“And the Lord said, ‘Is it right for you to be angry?’” —Jonah 4:4
I walked the aisle like Jonah walked Nineveh, but proclaimed a sort of armistice on guilt-tripping. President Trump stood where Ace is the Place, and he told me to buy this axe for trimming down each plant assigned by the Lord. I was angry, of course, and began to whale away at roots as they would encroach upon a certain vantage point. And then, it came as no surprise to sniff the vomit with which I myself had been spewed on dry land. The stench grew and grew like that of a fish out of water, and I craved the affectionate Yahoos and the Googling eyes of others; and thus I recoiled as if bitten by ventilators, venting my shame. Ashes! Ashes we all fall down! The medieval ditty echoed like the cries of oligarchic yodelers to the ends of the discount rack. It caromed around the shelves, emptied of air-filters and tiki torches, and when I heard each slogan reverberating back to me, the Exit sign appeared, and the Lord said, “Do you see each hinge allowing doors to open and close?” And I replied, “Not quite, Lord”— which kept the clientele entranced at entering where the Entrance had been obvious and well-lit… But oblivious, a silence breezed into the space from the outside without wanting to buy or to sell a thing. And by its breath I began to utter the manufacturer’s name etched upon the stainless steel: METANOIA—
