Heritage Fermentation
(let's make a wild prediction & guess that in 100 years or less most human deaths will by choice, not "nature." & it will no longer be called "suicide" but something like "none of the above")
The seasonal evening rain falls with sufficient quantity. The monthly historical average has been met. It has been surpassed. The rain drums hard against the vinyl tent roof. Masked servers dodge the downspouts. They brush open the tent flaps. They carry with them pints of seasoned hard cider, plates of seasoned fried starches, ramekins of premium seasoned mayonnaise. They make small talk on request, about the tight labor market, about commodities inflation. Their black unbranded orthopedic sneakers agitate the standing water. Municipal cisterns are overwhelmed. Asphalt sags overtop the subsiding floodplain. Sandbags have been laid around the propane heater. It casts mellow fleshtone gaslight over the relict fruit trees. An idealized historical orchard is featured prominently on the cider house logograph. The original was planted for tax arbitrage, mostly bulldozed. A warehouse for pipe fittings took its place, then the cider house itself. A pattern of economic succession is observed—primary, secondary, tertiary. The dumpsters are filled with partially consumed entrees, with biodegradable tableware. Apples still fruit, bewormed, along the sodden curb strip. They fall to the ground, are trodden, underfoot and underwheel, by piecework delivery drivers. The city craves liquor and fried starches. It craves seasoned emulsified egg yolks, expensable through the sales department. The quarterly retention quota has been met. It has been surpassed. A generous tip is recommended, no more than twenty percent, as per accounting guidelines. The apples ferment on the asphalt, on the cistern grates. Neighborhood raccoons ignore the heritage castoff. A more succulent trash is on offer.
