A Bitter Lethe

Dear Buford,

I hope you are well. Attached are my specific grocery preferences for this week. Do be sure to let me know if you were unable to find anything.

- One cluster of green grapes. ‘Green’ is a bit of a falsehood, though; in reality I am seeking a deeper greenish-yellow hue, almost a chartreuse. Otherwise, their sugar content will be inadequate. Avoid brown spots. Err on the side of a medium- to large-sized bunch.

- One Errol-brand baguette, the most richly-toasted one available.

- A half pound of Ibérico ham, but kindly take the effort to approach the butcher’s counter for fresh slices from a full leg. Nothing pre-sliced or pre-processed will do; I’m not operating in the catering industry.

- Four large red chilis, accompanied by an ounce of spite. My last butler bought me a downright atrocious canister of chili preserves. It was too sweet, too fruity, and completely washed away the natural brightness of the peppers themselves. The guests, whether they choose to recognize it or not, deserve better.

- As a centerpiece, a few skirt steaks should do nicely. I don’t have the guest list on my person, so just allocate eight ounces for each visitor. I’ll have the chef wrap and make pinwheels of them, which again far exceeds what the quotidian organizer would allocate such insufferable guests, but that is beside the point. Actually, make it flank steak to settle my conscience. May their jaw muscles sag beneath the weight of additional exercise.

- Two heads of hydroponic butterhead lettuce, free of impurities.

- In that vein, we’ll be needing a small container of coconut butter, and two organic lemons of the Lisbon subspecies.

- I’ll exclude garlic from my list on the basis that we probably have garlic in the cabinet somewhere. If my chef doesn’t stock it, he can kiss my stainless steel Blarex 3590 twin-broiler oven good-bye and replace my parsley and thyme sprouts atop the eight-foot cabinets, allowing them to bask once again in the light of the porthole window.

- A dozen eggs. I will have the chef make you a fine omelette with the remnants of his pasta assignment. You deserve it, although I’ve already mentioned that word to no end. It seems I have become society’s arbiter of merit. Whether or not I have earned the position, while I think so, perhaps some superior authority should be consulted. Make sure to twist, or push, or displace each egg slightly and carefully to make sure their shells are intact. Otherwise, my life is at stake, and nobody will scrutinize their allocations ever again.

- Burrata, and an accompanying box of pistachios, before I’m filled with disdain for each and every brat who lifts their foot over my door’s threshold and plays me for a fool for three and a half hours straight, feigning intrigue and care. Let them have one more treat.

- Quelling tea leaves. Watch what kind you buy, for I want them to disperse their lullabies into the waters they taint without any bite whatsoever. You ought to get enough for everyone; I have a feeling they’ll come in handy. Break open the packages if necessary and make a mess. I’ll cover your tracks for tea leaves that direct their words like tranquilizers at the soul. Preferably green, certainly bluer than the grapes, a sort of large-leaved wintergreen tint should suffice.

- In fact, get more food. I’d rather the attendees stuff their faces than open their mouths to solicit me and my assets. Any costly hogwash should have no trouble slipping down their throats. Even still I’ll probably shatter a few glasses again, so I implore you to stock up on those, too. You might as well purchase a small remote lodge with no landline phone. That’ll stop them from hassling me for about a week until Marsha’s bloodhound intuition leads her back to me and the others barrel in succession. And before you ask about a coy coffin, my guests are immensely persistent. They’d dig it up foaming at the mouth while I was still halfway to Borneo.

- I wish I could bring myself to hang a sign, Buford, a simple landscape-oriented piece of cardstock paper, warning them off, incentivizing them to focus their attention elsewhere, but I don’t have the heart. It pains me to have given rise to such creatures of material lust, and yet I cannot look away, for if I were to, I would be forfeiting my accountability and I would have to inflict upon myself the same judgment I direct at them, and my time is waning to the extent that I decided to permit myself introspective avoidance. Beneath the veil of my self-interest, I am nothing if not honest. I have thus confined myself to prolonged purgatory and torment. Vultures crop up in my dreams, circling overhead as the sun both sustains me and pummels me to the ground. Buford, bring me a whole mangy flock, so that they permeate my conscious being as opposed to my unconscious, as I have no choice but to pool every last copper coin in the cesspit of my nightmares, coat its bottom in a slightly more forgiving substance. Bring me the flock, unrestrained from squabble, so that they caw at my descendants. Let them gargle the wine; let them reek of Ibérico and caviar and not the carcasses of the roads; let them sink their talons deeper and deeper into my velvet couch cushions; let them hit their heads on the white ceilings of my hallways and let them look at the paintings on my walls without a trace of expression or comprehension. Let them jeer behind my back. It will be no novelty to me. At my burial, the vultures must be present, sitting atop the casket preening their feathers like some dignified bunch, fleeing for the skies the moment a speck of ceremonial soil strikes the disheveled hair of their necks, and never reappearing to pay tribute. Good. I can’t stand them. I will rejoice when at last their dirty nails unclench me and my appendages, much as I require them now.

- As you may recall, Marsha made an offhanded comment last time about the dearth of smoked salmon that she thought eluded my ears. Get as much of it as possible. Buy out the section if you must, and feed the vultures any and all leftovers so they refrain from eating away at my fragile body while I rest.

- Crème fraîche and more Errols - I must at least maintain my class now that dignity has transcended my porthole window.

Everything was left promptly outside the door of Mrs. L. Forsyth with the exception of the butterhead lettuce; her local supermarket offered no head untouched by blemish and rot.