The Bodyguard ("Oatmeal" -- #21)

OATMEAL
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is eating cookies in a supermarket. He did not pay for the cookies. He holds the torn package in one hand and has his other hand inside reaching for yet another cookie. He looks around. He expects someone to do something, to rush up, to stop him, to grab the cookies away, slap him on the wrist, and make him get on his face on the floor. He doesn’t know why he would want this, or why he is unable to stop pushing cookies into his mouth. If they were Mint Oreo or even snickerdoodle, that would be one thing. But these are not. These are simple oatmeal and he has so many lodged in his throat right now that he is unable to breathe. He can feel his face turning colors, but resists his body’s urge to discharge any of the treats. He clamps himself down around them. He makes himself into a fortress, protecting the cookies as they dematerialize within him.

He can hear the sound of them crunching. Somehow the sound is foreign, as if it is coming from somewhere outside. But he knows this isn’t really true. Can’t be. He knows who is eating and who is not eating. He knows who is in control. It’s something he’s always known and knew long before he wore this suit or had the wire in his ear. He is in a supermarket. He knows this. He knows it like he knows the color of his skin or who it is who is protecting the oatmeal cookies.

He only has a problem with one thing—the crunching sound, those teeth, and the shopping cart in front of him full of products he cannot possibly pay for and does not want. He can’t remember how they got there or why he is here at this store. He isn’t hungry. He did not open the package of cookies because of that. It was something else, something that keeps eluding him.