Jim

A picture hangs above the meat section at the supermarket. It’s Jim, I know, because I’ve seen him stocking turkey and I always check the name tags. It doesn’t really matter what the employees’ names are, but while I’m dolefully deciding which detergent matches my personality, it’s nice to know that real people are punching the clock by my side. To remind myself that other conscious beings find themselves critiquing commercials between bouts of Family Feud.

Jim stares at the lens in front of him. He doesn’t see me as I stare at his two-dimensional facsimile. Clearly, he’s unconcerned with the telos of the photograph; he sees the lens for what it is – a piece of curved glass. After this picture, there’s a truckload of kosher beef waiting to be shelved.

He’s probably still trying to convince himself that he’s middle-aged, but hair can only stay dark for so long. A round face with pudgy cheeks, the same mustache he had when he got the job, and simple, functional glasses that mark the steady deterioration of eyesight with each passing year. The caption says “We’re here to help” and an untraceable shame-like feeling enters my stomach.

Sure enough, Jim is in the meat section, inspecting slabs of pork. I begin to approach him, compelled to engage in conversation in hopes of augmenting my flat conception of him and possibly uncovering some truth. He turns and sees me gawking: “Do you need any help?” His eyes are no longer staring at a lens, but at a person. “No thanks,” I mumble as I walk away. Some things are better left alone.