2015TR

TUSCARORA REVIEW 2016

2016 TUSCARORA REVIEW

Goldfish Memory

Joseph Geck

he stars shine brightly in the night sky. A storm rumbles above me in the dark

clouds.

That’s how I know it’s a dream.

A hand presses down on my shoulder

and the towering shade of my father blocks out the sun’s heat. I hate this. I can

only sit and wait for the dream to end. I feel his stern look but don’t dare face it.

Instead, I look at the clouds as they form hands that slowly grow knuckle ridges

and closed fists. I want to run but my father’s hands hold me firmly in place. The

cloud presses down on me until everything is darkness and humidity.

Fuck. Morning. I hate mornings. My hand grapples the air until I find my phone.

5:04. Close enough. Agatha Christie marveled at people who woke up on time

for work without modern devices and clocks. It’s a skill I attained in necessity, after

breaking my fifteenth alarm clock. The secret is controlling your fear, choosing

to make stress about the coming morning. I hate mornings and everything about

them, like dreams, alarm clocks, cock-a-doodle-doos, ghosts, time, and nagging

mothers.

I listen to the news during my drive to work. It only makes my morning

headache worse. The sun glares and blinds me. I speed a little to make up for the

four lost minutes. People who speed five miles over the limit are the worst. It’s

as if they think themselves sinless as they vroom, ignorant and relaxed. They still

dare to condemn those that speed in excess twenty over the limit. Sinners with

their pedal to the floor know their misdemeanors and compensate with an extra

attention to the road. I am sure to be alert as I speed only a little. It only makes

my headache worse. My drive takes me from whipping and winding country roads

to a smooth cruise through farmland. It’s lovely, seeing Pennsylvanian crops in the

sunrise. It’s less lovely when it’s the only view you’ve had your entire shit life.

The small back lot of 3614 Old Philadelphia Pike has a myriad of cracks and

vegetation and a stampede of translucent gray ghosts. They’re just a bunch of lost

souls following their stomachs. It’s the worst part of the day, right here. I park my

car and walk to the door careful not to trip on the pavement, careful to stare

through them. If you react to them too much, especially at dawn, they’ll know you

can see them. Those days are the worst of any days. They all flood through the

door and me when I walk inside. A shiver runs with the herd.

Pretzel baking isn’t the life for everyone. You have to have a certain

temperament. Here, employees must be patient, selfless, and as impulsive as

the most aged trees. It’s also helpful to be like me and know that unexpected

aggravations while working are really just a residual emotion from ghosts. More

ghosts live in the pretzel factory than in any cemetery in the state. Ghosts love

pretzels. My mind is blank as I work. I don’t know if there is any other way to do

it. It’s just me and the cries of the undead as I finish dough prep and start baking

for the day. Ghosts don’t eat. It’s as awkward as ever when I pull a hot rack out of

the oven and get swarmed by a gaggle of ghosts, levitating around the rack to lick

what they can reach.

Salt gives them a buzz. It wakes them up and weakens their negativity field.

Silence fades as conversations start. Fed, this is when ghosts start to realize just

how ghostly they are. It’s a new self-discovery every morning. I call it the sunshine

goldfish theory because every dawn cleans all of their afterlife memories. It’s how

ghosts can haunt so relentlessly, because each day is their first day on the job.

Despite the lack of customers, my morning shifts are always the loudest.

At seven AM there is a rap on the door. Someone who thinks the right way

to ask to shop is with a knock to the glass. A kid no more than eight years old,

wearing glasses thicker than his skull mouths the word “Please.” There’s some of

that necessary politeness. I let him in. He squints at my apron.

“Thanks Mr. Enoch,” he says. I pause. How did he know my name? Well, it is a

pretty small town.

“You’re welcome, young sir, but you must be quick.” I point to our sign:

MON-SAT 10-5. The fool quirks his head aside. I hate children. They aren’t right

in the head. “It’s Thursday. We open at ten, but I’m in a good mood so I’ll let

you shop.”

He blinks twice then nods. He undergoes a self-guided tour with widened

eyes. The only people out and about in town these mornings are the Amish and

the farmers, neither of which are the types to shop here. Who is this kid anyway?

He’s managed to step out of the way of every ghost without seeming to pay them

attention. He isn’t a tourist; no eight-year-old tourist goes through here without

the guiding hand of an idiot parent who thought this would be a fun trip for a kid.

He isn’t even wearing a backpack. The young boy isn’t fit-minded and should be

getting ready for a school day. His eyes rapidly scan shelves as if a larger variety

Katelyn Millison,

Untitled

— Painting