

No answer.

No one ever teaches you what to do when the rescuers aren’t there to do the rescuing.

When I again looked over to that beautiful boy I tried so hard to win a date with, he wasn’t moving. The blood had stopped coming out and was slowly congealing on my carpet. The landlord had just replaced that carpet. Trivial dribble continued to flutter through my mind.

In the movies, the character in my role always ran, careening down hallways screaming for help; or began performing lifesaving CPR. As a consumer of these films, you;d watch that movie, the adrenaline in your blood screaming “I would do that! I would save that person’s life!” But you don’t know. You don’t know what you would do until you’ve been there. Chances are, you’d do what I did.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Trying to wash away the image in front of me like sleep in my eyes. When it stayed as it was, not moving or changing, I simply walked out of the front door. I can tell you I thought it was all a bad dream. I can tell you I had every intention of finding someone to help me. But in all reality, I don’t know what I was thinking. My feet just moved. My hand just opened my door. And my legs just started walking.

I didn’t notice anything particularly strange as I ambled my way down the corridor. I’m pretty sure my mind was totally numb. To this day, I still have no recollection of actually walking down the hallway. Getting into the elevator. Walking through the lobby. I pushed out the revolving door, still in my trance. There were probably other bodies lying around, but I don’t remember seeing them.

It wasn’t until I stepped onto the pavement outside that my mental block began to crumble. There were too many people.

Reflecting back on that night, I don’t know what is more disturbing. The events that were occurring before me, or my reaction to them.

There were too many people. Running. Tripping. Gagging. Falling. Writhing.

Dying.