Dividing by Zero

I work in retail. That's to say I'm underpaid. That's to say I'm overworked, but only until 5pm which is when my bosses go home. I spend my days smiling, as if some invisible photographer is egging me on, saying cheese, elongating the world until it breaks. That's to say things like smiles can break. And knowing it is a break bigger than the biggest crack in the biggest dam that holds back the rivers of the world from Eden. I work with people. That's to say I get yelled at. That's to say I have to say sorry for when I get yelled at. That's to say my girlfriend never knows when I am being sincere and every I love you turns into can we please just be quiet? Where's the science in detecting the deception of hallmark card moments? I want to say that there is an app for that, that our hearts can get upgraded and modified for these scary times, but my operating system is behind. So when you say something important, the kind of thing a guy like me needs to hear, the cursor over my conscience freezes up and my system reboots and I say that I am hungry. That's to say I am single now and work longer hours at my job. There's a school where I go to learn and in classrooms where I used to sleep I find myself making lists of things I'd like to be and it hasn't changed much since I was ten, only cross out secret agent and put CIA Analyst only cross out superhero and put down nothing. I've learned to blame everything on the economy. My mother's heart attack. The way my father forgets my birthday. The next door neighbor's dog who hates the sound of my footsteps and my footsteps which want so badly to be heard, to tell their story, just like the economy, that little guy at the end of the bar, standing around three broken pints and lifting his hands up, palms facing God, shaking his head saying in that northeastern accent that seems to ride on subways, I didn't do nothing. These glasses were already broken when I got here. That's to say I don't believe him. But I want to. Maybe he needs someone to believe him. To bring out the dust pan and broom and a trash bag. To say, it's okay. I'll get you a round. And now add that to my list of occupations: the man who buys everyone a drink when they need it, who pats backs, shakes hands, gives hugs, listens to tears, wipes away words, and lifts the heavy bricks of guilt off their tired backs. That's to say, in a way, my biggest secret: when I was a kid, I wanted to be Christ. And now life is imagining what people are really mad about when they yell at me over the counter, about me not returning their items. Sir, I'll say, trying to sound calm, Sir, this wasn't bought here. Their faces get red and some of them stutter before they yell, like chainsaws who haven't had the pleasure of cutting down trees in a lifetime. Sir, I'll say, but they'll yell and if my mother was there she'd be offended, a gasp, a hand over mouth kind of offended at what they call her. That's to say I don't get through to some of them, but I do. I call them up later because like Christ, I've got their number. I tell them we are sorry. This isn't the way we do things. This isn't the life we imagined or the way we thought the words in our minds would sound when applied to the feelings in our hearts. They seem to understand. As best as they can, which isn't great but better than nothing. Which is my only option, now that I can't be a superhero, nothing. That's where math gets it wrong, how many people have you met, or how many times have you been the person who is so easily divided by nothing? That's to say I've figured this out. I can only call, which is what I do, and I can't offer them drinks but the tone in my voice is the same that kind of soft apologetic suggestive vibe that is used to start near dying cars on early work mornings. Please, I'd say, please let me explain.