One Bulb

The one-car garage has its big door up a foot, for an extension cord, and its side door open. Inside, a single bulb hangs from a rafter over a square of green plastic turf. Around the turf stand eleven chairs, none alike, and someone sits in each. The flyer said to bring a chair. You did not.

On the turf: a toaster with its cord cut off. A lamp with no switch. A saucer of bent screws. A moisture meter with its needle stuck on WET. A woman reads from an index card what the toaster cost and the day it quit, and nobody claps.

You sit down on the turf. It is warm from the bulb and smells of the inside of a car. A man by the side door says one thing to each person who sits: It doesn't grow. I know, each says. He says it to you. I know, you say.

At eleven the bulb goes out. Someone strikes a match. Nobody gets up to fix it.