My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie If I hadn't lost my job, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, trying to figure out how I ended up working at the same drugstore I had dawdled at for so many years as a kid and beyond. The same drugstore that was owned by the same Schmidt Randall - or the guy with the reversed name, as my friends called - and he was still alive and grunting and dragging his leg behind him and letting his cane do the work. I was a bagger, a shelver, a stocker, and a driver, depending on the week. This week was another bagging week, and I had to endure the constant bright smiles and questions from my former teachers, neighbors, and classmates' parents as they recognized me and welcomed me back to my hometown and wanted to know every single, solitary thing about me and how was it that I looked somewhat different these days. I just answered in brief sentences, shoved bottles of ibuprofen and giant jugs of Pepsi into paper bags, and waved halfheartedly as they walked...

I found three of my least impressive artworks hanging in the large gallery, and everyone seemed to adore them. Of course, as they flocked around the rope separating them from the glaring, sloppy canvasses, they all had something different to say about it. For one of my lackluster paintings, one man thought it was a portrayal of a dystopian America. His friend had sharply scoffed, "Oh, you mean like the America we live in now?" They could think all they wanted about the paintings. I was blissfully indifferent.