Went down to the den, turned out the lights, waited for the moon. The cat got on me and I cupped her head in my palms, Egyptian, an upside-down pyramid from the tip of the nose, fans out to the ears: all that went into making it.

The guys who live across the street rent, but they were out Saturday night fixing the potholes on our gravel road and I thought I should get them some beer to say thanks. I went to the BevMo! because they sold me bad chocolate and I wanted store credit since it cost $6 and I felt a pissed, the liqueur inside had crystallized and the chocolate was widowed and weird.

The cashier said I needed my receipt. I changed my tone and said some things but left without my credit, got increasingly mad, pulled the receipt out of my recycling and drove the three miles back in the rain, a Sunday afternoon. I had my turntable going and could have been there on the sofa with a beer but instead I was driving back to talk about six dollars.

When I arrived at the store I caught my reflection in the glass and made myself stop and flick my head to get the crick out of my neck and breathe, and then the doors slid open and I said to the manager we need to talk, and led him to the display with the bad chocolate.

He was younger than me and looked nervous. The color changed in his face and his lip flickered and I realized I was being that guy. I was having a hard time controlling the tone in my voice, was starting to shake.

I pocketed my six dollars and drove home feeling a bit better, but also embarrassed, a bit small.

Dawn said the last time the moon was this big was 1948, the last time there was an upset with the president, the Dewey-Truman one, where they printed the wrong outcome on the papers I guess.

I had a moment before I got in the shower I thought, it’s Monday morning, it’s dark and raining, I have to go to work, and I’m so freaking happy I have a job. The weatherman said it would be a race between the moon and the clouds tonight, if we could see it, and I saw its white glow through the trees just now, but it’s gone back behind the gauze again—and hard to believe it’s even there, so close.

Categories: musings

Tags: cats, Memoir, super moon, William Pearse writer