The Abortion

Yesterday at work, I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been designed to stun people such as myself. In larger-than-life gold letters against an olive green background, the words "Cure Abortion" were emblazoned across his chest. The back of the shirt said, "Abortion: leading cause of death in America. 1,200,000 a year."

This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.

The Universe wasn't listening.

The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.

I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"

A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"

The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.

The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.

About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.

As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.

This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.

I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.

For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.

None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.