Compassionate for the Logmint
Only one
mint lozenge from the bag remained. This
was the notorious logmint.
“Goddamn
the TV is loud!” complained Morton from his perch on a triangular piece of
plywood nailed high up in one corner of the room. No one listened to him. No one heard him.
“Does it have
to be that loud?” he screamed.
“Could it
be that because his band never went anywhere that he has been
marginalized? That his opinions no
longer matter (if ever they did) to the other members of the community?” Sally
wondered to her fellow psychology students as they watched these proceedings
through the two-way mirror (also called “one-way glass”).
“I think a
better question is, ‘since the report of this incident will be posted online,
but not any follow-up material, will the inevitable digital world-mind hunt
down any such follow-up material, seeking answers and/or novelty?” This was Donny, dressed in overalls and
beaver mask, reaching into and grumbling that all the mints were gone.
“No,
there’s one left,” Morton told him. “The
logmint.”
“The
logmint?” whined Donny. “I don’t want
that. It’s so big and all those little
edible ornaments all over it.”
“I like the
logmint,” Sally announced, looking at it as if at a baby fumbling helplessly at
a catcher’s mitt. It lay there on the
platter attended by a candy lumberjack and marzipan elk. “But I’m not saying I’d eat it.”
.
