MASS CONSUMPTION

“All human toil is for the mouth, yet the appetite is not satisfied.”

- Ecclesiastes 6:7

From the New Revised Standard Bible

“The business world is bent on creating hungers which its wares never satisfy, and thus it adds to the frustrations and broken minds of our times.”

- Archbishop Fulton Sheen (1895-1979)

Lift Up Your Heart, 1942

ONE

“O-o-o-o-o-h— my God! That is so unfair! Mom, say something to him!” The boy wore telltale junk food stains on his shirt – a spot of pizza; a splash of red sorbet; a brown skid mark of some sort of corn-based beverage down by his rib. How do boys drip cola by their ribs? He carried a bag of corn chips that was twisted shut – probably his fifth or sixth of the day. He carried an extra chin beneath his loud choppers and hadn’t seemed like the type of boy who would be capable of the type of discipline required to enjoy a slow snack. His shirt displayed one of those catchy silk-screened phrases that are supposed to make socially disdainful qualities acceptable by way of cheeky expression. It read ‘If it weren’t for video games, I’d never get out of bed.’

“Now buddy, that’s reasonable and I trust your mother will agree.” Daddy said.

He snapped his face toward his wife’s and met with her immediately disapproving glare. “Its not unreasonable.” He said to his wife. “They aren’t difficult chores. Just make sure all five are completed each day after you’ve done your homework and you can play until bedtime.”

“Mom!” Rubber brat-child snapped.

“After your homework is done, you can play, hon.” Bitch-mom declared.

“See daddy!” Rubber brat-boy teased.

“Linda, he needs boundar—”

“I’m paying by debit by the way.” My customer distracted me from pushover daddy’s reply with a declaration that sounded more like a question. “Do you sell a lot of these DVDs?” She asked me. Her clothes were maybe a size too tight. She had nice cleavage; overworked eye makeup; rich-colored lipstick. She was a thicken – a voluptuous type who can eat a portion of her weight and gain it everywhere except by the waist.

The Weinstein Diet: Lose Yourself –Two disk edition

“It’s one of our best sellers.” I told her.

“Really! That’s good, right? A lot of people buy it?” She probes me for validation.

“That’s what would make it a best seller.” I was flat with her. I don’t’ really know how else to be most days.

“Oh, hmmmmm!” She made a noise that sounded like it tried to be a laugh, but couldn’t quite make it into the world.

Scan, punch, punch, punch, scan, punch, punch.

“Please swipe.” I was flat.

“Mom, he’s doing it again!” I probably would have heard chubby rubber brat-child from the ground floor above. This was a common scene with family units like this – pushy child, pushover dad, and a bitchy, controlling mom. It was the third group of its kind to come through my line this week. The stains on the shirt of a rubber brat-child read like partially legible hieroglyphs. Each time I see these stained shirts, I read ‘I’m going to knock something over in a fit.’ Or ‘My parents try to keep me quiet by feeding me more sugar.’ It’s kind of like being a tea reader. The hieroglyphs are written with disdainful, cheeky expression. I call the types who wear them ‘rubber children’ because they bounce off walls when loaded with the garbage their parents can’t seem to quit feeding them. Originally, I called them that because I felt that their lives should have begun and ended in a rubber.

“You can play whenever you like.” Bitch-mom said to brat-child as she glared at pushover daddy with a cleverly balanced glare that read ‘dare-to-contradict-me’ and ‘Idiot’.

“Uhm… My receipt?” Thicken asked. I probably could have talked her out of wanting one.

“Here you go. Enjoy your DVD.” I blessed.

“Hmm-bye!” She bubbled as she floated away.

“Next please.” I drilled my shtick. “Welcome to LOW DEALS. Did you find—?”

“WE’RE NEXT!” Rubber brat ran at my register full force. He charged at it with the new game consul his father was about to get for him. He pushed the register with the force of his weight and nearly caused it to tip over the edge.

“Whoa! Easy there big guy!” I said with a smile.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Bitch mom quickly assumed role of public defendant for rubber-brat-child turned assailant. “See? It’s fine.” She sassed.

“I’m gonna plug it in right as soon as I get home! I can’t wait!” Brat-assailant pounded my counter in rhythm to ‘I-can’t-wait!’ then walked off mouthing out the words ‘I can’t wait’ with flexed tension about his neck. He frantically unraveled his bag of corn chips and began eating with exaggerated enthusiasm as he began marching in circles.

“I really wish you would back me up more often.” Pushover dad tried to protest to bitch mom.

“I really, really hate it when you undermine my authority like there’s just one parent and you’re the one in charge—” Bitch mom retorted in bitch mom fashion as pushover dad interrupted and overlapped.

“I’m not in charge. I don’t claim to be. I just wish you’d back me up more often. He needs boundaries—”

“Oh— my God!” Bitch mom held fast to her temples with extravagantly manicured fingertips. “I can’t take your incessant BS—”

“It’s not BS. He doesn’t respect me. It’s like he doesn’t even acknowledge me. It’s like he does something, I protest, and he goes for your skirt—”

“Christ, I can’t take any more of your crap!”

“Oh, you can’t? Fine. You pay for it then!” Pushover dad gingerly slapped his credit card down on top of the consul and huffed off. Bitch mom recovered the card with an arrogant, disgusted sigh.

“That’s telling her, Dad!” Brat child spat his crunched words through spittle and chips.

“I’ll have your father connect the video game to your flats screen.” Bitch mom coaxed rubber brat. “You need to get your chores done while he does that—” Bitch mom was overlapped and interrupted by rubber brat.

“But mo-o-o-o-m!” He stomped his feet in rhythm to his protestant ‘But mo-o-o-o-m!’ His chin curled and his lip quivered.

“Oh, don’t do that. You’re twelve. Look at you! You’re like a baby!” Bitch mom appeared to coddle rubber brat by way of her scolding. Rubber brat braced his ill-fed face against his fists; the excess of his cheeks drooped over his knuckles.

“That’s such BS.” Rubber brat mumbled under his breath.

“Watch that mouth on you, mister! Do you want this Box?” Rubber brat rolled his eyes and continued eating his corn chips. Bitch mom spat a disgusted ‘sigh’ at me. “Just like his damned father.” She had the balls to say.

“That’ll be $433.67, ma’am.” I say to her flatly. I don’t know how else to be most days. “You’d think he’d be grateful?” Bitch mom started in with her free therapy session as if I were some type of overachiever in high school who became a doctor, and chose to be a cashier for side money. “You’d think I’d get a ‘thank you’? No. I just get all types of crap from both ends.” She tossed her hand about with emphasis to the rhythm of ‘I just get all types of crap from both ends’, just like rubber brat had been skillfully taught. She handed pushover daddy’s card to me with an attitude.

Scan, punch, punch, punch, scan, punch, punch.

“I mean I don’t cook or anything, but look at him. I’m a nice piece of cake! He’s pushing fifty in a few short years.” Bitch mom went on and on like what she was telling me was as comfortable as the couch she thought she was laying on.

Krinkle – crunch, crunch, crunch – krinkle – crunch, crunch.

Nowadays, they can process corn in such a way to make it potent enough to push a vehicle for miles. Parents feed other types of processed corn to their bratty children.

The charge process for the card seemed to drag as bitch mom carried on about her woes. Nothing she said was comfortable.

“—from both ends I tell you! I should have been a fluffer or something!” With the image of pushover daddy and rubber brat giving her all types of crap from both ends, Bitch mom made me cringe at suggestion of porn.

“I need your husband’s signature, ma’am.” I tell her and it pisses her off a little – just enough to send her away in a huff.

“Ugh! This is ridiculo— let’s go, bud. We’re leaving. We’ll get it for you tomorrow.” Bitch mom walked off without rubber brat. “God damned prenup!” She spat.

“What! Why? No, that isn’t fair!” Rubber brat stomped his feet to the tune of ‘that isn’t fair.’ He forearmed a stack of DVDs from a shelf by the escalator sending them all flying some ten feet across the floor. It pissed off bitch mom something fierce.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” She scolded rubber brat as she held fast to the hair on the sides of his head. I could hear his pain with satisfaction.