The Konohazuku Affair

    Sure, a few bits of eggshell made its way into the pot.  Yes, there were several inexplicably large pools of olive oil on and around the stove.  Logan attacked the kitchen with a disregard for his own inexperience.  And Harry just watched as the ramen brick was torn to bits and mixed with tabasco, worcestershire, mayonnaise.  The dish began to come together when Logan added the broccoli and spinach.  It bubbled to an enticing thickness and was removed from heat when it began to develop a thin, dark orange skin.

    Without a word, Logan grabbed the large clay bowls and set them on the table with the fancy Chinese soup spoons.  Harry watched the certainty and grace in Logan’s movement, but also noticed how he fought against the smile that was attempting to form on his face.  He spooned the mixture into the bowls with intense concentration.  What a joy to watch him in action!

    The table set, the food ready, Logan sat and placed a napkin in his lap.

    "Well," Harry said at last, "may I taste your concoction?"

    "Dig in, dad."  Logan said, and began to eat with the same messy diligence he brought to the preparation of the dish.  Harry chewed on a spoonful.  It was thick.  There were a lot of flavors competing for attention and the richness was almost nauseating.  But a distant harmony persisted; it tasted right.  He watched Logan methodically consume his creation, then sit back in his chair, satiated.

    "Well, chef," Harry said, wiping the corner of his mouth, "how was your dinner?"

    Logan stared at his father for a few moments.  Then he stood, picked up his clay bowl and hurled it through the kitchen window, sending glass shards across the kitchen floor.

    "It was pretty fucking good, dad."

    And Harry wondered if rock and roll would ever die.

    Harry sat in silence long after the put-together woman pulled out of the parking lot in her neat car with her neat kids.  It would be silly to try to be like her, but he didn’t want to keep being the way he was.  Somewhere in between would be nice.  When you sit long enough, you really hear your breath.  It sort of echoes through your body.

    When Logan opened the door, Harry jumped.

    "Whoa there, looks like quite a haul."

    "Yeah, I did alright for myself."  There’s something different about the way Logan is talking, Harry noted.  He’s speaking clearly for a change.

    "Well, let’s get cookin’ then."  Harry said, as he started the engine

    "Sounds like a plan."  Logan rolled the window down just enough so that it blew his hair around.  There were clouds in the sky, but they were well spaced.  The car rolled along, headed home.

    Most supermarkets keep the produce near the entrance: apples, oranges, lettuce, carrots.  But toothpaste, toilet brush, these came near the end, just before frozen goods.

    Logan had been to the grocery store probably a thousand times.  He knew how it worked.  So why keep trying to explain it to himself?  Remember to open the carton to check if any are broken.  Make sure your cart doesn’t have a bum wheel.  The bright yellow brand is always cheaper.  None of this got him any closer to figuring out what he was cooking for dinner, did it now?

    "See, there are rules, there is a way things are supposed to work."  Logan really only realized he was speaking out loud midway through his sentence, but luckily, no one seemed to notice.  So what if one of these soccer moms did notice though, Logan thought, and chuckled to himself.  And just at that moment a stockgirl, maybe a couple years older, turned down his aisle and gave him a grin and she definitely noticed the chuckling, Logan, way to go.  That was a definite pity grin.

    And he walked quickly now, long strides, turning down abandoned aisle 7.  Could be worse, he thought.  At least she doesn’t go to school with me.

    Back in the car, Harry was watching at a woman loading food into her Volvo.  Her two children were strapped safely inside, but she talked to them cheerfully as she loaded the brown paper bags carefully into the trunk.  She was clearly from a world that operated under a different set of rules.  As she
carefully bent her knees, she lifted bottles of seltzer from the
bottom of her cart and looked satisfied after she shut the trunk on the neat rows of bags.  Yet she couldn’t be any older than he was.  Probably younger even, he thought, and switched off the stereo.

    Logan held a package of pork ramen in his hand, blanched.  On the label a cartoon owl exclaimed Delicious Taste!  He had seen such an owl once before, at aunt Susan’s, the night when he had run out of bed crying. He had been staring at the ceiling for two hours, thinking about what it must feel like when you die.  But you can’t feel anything, that’s the point.  You don’t feel ever again.  Never ever.  You just sit underground and disintegrate, except it’s not you because there is no you anymore, you’re gone.  There’s no more you; you’re over.

    Then he ran out of bed and into his aunt’s room, hyperventilating.  What’s wrong, she said.  I’m gonna die, he said, I’m gonna die.  And she didn’t say anything for a long time, she just held him as he forced his head into her sweater.  Eventually, she made him sit up, made him some tea and tried to explain why life needed death.  But Logan sat staring at the drawing of the owl on the wall, at its uncaring eyes.

    "Hey, look who it is!"  Charlie slapped Logan’s shoulder.  Where did he come from?  Must look strange, standing here.  Looking at a package of ramen.  "What’s up, Logan?"

    "I’m okay.  Just grocery shopping."

    "I can see that.  Whatcha got there?"

    "Some ramen."

    "Ah yes, ramen. You a big ramen fan, Logan?"  Charlie said, maybe half-sincere, vaguely aggressive.  Logan looked him in the eyes.  They were semi-kind eyes.  Half-sincerity was better than nothing, when you got down to it.

    "You know, Charlie," Logan said, smiling big, making eye contact, "I love the stuff."