A Shiny New Pan for Jerry

This one was written in the kitchen supplies section of the Fredericton K-Mart...when Fredericton had a K-Mart.

"Aisle 5...short stories and other shit."
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Jerry in the kitchen, commands the action on the home front. The first sortie begins, a direct frontal attack on the surface layer of loose ground beef and noodles. Splash, circle, rinse. Heavy casualties in the rinse sink! Small globs of Hamburger Helper swirl in brown water and wash down the drain with a crackly sucking sound. Jerry moves the washcloth, coated in brown sludge, over to the wash sink and splashes into the grease-scudded water, bits of food flotsam bob in the lukewarm liquid. Jerry squeezes the cloth, releases. Bits of slime dislodge. Squeeze and release. The cloth brightens, the water darkens. The cloth is ready. Three more sorties and the surface layer is gone, exposing the blackened mounds of burned-in, stubbornly resisting food from God knows when.

This isn't supposed to happen, thinks Jerry. He reaches for a tattered plastic scrub pad. Nothing sticks to a T-Fal pan. One or two wipes with the cloth and the pan gleams metallic gray and clean. And so it does, along the rim where the protective coating is still intact. But below that, the coating has long since been scrubbed and burned away, its stick-proofness striated and peeled, forming a powerful magnetic for food. Jerry attacks harder with the scrub pad, softens the entrenched black mounds, bits of them falling into the water to join bobbing wads of meat and pasta. Into the rinse. Down the drain. Assess the damage. Why can't they make glue this strong?

Incoming from the rear. A piece of cookie flies by Jerry's head, sticks with saliva wetness to the window above the sink.

"Da," from the baby, sitting in her highchair in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Nice try, Little Red," says Jerry, looking at her reflection in the window. The baby's tuft of bright red hair reminds him of his younger brother. Jeez, even the shape of her head. He feels a chill, watching his little girl sitting out there in the cold dark of her reflected image. He turns quickly: "Ho, ho! There's my little food-chucking girl." He reads impatience in the wide blue eyes above the pug nose.

"DA!"

"I know. Don't leave me stranded here in the middle of the kitchen, Dad. I got to be free. Got to scamper around the floor and figure out this big thing called Life. But Daddy's got to get the supper gook--like that stuff on the floor all around your chair--off this very uncooperative pan, into the drain, into the sewer, and into the ground where it grows into Hamburger Helper trees so we can start all over again." He studies the pan as he twirls it by the handle. "And maybe without burning it, next time."

Back to the scouring with wide circular strokes and hard short scrubs on the tougher spots--a war of nerves and small gains. A few spots resist repeated scrubbings. Options, thinks Jerry. Leave them and risk ptomaine poisoning or whatever E Coli madness from rotted Hamburger Helper. Or--increase the scour power. Things are bad enough between wife-person and self now. If I poison the kids, she'll withhold vital recreational assets indefinitely.

He scrubs harder.

Mission completed. He rinses the pan, looks at his reflection in the window, right beside Little Red, both of them lively in color against the dark outside. He notes the similarity in pug noses and high cheekbones, and the serious absence of hair on both of them. Getting on and getting nowhere, he thinks.

With a tight squeeze, he rings the water from the dishcloth and uses it to dry the pan and hangs it on the hook on the wall beside the window. He pulls the plug in the wash sink. Bubbles gurgle up and break through the floating layer of slime. This isn't the kind of water he likes for washing pots and pans. Ideally, one sink of hot soapy water for the dishes; one sink for pots and pans. But he and Laurel have worked out The New Household Budget. One sink of water for everything. To conserve soap.

"And now, folks, step up for the main attraction--the liberation of Little Red from the Tower of Flying Food."

"DA!"

"Subtitle: Cut the theatrics and get me the hell out of here! Watch the language, kid." The baby holds fast as Jerry lifts the splattered tray and unsnaps the straps. She reaches her arms up and he lifts her directly into the line of an on-coming kiss to the mouth, which she deflects by turning her head and takes the kiss on her cheek. "No kisses Daddy?" She opens her mouth wide, facing him, her way of kissing. He plants one on her lower lip. "Thank you kisses Daddy." Then he whispers in her ear: "We'll leave the floor for Mommy-person. Wanna go see Mommy?"

"Ya!" Two lower teeth gleaming fresh white, and a tiny food-wrinkled finger points at the entrance to the dining room, which leads into the living room. From that direction, the happy music of Super Mario bounces into the kitchen. Jerry walks into the dining room, baby in one arm, tray in the other. Baby spots Mommy and brother, Jerry Junior, through the opening into the living room

"YA!" Arms waving. Jerry puts the tray on the dining room table, below the chandelier with six candle-shaped light bulbs, just two lit. To conserve electricity.

Two lines of socks, underwear and diapers stretch across the dining room in front of a large picture window, a grim reminder of the War of the Warranties. Break it before you lose it; things always last longer after the first repair. Clothes dryers are not supposed to break down two days after the warranty expires, thinks Jerry. They should wait at least three days. He feels something squishy under his left sock, balances Little Red and bends down to peel off a small piece of macaroni, which he flicks into the far corner. Food for the vacuum, he tells himself. He walks into the living room. Laurel sits in a rocking chair covered in a gray burlap-looking material. Jerry Junior stands. Mother and son are held in a video-noptic trance by a tiny black and white screen, control panels grasped tightly, as Jerry Junior guides Mario through an underwater nightmare of Mario-eating marine life as ancient as black and white TV and the version of Mario on the screen.

"Ohhh!" from the video enthralled twosome. Big Mario has just bitten the bubble from a jellyfish, turns into little mario, who swims directly into the jaws of a silly-looking, but deadly, round fish. Laurel leans forward, her turn with Luigi, working his way through a cavern.

How can they play that game night after night on a black and white TV? thinks Jerry. The color TV, another casualty of the War of the Warranties, is used as a stand for the black and white, a ten-dollar yard sale bargain. ("Yep, of course it still works.")

"Hun, we definitely need to get a new T-Fal pan. Washing the old one's turning into a battle scenario every night."

Laurel motions to Jerry Junior, who puts Luigi on hold, turns to Jerry. Her blond hair is in a ponytail, and she looks young in spite of the lines around her eyes. "Okay."

Uh oh, thinks Jerry.

"And while you're at it, could you drop the color TV off. And the car needs a tune-up. We really should have the stereo repaired. Maybe we could listen to some music. Maybe we should put it all on the VISA. Oh, silly me. The VISA's maxed out, isn't it? Well, let's see." She scratches the side of her chin, thoughtfully. "The Master Card. We'll use--no--come to think of it--maxed out as well, isn't it? Maybe you could check out the money tree and see if it's started to bloom?" And now the quick twist of lips into a smile, a dangerous smile, a smile of readiness to wage argument. "I think the pan can wait--hun." She gestures to Jerry Junior and Luigi continues through the Cavern of Bottomless Pits.

"And don't forget the fourteen dollars allowances you owe me before you buy the pan, Dad." Jerry Junior, another pug-nosed product of Jerry's nose-strong gene pool, hasn't received his allowance in seven weeks. Jerry Senior has given him IOUs written on yellow memo paper, which Jerry Junior has carefully folded and placed in his wallet as though they're real money.

"Well," says Jerry, "a new pan is top priority as soon as we get our finances together." Top Priority. Finances Together. Catchwords he uses often, along with When Things Get Better and This Can't Last Forever, to keep his optimism intact, his bitterness in check. "Make the future your frame of reference when the present looks bad," he told Laurel who, being present-oriented, according to Jerry, sees only a shrinking future eaten away by an increasingly dismal present. When the kids are in bed, she spends hours playing Super Mario in black and white.

"By the way," says Jerry, "we're out of bottle liners for Little Red." And now, thinks Jerry, for the wife-person response when husband-person mentions something whose need can't be avoided. Shoulders hunch up slightly, indicating tension in all areas below the shoulders. Distraction soon to follow--soon to follow--soon. Luigi plunges into a bottomless pit. Distraction completed.

"Couldn't you have waited until I finished my turn?" she complains.

Tiffed, thinks Jerry. She's tiffed. Super Mario night after night and she' s tiffed. "My apologies. We'll have to appoint a commission to look into the matter of unwarranted interruptions of the Luigi-killing type."

Laurel glares at him darkly, then snaps her eyes back to the screen.

Little Red has begun to struggle and Jerry puts her down in front of a large plastic bear with wheels, a Christmas gift to provide her many happy hours of riding enjoyment. Little Red immediately begins to bang the bear with her hands, the influence of Jerry Junior who, when he's not playing Super Mario, spends hours banging rubber wrestlers together. Jerry wonders what she'll do when she gets her first Barbie and Ken dolls, after the influence of Big Brother, Mommy and Daddy. Ken says we need a new frying pan. Barbie says fry your ass. Ken and Barbie bang together, plastic arms and legs flying everywhere.

"Dad, are you gonna tape Ultimate Wrestling for me tonight?" Jerry Junior asks while guiding a small Mario through water, yanking the control panel this way and that.

"Sure, if you don't mind me taping over one of your other movies. No blank tapes, son, and no money for a new one."

"Can you use one of the pieces of paper in my wallet?"

Jerry sighs. "C'mon now, let's not get into that again. We'll just have to wait until we can afford it. Besides, you never watch anything I tape for you anyway."

"I'll watch it!" Plaintive. Jerry Junior has refined plaintive to an art form in its effect on Laurel, but not this time.

"You heard your father," she says, toneless, non-supportive, just stating the situation.

No acknowledgment from Jerry Junior, whose mind, body and spirit focus on Mario, close to the end of the tunnel that will take him out of the water and into a bridge world under constant bombardment by aerial critters. Jerry wonders what his son will look like in his teens, after years of video stress. No picture comes to mind.

"In fact," says Jerry, "I may as well take the grocery list and get the shopping out of the way now. Then, we'll have all day Saturday to do nothing."

"Like the rest of the week?" says Laurel.

"I mean, nothing to do like work stuff--shopping, chores. We can take the kids down to the park for some sledding if it's not too cold."

Laurel considers this a moment. "That would be nice." Almost a cheery lilt in her voice. Jerry scores a direct hit in the Saying The Right Thing For A Change Department. Laurel stands up, tall and lean, a striking woman, with a long, graceful nose. But, according to Jerry, a woman obviously endowed with a weak nose-gene pool. She tells Jerry Junior to keep an eye on the baby. Jerry Junior remains oblivious to everything but the game.

In the kitchen, Laurel removes the grocery list from the refrigerator door, places the bright orange ladybug magnet back on the door, cluttered with a swarm of colorful insects pinning down unpaid bills, lists and original Jerry Junior artwork. She hands the list to Jerry.

"Are you sure this is all we need?" he asks.

"I'm sure it's all we can afford." She goes to her purse on top of the deep freeze, rummages while Jerry leers at her rump and sings in his thoughts. Saturday night. Saturday night. Kids to bed early on a Saturday night. Laurel turns abruptly, bills in hand, catches Jerry's leer before he can avert his eyes to the list. She ignores it. "There's fifty dollars here." She breathes deeply, sighs. "I figured it all out. It's just enough, if you stick to the list. And don't forget the bottle liners for Little Red." She hands him the money. He feels strange taking it from her. This is money his wife has earned at her job. "Jer, no extras, no treats, no frills. Just--the list."

Jerry feels a flush of anger. She doesn't trust me.

"And don't take all night."

***

Jerry in the K-Car, popular holdover from The Days Of Affordable Cars, hanging together, now, mostly by faith and two thousand dollars a year at inspection time. Not the Jeep Laredo Jerry has always wanted, but, hell, that will come When Things Get Better. She doesn't trust me. Fuck her. He puts the car in reverse, presses the gas pedal, the engine revs, ready to go, but: What's this? The car doesn't move. Oh God, don't let the transmission go. Not the transmission! He nudges the shift and the car backs out of the driveway, over a hump of hard-packed snow, and onto the road. Thank you, God. He shifts to drive and turns to wave to the family standing in the window to wave him off. No one is there. He puts his foot to the floor, but the car accelerates with a sluggish crawl and no squeal of
tires. It's not supposed to be like this.

He pushes his tongue against a large cavity in his left eyetooth. Yes, I may soon have an unsightly hole in my smile. Options. Sell the kids to pay the dentist. Or--stop smiling. She doesn't trust me. Jerry is certain that he loves Laurel. It's one of the few certainties in his life, even more certain than This Can't Last Forever. But lately, he has begun to compare their relationship as family breadwinners to a game of Super Mario. Jerry, the high-paid, self-employed Communications Consultant, loses another lucrative government contract in the Ware Of Fiscal Restraint, jumps the pit and falls in. Laurel, the full-time, permanently employed Social Worker, jumps the pit effortlessly and scores twice the take-home pay that Jerry makes.

Jerry now has two modest contracts. And a problem.

Jerry spends.

"Spending is not inherently bad," Jerry has explained to Laurel. "Under the right conditions, it's good. It keeps the economy healthy, provides jobs for factory workers, store clerks, service people, farmers, fishermen and Communications Consultants.

"Spending allows the acquisition of Necessities. Like food, clothing, shelter, furniture, indoor plumbing, lights and all the other strings and twigs essential to building a comfy nest for Jerry Juniors and Little Reds.

"And then, there's spending for the things that make putting in a hard day's work worthwhile. The Gotta Haves. Gotta have a VCR, gotta have a color TV with on-screen programming, gotta have a camcorder, gotta have a CD player and a Pentium computer. Gotta have it because I work hard and it proves I'm getting somewhere. Well, last year I didn't have a camcorder. This year, I do. Must be getting somewhere. Tired, hun?"

Jerry driving along in the K-Car, thinking: She doesn't trust me. I don't need to be pushed into the pit. I can make it there quite well myself, thank you. So I spend too much. The thought of spending brings it back, that familiar feeling, expansive feeling, of spending sprees, of forays into malls with no purpose but to Walk Where Things Are Sold, to peruse, approve and purchase. The feeling is optimistic, alive with the tang of juicy restaurant steaks, the swipe of credit cards, the smooth slide of bills passed across the counter, the rows of big white signs proclaiming in bold red letters The Best Deal Anywhere, the pungent ozone of stacks of appliances ready to serve. So painfully familiar.

Ah, Consumer Man, deprived of cards and credit, losing the War Of The Warranties, his realm a shambles of high-tech poverty, his pennies, nickels and dimes long since rolled and spent. Empty jars in the kitchen. We were saving those for our first night out together in almost a year. What did I spend them on?

The K-Car glides smoothly on the expressway, heading toward the mall.

***

Jerry in the mall, unzipping his jacket, shaking off the cold and feeling very much at home. Comfortable. Familiar. Yes, Virginia, city streets have roofs and they make the doors too small to get cars in. The ones you sometimes see on display were put there by magic. This is Jerry's favorite mall, simply laid out, with a food store at one end, a department store at the other, and in between, a long hall with more than a hundred stores, fast-food outlets, specialty booths, banks, bars, arcades, skylights, fountains and real trees. Everything but rain and snow.

The mall reminds Jerry of a street he and his brother had walked down in Italy when they were kids. There had been buildings four stories high on either side; food shops, clothing shops and antique shops fronting the cobbled street on left and right. Halfway down the street, they had come to a wide opening to their right and had looked out the opening onto a river flowing underneath them. The busy, building-lined street had really been a bridge.

Jerry feels that same sense of astonishment as he stands in the mall. He takes the list from his jacket pocket, talks to himself: "Now, let's see. Hot dog buns. Three bags of milk. Ketchup. Dish soap, clothing soap, hand soap. Gotta stay clean. We may starve, but we'll die clean, with glistening dishes and fresh-smelling shrouds." A woman carrying a large package walks by Jerry, eyeing him suspiciously. Jerry glances at her and then back to the list. "It's all right, lady, I'm just a casualty in the War of Warranties. I talk instead of tic. French fries and potatoes. What? No scallop potato mix? No potato chips? No frozen baked potatoes with chives? You write a pretty bland grocery list, wife-person. Bottle liners for Little Red's boppies." Jerry looks down the hall to his left. "K-Mart for boppie liners. All aboard for the K-Mart express."

Jerry walks down the hall toward K-Mart, mildly disturbed by the sparse crowd of shoppers. Where's that festive look tonight? He passes by the darkened front of a bankrupt shop. Pillow shop. That was a pillow shop--not a good idea to over-specialize in times like these. He passes another closed shop. Christ, they could at least put some travel posters in the windows so they don't look like black holes in space, slowly drawing in the stores around them. He passes a group of teenagers in flamboyantly colored jackets and blue jeans who have established their stomping grounds around a marble and wood bench. A tall, pretty girl with a cold sore on her lower lip looks Jerry straight in the eye, steps back just enough to place herself in Jerry's way. Jerry swerves around her. Wrong target, hard belly. This chicken shit worries about laws and wife-person anger. Or would it be wife-person disappointment? Or just a wife-person shrug of the shoulders and gimme half and the kids? Half of what? A tiny black and white television set?

Jerry spots a man with a mustache and glasses in a camera shop, purchasing what looks like a camera lens. Immediately, he becomes jealous, resentful, even though he has an expensive camera at home and a large tote bag filled with expensive lenses and accessories. He also has twelve rolls of film to develop When Things Get Better. Nope. I won't stand for this. I won't be intimidated by a man with glasses and a mustache. Jerry strolls into the camera shop and begins to browse, not focusing on anything in particular, not even the books and accessories he touches and examines. He lingers a few minutes after the glasses-and-mustache leaves, and then remembers: boppie liners.

***

Jerry in the K-Mart, thinking, Yes, Virginia, the Temple of Outstanding Values, where Santa comes to shop. Attention, K-Mart shoppers. Yes, YOU. You are about to purchase boppie liners at K-Mart. YOU are a K-Mart shopper. Shoulders back and chest out, stomach in, chin up, preeezent credit card. Jerry walks past the checkout counters. Not too busy for a Thursday evening. Three young girls are at one of the checkouts, paying for records with a credit card. Jerry will be paying for the bottle liners with cash. Kids have credit cards. I have creditors. Shut up, Jer. Don't start getting jealous of kids.

And then Jerry sees the signs, the beautiful, reassuring signs. LOWEST PRICES! YOU CAN'T DO BETTER! AFFORDABLE! The baby care center is at the opposite end of the store. Jerry plots his course, a diagonal through men's wear and kitchenware. He feels better now, surrounded by racks of shirts boasting 70% OFF! He feels buoyed by the OUTSTANDING BUYS in men's pants, the SUPER SPECIALS on men's underwear. He stops for a moment to look at some winter jackets that are EASY ON YOUR BUGET! The lining in Jerry's jacket has begun to rip and both pockets have holes in them. He pushes the jackets around the metal rung until he comes to the medium-size jackets, pleased that the gray and blue jacket he likes is available in his size. He fights the urge to take it off the rack and try it on. Boppie liners. I'm here for boppie liners.

He breaks out of the men's wear section into an aisle with tables packed with GREAT DEALS and BEST BUYS! He spots a stack of Pampers on sale for 40% OFF! Little Red uses cloth diapers. Too bad. Could've saved a bundle. And then Jerry sees pans, T-Fal pans, on a bargain table in front of the kitchenware section. YOU CAN AFFORD THIS LOW PRICE! Jerry heads straight for the table to check out this low price that he CAN afford. He picks up one of the pans by the handle, as though he were lifting it off a burner. He imagines eggs sliding effortlessly across the perfect, gray, non-stick coating, grease from sausages disappearing with one pass of the dishcloth. YOU CAN AFFORD THIS LOW PRICE! He looks at the red sticker marked SALE in black letters across the top. And, below that, the price--$7.99. Seven ninety-nine. Seven ninety-nine for a brand new T-Fal pan. Sweat forms on Jerry's hands as the excitement builds. YOU CAN AFFORD THIS LOW PRICE! Sold! One T-Fal frying pan.

He unfolds the grocery list. Got to be some duplication here. Time to be creative. Put the mind in gear, assess with critical eye. Hot dog rolls. Scratch the rolls. Cut the wieners and put 'em right in with the beans. Beans and wieners. Save on relish and mustard, and fewer utensils to wash. French fries. Bye-bye frozen fries. Hello big chips, home-cut from fresh taters. Looking like a new pan. Looking like a new pan. Cheerios. Nothing wrong with puffed wheat, called them fluffs when I was a kid. Must be good roughage, and cheaper. Yes, you can afford this pan. Ketchup. No Heinz this time, baby, go for the generic. Beans. Nope, need them for the wieners. Fall back, regroup. Dish soap, clothing soap, hand soap. Soap's soap. The clothes will never suspect they're being washed with dish soap. Come on list. Gotta have this pan. Bacon. Haven't had sausage for a while. Must be at least fifty cents difference there. Kleenex. Nothing wrong with toilet paper for a good snort. Three bags of milk. Boppie filler. Add some sugar to powdered milk. She'll love it and it'll probably be lower in cholesterol. Scratch the Coffee Mate, just stir in the powdered milk.

"Maxwell House Instant. Gotta have coffee to stir the powdered milk into. But hold on. Big savings! Get the generic. Gotta be generic coffee." Jerry realizes that he's started talking out loud when he sees two teenage store clerks standing together watching him. He smiles and nods. Yes sir, Jer, you've got more than enough room here for the pan. More than enough.

Jerry walks, T-Fal pan in hand, along the aisle, examining the GREAT DEALS and SPECTACULAR SAVINGS! He stops at tables, fingers items, imagines uses for plastic odds and ends. SO USEFUL AND PRICED TO SELL! Happily, he works his way down the aisle, soaring into the time When Things Were Better.

***

Jerry in the driveway, bends over the driver's seat and passes the plastic bags from one hand to the other and places each on the roof of the car. Nope. They just don't look wholesome enough to put food into. He has never trusted recycled bags, their lusterless appearance deemed by Jerry to be more appropriate for things bought in a second-hand store. But he loves plastic shopping bags, new or used, enjoys the soft, crinkly sound they make, the smooth texture, like a thin layer of flesh surrounding the things they hold. And then he comes to the bright white and red K-Mart bag. Three bags of serious stuff. One bag of fun stuff. He handles the K-Mart bag carefully, almost fondles it. He straightens up, threads his fingers through the carrying holes in the bags and steps back, two bags in each hand. He pushes the car door shut with his foot and notices that he left the driver's side seat slumped forward. Oh well, make it easier to get Little Red into the car seat tomorrow.

He stands by the car, looking at the living-room window. The play of light against the drapes brings a happy family scene to mind. His family, going about their happy family business--Jerry Junior jumping left and right, up and down as he plays Super Mario, Laurel preparing lunches between her turns on the game, Little Red sitting on the living room floor, banging her toys and cheering Jerry Junior on with a loud "Ye!"

He imagines the excitement when he walks in, when Jerry Junior spots the bulging K-Mart bag. "Dad bought me a videotape, Mom!" Wife-person will nod approvingly and there'll be Ultimate Wrestling on the tube for weeks. He imagines Little Red tearing the plastic off the cardboard backing to get to the rubber Cookie Monster. JUST 59 CENTS! Of course, she'll probably chuck the toy and just play with the packaging. And Laurel will love the plastic pop-up Super Mario that he bought for her desk at work; ‘though he' ll have to give it to her after Jerry Junior is in bed so Jerry Junior doesn't think it's for him and turn a happy occasion into a pouting scene.

Laurel will frown at first, but, when she sees that the only thing he bought for himself was a frying pan--and that, of course, is really for the entire family--then she'll smile and say: "Jer, you're just like a big kid." He may not score in the Doing The Right Thing Department, but he will score big in the Having Your Heart In The Right Place Department.

Just as Jerry begins to feel like Santa Claus, the light on the drapes flickers into near darkness, leaving just the dim glow of the television playing across them. Jerry realizes that Santa Claus is late, that the kids are in bed, that Ultimate Wrestling is almost over, that Laurel is sitting by herself in the dark, playing an ancient game of Super Mario in black and white.

***

Jerry in the kitchen, splashing down into the gray, lukewarm emptiness. Laurel repeats: "Where are they, Jerry? The bottle liners?"