At department parties, I eat cheeses my parents never heard of—gooey pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues. I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house shaded by the factory's clank and clamor. A house built like a square of sixty-four American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches With—for the hungry man who disappeared into that factory, and five hungry kids. American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious holes. We were sparrows and starlings still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs, our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax— dig your nails in to separate them. When I come home, I crave—more than any home cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother can't understand. Doesn't remember me being a cheese eater, plain like that.
—Jim Daniels
Rights & Access
From In Line for the Exterminator, 2007
Wayne State University Press, Detroit, MI
Copyright 2007 by James Daniels.
All rights reserved.
Reprinted by permission of Doubleday Permissions Dept. c/o Random House, Inc. Copyright 1983 by Random House Inc. For further permissions information, contact Doubleday Permissions Dept. c/o Random House, 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
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Jim Daniels
Jim Daniels is the author of Birth Marks (BOA Editions, 2013) and Show and Tell (University of Wisconsin Press, 2003). He lives in Pittsburgh.