From Jesus to the Wild
Every day when I have breakfast, I take three packs of sugar from the cafe back home. This way, I do not spend money buying sugar. It is a tradition, almost a superstition. I open the sugar container slowly to put the sugar from the packs inside like a child opening a pickle jar, but today I am on the phone, and I have to do it with one hand only. Except the cover does not move. I get frustrated. Once it unscrews, I throw the cover to the ground in a fit of rage. I have always had this tendency for animism since I was a child. When I am angry and irrational, I give objects intentions, and I punish them, I beat them, I scream at them, I reason with them.
The moment the cover splashes into little pieces on the ground, I feel ridiculous and self-aware. A grown forty-year-old man is punishing a sugar container cover for not opening fast enough. First, I think I need anger management, but then I get pragmatic, and I realize I need to get a new sugar container because this one does not have a cover, and it is useless.
I leave the apartment to buy a sugar container jar at the Max store. In a true Tel Aviv way, the street is much warmer than the apartment, cars and voices mix in a cacophony of sounds. Wolt electric-bicycle drivers flood the sidewalks like hired killers stalking pedestrians. The local Canadian lady walks her dog while wishing everyone a good morning. I cross the street, and I get into the Max store. A different world altogether, calm, silent, almost like a museum. A museum of consumerism and low prices. The wonders of Chinese over-production. I breathe in, I calm down. The morning can still be pleasant.
There are at least 3 types of containers: glass, brass, and plastic. I choose the glass. It is a considerable upgrade from the previous sugar container. I walk around to see what else is in the store: batteries, socks (do I need socks?), candles—wow, they have everything here—a crucifix? That’s strange.
A siren rings outside. The guy behind the counter says, “Go to the toilet.” Three ladies and I go to a small bathroom in the back of the shop. The usual booms ensued. One of the women, younger, texts impatiently during the bombs; she whispers, “Eize basse!” (“So annoying!”). We leave the bathroom some moments later, and I pay for the glass sugar container.
When I leave the shop, the street is empty, no more cacophony, only the distant sound of an ambulance and the occasional caw of a crow. I can hear my own steps as I walk. I speed up; I do not want to be on the street much longer. I need to contain my animism, damn this war! I hate her!
