Dill
Matt Reed
You know what happens to you when you wear a pickle suit? You get into fights. You hear stuff like, "George get off the bed, that's not funny," or "Listen, Pal. You're in my bar. If you want a drink, you'll take that pickle off," or sometimes just "Pig!" Then you say, "What? I can't hear you," because there aren't any earholes in this thing. And then, wham, you'll find yourself air hole to the floor, because people have no patience for a man in a pickle suit.
Pickle suits put people on edge. People are uncomfortable around them—especially if the exterior is natural and feels as close to a true pickle as possible by human means—like my exterior. It is smooth where it's supposed to be smooth, bumpy where it's supposed to be bumpy. My reflection gives off a sheen that even I can see through the wire screen in my eye holes. I look like I've just been plucked from a pickle jar. But on a Saturday afternoon, a wife has no sense of humor about these things. She will put her hands on her hips. She won’t laugh and swoon like you thought she would. She will swat away your hand, which is itself not pickle-like at all. She will think you said Dennis when you said tennis—so you’ll press your mouth against the air hole a second time to make sure she can hear you and she’ll tell you to stop yelling.
And then you’ll wonder, “Who’s Dennis?”
The world is not made for a man in a pickle suit. Restroom stalls, phone booths, small cars, your home of fourteen years—these are not places for you. People will tell you you’re in a real pickle. You’ll laugh—to let them know they were the first to think of it. Then you’ll ask them for a hand here, and they’ll tell you to wait a minute. They have to get their friends.
You’ll wait. You’ll miss your wife. You’ll come up with a plan to share her with Dennis—that is—if that’s what she wants. You’ll pat yourself on the back for finding a way to get a drink inside here and you’ll think that maybe you’d like to live in here after all. Then you’ll sweat. But you have to keep yourself under control because nobody likes a man laughing in a pickle suit.
