Alcohol. Because a great story never starts with a salad. I noticed the sign outside a bar in my neighborhood. I was jogging, so I didn’t have a camera, and when I thought to go back for a photo, an announcement of the weekly special had taken its place. But it struck me as an accidental writing prompt all the same, sort of the found poem of the genre. Writing a story that might start with a salad has been tickling away in the back of my mind ever since. So here’s a first go. Any takers?
Always Freshest
Arugula fine as tender oak leaves–it looks delicious, I’m going to try it this time, but then I see the way those leaves are splayed up against the lid of the bulk greens bin, like little hands desperate to get out, and then the whole bin is swept out of my reach and I realize I’ll have to make do with my trusty romaine. I don’t even see who does it, it’s just a couple of arms and a green smock, the way the sneeze guard blocks our faces. But someone wants to free the arugula, or punish it; it’s hard to say. The English call it rocket, which might be more apt, given the way the plastic bin is now barreling through the air, over the heads of other shoppers (some anxious, some oblivious) and right smack onto one of the tables beside the snazzy salad bar they just installed in my neighborhood grocery, the one I loved for its grandmotherly checkers (who should have been able to retire by now) and the way the teenagers bagging produce steered the heavy carts out to your car without even asking or, even better, placed each package, as if each one held eggs or fragile macaroons, in the rolling cart I’ve been using since I started walking to the store, determined to get those extra few blocks of exercise by fair means or foul. But salad makes so many people twitchy. Resentful, like it’s someone’s morality play.
The bin slams onto the table, but it doesn’t fall until a little girl comes by. She’s maybe four or five, arms extended like wings, and she sweeps the bin onto the floor along with a napkin dispenser and a couple of spoons. Slow motion, almost, and the spoons ring like bells. There’s arugula all over the floor. Those little leafy hands have become a wilting mess of green snow, and they won’t crisp up and crackle underfoot like maple or oak. But the woman across the table, placing another artichoke heart between her teeth, dabbing her lips with a napkin–she jumped a little at the noise but didn’t look up when the arugula landed. The girl’s arm didn’t reach as far as her lunch. She’s reading a book, a tight-bound paperback, and she’s so prepared for this luncheon outing with her novel, she has a collapsible metal stand to hold it open, where most people make do with saltshakers or a greasy thumb. Her attention spans a steel bridge into some other story, even with the loudspeaker crackling, cleanup in deli. By now the arugula bandit is long gone.