A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Why would a rich guy go to the grocery store? He'd have someone who shops for him."

"I do. Why are you so negative?"

"I don't know," she says. "I have no business being anything. I've got a husband and two kids who don't talk to me, so I can't imagine why some rich guy in the grocery store would chat me up. I'm nonexistent, I'm like a floor lamp."

He starts to notice that she's very pretty — was it there before, does she notice it? She's pretty, she's funny, and she's smart.

"What does your husband do?"

"What do all men do? He runs a company for some other guy."

"Did you two ever go for counseling?"

"Are you some sort of shrink, a religious nut? I get it, you're a Scientologist, and you're recruiting me."

"No, I just always wondered, in retrospect, if my ex-wife and I should have talked to someone before we separated, would it have made a difference."

She is staring at his leg. "It looks bad," she says. "The leaking doesn't stop."

"Fortunately, it isn't as bad as it looks."

"That's the problem — people think what they see is real."

He rolls up his pants leg and tugs at the tape. "I can't get it off."

She goes over to the deli counter, takes a handful of plastic knives, and starts sawing at the tape.

"Hey, Patty," someone walking by calls out, "Patty Hearst, why don't you take him out in the parking lot and detonate him."

"Thanks," Richard calls after the guy. "That's very helpful. Is your name Patty?"

"Do I look like a Patty?"

The first knife breaks, gouging his skin. "I'm sure if you ask for the butcher he probably has a hatchet somewhere in back, and you could just chop my leg off."

She laughs. "Cynthia. My name is Cynthia."

The second knife saws through the tape; the melting ice pack drops to the floor.

"Is that all you're getting?" She glances into his cart.

He reaches behind him and throws a package of butter cookies towards the cart — they miss, land on the ground; the cookies crumble.

She laughs.

"Don't you need ice cream? Whenever something happens to me, I need ice cream."

When did he last need ice cream? He'd completely forgotten about ice cream.

"Want me to get you some?" she asks.

"Sure."

"What kind?"

He has no idea. "Whatever kind you like — your favorite. I want to try your favorite." While she's gone, he puts the cookies back — too much carbohydrate.

Cynthia comes back with a Carvel ice-cream cake. "It's my favorite."

"It's so cheerful," he says. The cake is white, decorated with multicolored confetti. "I pictured you more with a spoon and a pint of Haagen-Dazs chocolate."

"Oh, I do that all the time, but this is for special occasions."

"What am I celebrating?"

"You survived," she says. "You got hit by a car."

"Do you want me to eat this now?"

"No, take it with you." She hands him a huge jar of bath salts. "And when you get home, put a cup of this in a hot tub and soak. I better go — if I'm not home, I'll get in trouble. On the one hand, they don't notice me; on the other, I'm on a very short leash. Good luck with your injury."

Using a grease pencil from the bakery counter, he scrawls his number on a white bakery bag.

She shakes her head. "If Andy finds a number in my pocket it's only going to make things worse."

"Tell him I'm a cleaning lady. Just take it; if things get really bad, if you need a place to go, a day off from your life, call me."

"What are you — a run-over Good Samaritan?"

"I'm just someone who's trying."

"OK, well, don't try too hard — you might get yourself killed."

HE GETS IN the checkout line. He's been so distracted that he didn't really buy anything — all he's got is the open bottle of baby aspirin, the Flintstones vitamins, a banana peel, the sunflower seeds (which have been sprinkling themselves across the floor, leaving a long trail), and the ice-cream cake.

"On a roll?" the girl asks as she's ringing him up.

"Huh?"

"Looks like you're on a binge, like a raccoon has been tearing through here. All of your packages are open. Did you eat anything else along the way?"

He holds up the banana peel.

"Should we call it fifty cents?"

What is it going to take for him to break out of himself, dancing in the aisles of the grocery store, screaming at the top of his lungs, starting a program to help small businessmen like Anhil open donut stores? He wants to be more, do more. And he wants to feel better. He wants to be heroic, larger than life — rescue people from burning buildings, leap over rooftops. And he wants people to notice him. He catches his reflection in the chrome dairy case. How does a middle-aged Joe become anything, much less a superhero?

IT IS NIGHT; he is going home in the dark. A car passes with a lighted pizza box on top. He sees the box and unconsciously chants the number to himself the whole way home. He goes in through the garage door, calling "ollie ollie oxen free," half expecting to greet himself. He goes into the kitchen with his small bag of goods, opens the fridge, and visits his dinner — an orangey slab of poached salmon, green beans, roasted-tomato-and-fennel salad with pink plastic wrap over the top.

He dials from memory. "Pizza Palace, our pies are made to please."

"I'd like to arrange for a delivery."

"What do you want on it? One for three, three for five, five for ten. We got mushroom, pepperoni, onions, peppers, garlic, regular cheese, smoked mozzarella, feta, goat, cheddar, Swiss, fresh garlic, sun-dried tomato, fresh tomato, avocado, broccoli, broccoli rabe, spinach, pineapple, sausage, turkey sausage, tofu, red peppers, green peppers, green olives, black olives…"

While he's listening to the recitation of the toppings, he takes an ice pack out of the freezer and holds it against his leg.

"Regular," he says to the guy. "Plain cheese, and maybe broccoli, some turkey sausage, and throw a few mushrooms on there."

He pulls down his pants and looks at his leg; it's pink from the ice, red from the adhesive, and a kind of bluish green from the huge bruise that's forming. He presses deeper, harder, examining.

"Thirty-five, forty minutes. Cash only, twenty-seven eighty-eight. You need anything else with that?"

"Like what?" He goes to the window, looks out. The exterior lights that go on automatically at dusk are lighting up the hill. The hole is definitely bigger.

"You tell me."

"I'm fine." He pauses. "Hey, who do you call when there's a sinkhole, when the land is moving — any idea?"

"Buddy, it's a pizza parlor, not the Department of the Interior."

He hangs up and dials 911 — this time much more casually, not sure it's really an emergency. If he hadn't called last night, he certainly wouldn't be calling tonight. Is he trying to live the whole thing over again — staging a dramatic reenactment?

"Police, fire, ambulance."

"Police," he says, clearly.

"Is this an emergency? All nonemergency calls should be directed to your local precinct. If this is a police emergency, please stay on the line."

Someone comes on the line. "Police. What's the nature of your problem?"

"There's a hole outside of my house; it started as a dent and it's getting bigger and deeper. It looks like one of those places where a UFO might have landed, if you believe in things like that."

There is a pause. "And when you look into the hole, do you see anything coming out of it, like little green men? Look, buddy, give it a rest — spare me the paperwork."

"This is not a crank call, if there's some other number I should call, then say so, but it needs to be reported."

"You say it's a hole?"

"Yes."

"And who dug the hole?"

"No one dug the hole, it's just forming. It's a public safety issue — the earth is sinking. I've been watching it all day."