Vegtable Juice Junkie

I'm not thinking strait. I'm not even sure what day it is. Hmm, I don't remember having a beard. The kitchen counters are covered in carrot pulp, apple stems, banana peels, cabbage--all in various stages of decomposition. The shiny flecks in the linoleum don’t conceal the puddles of vegetable juice that have collected under the juicer and dripped onto the floor. If I listen hard enough in the silence I can hear the sound of the rotting process. It is the sound of air bubbles popping on the surface of molecular sized swamps. I catch a distorted reflection of myself in the metallic trim of the coffee pot. There are bits of celery in my mustache, and I’m wearing a red, painted on smile, maybe from a swig of beet juice. My skin has an orangish tint to it.

Flashbacks, visions, I remember standing in a field, maybe it was here in the kitchen, but there was soil. Rich dark soil under my bare feet. Between my toes. I remember sinking. My feet dividing, snaking, curling about, swimming in the dirt. And me, stretching tall, drinking in sun juice. My arms raised above me plucking spongy sunrays from the sky. Adapting, waving, changing. Sweet god! Green leafy arms fluttering like a kite on a breezy day.

The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Yes Matthew, this is James from, the union of electrical workers. How are you doing this afternoon?”

I'm peeling back the blinds. He’s right. It is afternoon. The sun is preposterously bright. My eyes feel new, like they’ve never seen the sun before.

“uhhmgg…”

“We’ve picked out a great package that we would like to send out to you. Now, Matthew, what is your work schedule like?”

Is this a home invader inquiring about a good time to rob my apartment? I’ve never been affiliated with The Electric Workers Union before.

“I work in the afternoons.”

Wait it is afternoon now. I don’t even work. Was I a tomato plant last night? Where am I?

“I can work you in to my six o’clock slot this evening Matthew. You still live at 2345 Sycamore Street?”

He has my address. Look at this place. My God. Wait--he has my address. Why? Get out Matt. Get the fuck out.

“Not interested”

Click.