Wednesday, December 17, 2008

The Sad Pimento



Paul lived the life of so many other pimentos like himself. It was a symbiotic existence, within his host olive, Oliver. Oliver was an outdoorsman by hobby, and had made a name for himself among the gentlemen in his younger days, leading courageous expeditions into the nearby untamed countryside. He had bagged some beasts in his day. He regaled Paul on many an occasion with stories of the thrilling hunts, the close scrapes and soaring victories. Paul listened intently, snug in Oliver's pit, to his descriptions of the magnificent taxidermied trophies he had kept in his home and cabins in his pre-jar lifetime.

Days in the jar passed well enough, and it was the prime of Paul's life. Confident and feeling secure at the heart of Oliver, Paul conversed with the olives and pimentos in their brine. They were the finest pimentos he'd ever known. He was honored to share the jar with each of them, and proud that he should be able to even call some of them friends. Despite the ocassional political tiff, peace was the order of the day.

Hermetically sealed and tightly packed, Paul and Oliver were fortunate to have a window seat. The world passed by swiftly, the mechanical activity of the warehouse, the rush of the supermarket. All was bustle and din without. But inside the jar, comaraderie and sharing -- deep sharing -- reigned.

Feeling empty in these, his final moments, Paul reflected on the rush of excitement that had passed through the jar on that day so recent when they had been purchased. Making their way to this countertop, the new surroundings were intriguing. Just as lively as before, but somehow more enjoyable, relaxed. Loungey.

And then the pick came. Piercing Oliver, it missed Paul. Oh the cruel whim of Fortuna. Alone in this unbrinely concoction. Paul thought again about his empty feeling. Empty was the wrong characterization. He was the exact opposite of empty, but not full. He was homeless, friendless, mourning and claustophobic and plumetting and untethered. The dregs around him washed away at a tilt. Soon, at least, it would be over.

Half-chewed, he wound up in a wadded napkin.

1 comment:

Missy H. said...

Well, that can be life! Half chewed.