Whenever I get in a crappy mood
And I start to get really down on myself
I collect all my character defects and
shortcomings and
mistakes
and pile them all on each other
like a triple-decker pastrami corned beef and turkey sandwich
(On rye, of course)
or a bunch of football players
trying to recover a fumble.

You don’t deserve to be happy, or play
Because you haven’t earned the right.
You’re not working hard enough.
Can’t you see how much further along your peers are?
You can’t afford that four-bedroom Park Avenue apartment in Manhattan you’ve been dreaming of
because you don’t earn enough money.

What’s the matter with you?
Why can’t you bring in more clients?
You’ll never get anywhere as a solo attorney.
Look at how you choose your clients
and suck it up when they stiff you
You’re a loser.
You don’t have any friends.

And now that your mom is dead and she left you money
You didn’t build that
You didn’t create that.
You call yourself an entrepreneur?
That was your grandfather
who came off the boat at age 15 speaking no English
and parlayed his window-washing skills
into a multimillion dollar company.
You’re just living off the result.
So what if he was a bully and a cheat and a philanderer?
He was a SUCCESS.
Not like you.

You couldn’t even get your womb to work
to bear children.
So what have you contributed to the world?
Not much.

As thoughts pile on like some monstrous anthill
they’re hard to fight.
But I know if I pick them off one by one
using sunlight and a mirror
I could shrink each one to its proper size.

Take a number, I want to say.
Get in line.
I’ll deal with you presently.
One at a time.

It’s like I’m the neighborhood butcher
with dark, hairy Popeye arms
sweat stains in the armpits of my white T-shirt
my apron streaked with beef blood
straining over my belly growing from
too much Michelob after work because
these damn snobby food lunatics
–shrieking harpies–
all come in at once
and it’s non-stop all day every day.
Take a damn number. I’ll deal with each one-a youse in turn.

Like Mrs. Langhorne
All pinkies up
who comes in with a sniff
ersatz royalty
looking down her nose at the hired help
though I can see the slight fraying
of the collar on her green wool coat
and notice how the feather in her cloche hat
is broken and drooping more than fashionable.

She’s shrieking for 27 pounds of pork roast
or something equally ridiculous.
No, lady, I’m not selling you my whole supply.
There’s a whole gaggle of Mrs. Langhornes
right behind her all clucking and pecking
I got other customers to feed, lady
Customers who pay their bill.
On time and in full and
maybe even throw in a tip at Christmas.

I want 27 pounds of pork roast! she screeches
–Sorry. That’s a special order. Ya gotta call in advance. There’s a 5 pounds limit per person per day.
–But I want it. You have plenty in the case.
–Read the sign. 5 pounds limit per person.
She raises her voice. This is no way to run a business.
–Do you want the pork roast or not?
–Let me see what you have.
I take out a slab of meat and show her.

Is that all you have?
–What’s the matter with it?
–I want something leaner.
–Lady, it’s a pig. Whaddayou expect?
–It’s not very pink.
I say, I killed it fresh yesterday, and give her the stink eye.
–Well that’s not very nice. I don’t like how you talk to me.

Do you want this or not?
–I’m going to tell all my friends not to come here.
–That’s nice. You want it? You’re holding up the line.
I’ll take it! interjects Mrs. Tremblay.
It’s MY turn, calls Mrs. Langhorne over her shoulder.
She turns back to me. You need to learn some manners.
–And you’re the one to teach me? I think to myself, staring at her.

In fact, I don’t like you at all, she barks.
She sniffs, pauses, and piles on the invective.

You’re a terrible butcher and sell substandard meat and have ridiculous rules. You have no idea how to properly serve a customer. You have a tiny little shop and are totally inefficient. Lines. Take a number. Feh! I was here first! I’m not spending my money here. I’ll go to Morris Butchers across town. No one will shop here anymore. You’ll see. I’ll tell everyone –

–Lady, you already have! I shout to the crowded floor.

Just like I want to say to the mean thoughts,

Take your business elsewhere.
Take your insults elsewhere.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Silence wafts through the shop as Mrs. Langhorne storms out, the front bell tinkling as the door opens and closes.

Mrs. Tremblay pushes forward. I want that roast! she demands.

Take a number.