ice box confessional

by Cake Sanchez

Must be an angel, the boy who stomps on Pringles by the beverage cooler. Raaahhhhhr he yells, raawwararrr as the feathers behind his back lift him above another doomed chip. Bucked Up energy cans bear witness to the destruction, Red Bulls hold their loved ones close, the Bangs offer a collective prayer that their display door does not fall clean off the hinges. I don’t believe the drinks understand what they are seeing. He does not invoke fear, this halo-clad boy in his crumbcoated Sketchers. He is no monster, much as he pretends to be. The only prayer any fellow should offer around him is this: That you may see him again. A plea of my own that has finally been answered today, now, on the corner of Pineview and Chestnut Ridge.

I set my scratch-offs on the counter, telling the cashier to keep an eye on them for a little while. Audrey’s bubblegum camry is parked out front, but that’s only natural. I’ve seen her driving all over town and there are times I think about following it. There are powerful, sudden urges to walk up to the car, windows blacker than Cadillac One, and tap on the glass once or twice. Nothing crazy, just a couple quick tinks, maybe he’d tink back. Maybe she’d forget to take him with her into the store, and those little taps would be ours. Or maybe she’d leave him there on purpose, rolling the windows down for some air, then I wouldn’t have to tap at all. I could just see him. I could take him, and I could file a complaint that his guardian kept him in a hot car by himself and they’d switch the decision on her, and I could bounce him on my knee the whole bus ride home.

But I never did, not once. I kept to myself despite the urges. I went to my meetings, I followed the steps, and I ate my lunches alone in the park. Maybe I’d see him there playing with Audrey and I could say hello once I finished my meal. But I never followed the car. That car with its soft pink reminding me of our only spring, holding him under blossoming rhododendrons, spoon-feeding him mashed up pear, wondering what bloom, if any, could outpower his drooling smile. That beautiful, messy face which now screams gwaawahhhrr just one aisle away from me. I hardly recognize him (how quickly they grow!) and I pat my pockets before heading over. Is he old enough now? Would he be able to understand what I’ve written down? An apology workshopped on the back of grocery lists, reworded on cocktail napkins, never once memorized due to the fear that it would make what's inside me permanent. Smudgy inksplot remorse that
I’ve confined to notebook paper, a foreign object, something other than my head. At least one other thing knows. Could he know? Is he ready to hear it? Am I ready to tell him?

Not with his cheeks so red. Not with his backpack resting on the floor. Not while he’s so busy playing pretend. I get on my knees to meet him at eye level. It’s impossible, this feeling. Maybe I should take a picture, something to print out and cherish, to show everybody when it’s my turn to speak and say see, see there really is an angel in that bubblegum chariot. Maybe I should tear up the speech in my back pocket and pour it over him and say it’s snowing, opening the cooler door to let the chill waft in, finally getting one winter together. Maybe I should leave before Audrey comes back to smell the relapse on my breath and wonders what the hell I’m doing.

I don’t bother to ask if he remembers me. Instead, I hold out my hands. I mime the motions to pat-a-cake and he gets all giggly. We clap, his left hand meets mine, we clap again, our right hands meet next. With each clap comes a prayer, a desperate wish: Please let our hands touch once more. They do, and again I pray the same. Please, please let me stay here. Let the clock turn back our first and final summer, when the flask took over the championship rounds. Let this gas station be heaven, let this life be pure. The door to the women’s restroom swings open. We finish up our game, I rush out of the side door. Orange leaves crunch like chips while running towards the bus stop. Already, I’m forgetting his face. Watercolor replacing renaissance. But I remember the care, the lightness as our hands touched. Within the too-soon foggy memory of mere
moments ago, I can recall the weightlessness of my palm, careful not to bruise his little fingers against my own.

Image for Cake Sanchez

BIO: Cake is a dutch rabbit from the sandia hills. He is 21 years old, and he adores the films of John Cassavetes. He does not have anything to plug at present, but he hopes to bump into you again down the line.