So,the boy never tastes anything – he dines at the finest souther Italian and Vietnamese restaurants and loses himself and the spieces and the flavors go into the olafactory system in the back of of his mind and nothing happens. For years, he has tasted nothing.

 

“Help me, doctor.” The boy, now 30 lbs underweight and in his middle twenties, could recollect countless memories of cheeseburgers without cheese, empty ketchup packets, brainfulls of pixie stix, but never a Happy 4^th of July or Merry Thanksgiving.

 

Once, in 1989, his mother dropped a dirty dish into the sink and the garbage disposal swallowed all the porcelain shards. The boy was so losst in the dullscape of tasteless daydreams he had been staring at the china for over an hour, slowly twirling his tongue around a half chewed piece of carrot. When the dish broke the boy sneezed, and the whole kitchen was covered in pinky finger sized orange vegetable.

All the boys stood around as Mincy lay crushed under the weight of Tom and Marge’s last heated sexual escapade. It stayed there for 2 days in the room next to the miature landfill. Christopher was out of his mind. Mincy was dead.

 

Samantha discovered a plastic grocery bad with a yellow smiley face in the coat closet and a pair of broken chopsticks. Mincy was so small and squishy.

 

Joey and Tom moved the bed to a corner and threw some baking soda and ammonia on the floor. Paul flipped on the fan. We all had cigarettes except for Chris. He finished up a carton of OJ and left on his bike.