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Guns and Bagels -- for Remy In the delicatessen next to the Gun Depot on the stretch of Biscayne Boulevard where the yellow machinery of progress has built a war zone of bunkers and foxholes and traffic snarls like road rage, my son considers the shape of things: rectangular paper napkin; square pats of butter; the bagel an almost perfect circle, every time. Puzzled for a moment by the home fries, trapezoid spuds with boyish curls of onion, he glances out the window where city-sponsored signs promise beautification and a man walks hurriedly, with unmeasured steps, across the parking lot, darting between sports cars and SUV’s like a soldier with the telltale lines of a rifle slung over his left shoulder through the barred doorway of the shop. Nothing happens, of course. The man is merely getting his gear fixed for hunting season. But I still pull the blinds and open a magazine to a picture of Bob the Builder, and my husband orders a plate of whole wheat in order to show Remy how two triangles of toast can kiss and make a diamond, which is really just a square pushed intentionally to its point. By Jen Karetnick Collected in Necessary Salt (Pudding House Publications, 2007). Please request permission before copying or distributing. |
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