Necessity Fulfilled

In debating the existence of God, philosophers must inevitably deal with what I call The Moment of Frustrated Necessity. That is, moments where one is decisively certain that something should be happening, but is not. I have returned from such a moment. Clearly, in a just universe ruled over by an all-knowing Creator, the following is what should have happened:


I am at the local market, and find myself in the frozen foods aisle, looking for (shocking, this) frozen foods, specifically strawberries and peaches. None is immediately evident, and I pause, brow furrowed, to try to place myself in the mind of the corporate manager who organized this place. Fruits are not vegetables, and therefore "Frozen Vegetables" seems a poor bet. Nor are they "Novelties"--Hmm. As I shift my weight back on one foot so as to tap the other in thought (yes, I actually do this), I am involuntarily aware of the song that is playing over the muzak.

It is "Let It Snow," though it is no version of this song I have ever encountered, and for good reason. This is not the bouncy, vivace piece popularized by such as Bing Crosby and Dean Martin. Oh no--this is "Let It Snow" re-interpreted as, as far as I can tell, a porn-movie torch-song. Drippingly ballad-slow, throat-heavy vocals that might be Michael Bolton, or at least someone trying to be him--a sickening ambition if ever there was one.

Mere transcription cannot do justice to the merciless cruelty of what I'm hearing; the singer sounds like he's trying to fake the sounds of a man trying to hold back an orgasm, and thus merely sounds life-threateningly constipated. Try to wrap your brain around it: "Oh-the-weather...(three-second pause)...outside...(three-second pause)...is-frightful...(ten-second pause)...But-the-fire (three-second pause)...is-so...(three second pause)...delightful..."

I pause. I look around at the people shuffling past me--my disbelief is both confirmed and dispelled: they hear it too. Everyone hears it. And everyone either hunkers his head down a bit more, like someone trying to ride out a bitter blast of stinging rain, or else meets the eyes of a total stranger to exchange a little "Sucks, huh?" shrug of broken-spirited comradery.

I listen for a few more moments: "Oh-it-doesn't...(three-second pause)...show-signs...(three second pause)...of-stopping...(ten second pause)...and-I've-brought...(three second pause)...some-corn...(three second pause)...for-popping..."

No. No. This cannot stand. This cannot be allowed. I cannot live in a world in which this is allowed to happen. I drop my basket with an audible clatter, drawing the stares of the rest of the store.

"I'll just be a minute," I announce, generally, and then stride off, disappearing around an aisle and out of sight. Somewhere, there's the sound of a far-off door opening and closing, and then steps that fade into the distance.

The singer continues, and this is the transcript of what follows: "Oh-the-fire...(three-second pause)...is-slowly...(three-second pause)...dying...(ten-second pause)...And-my-dear...(three-second pause)...we're-still...(three-second pause)...goodb--hurk! (Dull thud and the sound of the microphone tumbling to the floor, several seconds of scuffling, then something heavy hits something less heavy) AAAAAAAH! Oh, God, you broke my--AAAAAAH! AAAAAAAH! Oh Jesus God, help me! Somebody help--he's got a--(A sound similar to the snap of kindling)--AAAAAAAAH! Christ! Christ! Holy Christ--that was my--why are you--AAAAAAAH! My God, you can't put that--it won't go in my--you can't---AAAAAAAAAH!! Jesus Jesus JESUS PULL IT OUT PULL IT OUT PULL IT OUT--(gasp)--Oh, God, thank you, thank--AAAAAAHHH NO NOT DEEPER NOT DEEPER AHHHHHHHH!!!! SOMEBODY PLEASE STOP HIM--he's putting--KEROSENE!!! THERE'S KEROSENE EVERYWHERE!!! PLEASE SOMEBODY DO SOME--(The scratch of a match, and a fwoomp--a lot a screaming follows. Then, the low sounds of someone trying feebly to crawl to saftey. Then, the unmistakable growl of a power tool. The voice that speaks now is thick and clogged, as if speaking through a chunky milkshake.) Oh no, no, no, no--NOOOOO--AAAAAAAH!!! Not my eyes! NOT MY EYES! NOT MY--AAAAAAAAH!!! (Several more seconds of screams, then sudden silence, then a wet gurgling sound that goes for about a minute. Then--)

My voice: (clearly out of breath) Be just a second, folks.

(Then, a moment later, the sounds of Nat King Cole singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." The store below gives a round of cheerful applause, and everyone goes back about their evening. When I return to the scene, peeling off a bloody tarp to reveal my own unstained clothes, I'm greeted with pats on the back and a sweet "Thank you, dear" from the old lady in the dairy section.)

That needs to happen.