DON’T EAT THE PURPLE ONES
By Toni Kief
I’ve been bound into stillness and I try to remember. The nurse promises to remove the restraints if I stop pulling out the IVs. It has to be bad when the police bring in Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms. I am shocked to hear a reference to a four- day spree. I only remember the push mower and the median strip on I 80. Will a community service defense help with the $560 fine?
I’m tired of their questions, and they only stop when I close my eyes. Luckily they don’t realize sleep is impossible? The state troopers are back and I can hear their low voices. The ATF agent sounds as if the crumbled vitamins in my pocket are a very big deal. They think I’m withholding, but I would tell it all if I knew. They finished the search of my home; I thought I had nothing to hide. Oh Hell! They found my furniture is in the yard, and the rugs are pulled up. Apparently everything is painted lavender and green, including the floors and ceilings. They discovered only my foot prints tracking cross the fresh paint. Thank goodness they secured the scene; it appears my belongings were being carried away. They located my freshly lilac car at the homeless donation box, loaded with frozen food. The keys were taped to the window with a note asking someone to lock it once it was unloaded.
The trooper is laughing about the Monday morning calls. Half Priced Books found my credit card on their front counter with cash and a thank- you note. The police watched the video and it appears I alone reorganized the shelves based on the Dewey decimal system. They all snicker about this morning delivery of two tons of cat chow to the animal shelter.
My mental cash register computes past my life long earning capacity. I can barely hear what they say about the almost empty bottle of purple chewable vitamins in my kitchen. I understand the pills have gone to the lab with my clothes.
I begin to cry as I notice my reflection. I guess it is reasonable to tweeze a chin whisker, crazy to pluck all your facial hair. The ATF officer has been with me for hours, and tries to assure me that I can recover from this humiliation. He pats my hand and tells me the eyebrows will grow back. He reveals phone calls from Dateline and First 48, and suggests I write a book. I can’t even look surprised, the world knows more about this week than I do. I have nothing to offer.
As I calm down I recognized the fine line between good works and bat shit crazy. There is talk of a plea agreement if I help find the source of the pills. I don’t know if I have the courage to tell them that I bought the vitamin and energy supplements from a giant white rabbit with a card table at a medieval fair. I fear tomorrow may be worse.