Whispering the serenity prayer, I flush chunks of wild salmon and organic sweet potato down the Erewhon toilet.  This meal, now a waste, cost $18 even with my employee discount.  I am newly sober, haven’t eaten sugar or red meat in six months, and am working as a “health and beauty aid” in the wellness and supplements aisle of the Silverlake Erewhon. 

I puke again.  With macrobiotic vomit on my breath, I text my boyfriend chill and meditative strings of words such as, “Help me, I think I am going to die within the next two minutes.”  He immediately responds, “Baby I love you so much.”  I hate him. 

Tonight he will take me to the emergency room on Sunset and Edgemont, where I learn my incessant vomit is not a result of being spiritually allergic to my job.  I am told I have two ovarian cysts, an extra uterus, and a very low chance of carrying a baby the full term.  I will play “Marvin’s Room” on the drive home, and my boyfriend will lock himself in the bathroom to delete his notes app of possible bar mitzvah party themes for our once-future-son. 

I will return to Erewhon in the morning, where I will be awarded employee of the month.  My co-workers, who are each beautiful on the inside and out in unique and perfect ways, congratulate me before instructing me to stop unlocking the perfume case for 2Hollis.  He is allegedly using up all our samples.  “But don’t you see how we look at each other?” I protest.  “No we do not,” my coworkers respond in harmonious unison. 

The nineteen year olds in the grocery section who tell me I look like Wednesday are yelling into their walkie talkies.  Jason Widener is in the building and he is not happy with the tangerine display.  Oh Jason Widener… Oh Jason.  Jason.  Jason.  Oh Jason.  Jason Widener.  Widener.  Widener.  Say “Widener” aloud and feel God vacate the premises. 

According to his IMDb page (sad), Jason “quit acting and became Erewhon's Vice President of Store Development.”  My bodybuilder co-worker Alan and I laugh at this as we restock Ayurvedic toothpaste, but my soul secretly rattles.  Boys love to cast me in their short films, but that is not a strong enough barricade to protect me from the possibility of my IMDb page (sad) saying I “quit acting and became Erewhon's Vice President of Store Development” too.

In his Voyage LA article (of course he has a fucking Voyage LA article), Jason Widener writes “My team is my community as much as my community is my community.”  Okay, Gertrude Stein “a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is Erewhon's Vice President of Store Development.”  

Jason claims his job is “all built on trust.”  I, for one, do not trust bro when I watch a 75 year old woman from Guatemala hold the office door open for him as he shouts something like: “When they make the Hailey Bieber smoothies that slowly, I lose money!” into his iPhone. 

Jason ironically began his Erewhon career making smoothies, as a struggling actor.  He, in classic American dream fashion, rose in the ranks and now has the luxury of disrespecting the elders in our community while practicing absolutely zero chivalry.  Who is Jason if not another class traitor reminding us there is never a good king.

In Voyage LA, Jason says he believes “in the power of food to unite us; as well as to explore different cultures…” and that he is “continuing the legacy of the amazing women" in his life.  It sickens me how unaware he is, how unaware men are, how unaware we are all capable of being.  

I want to know what Jason Widener would do if ICE burst into the store, pushing past the buffalo cauliflower, the sea moss, Nate from Gossip Girl.  I want to know what Jason would do if they came for the old women I sit with everyday in the break room, for the young men who show me SpongeBob memes as we clean up shards of a carrot juice bottle Anna from Red Scare knocked off the shelf.  I want to know that Jason would protect his team, that he would be a leader, that he would show no fear.  I want to know that I would too. 

While speaking on a podcast called The Skinny Confidential, which… I mean… Jesus Christ we used to run with wolves… Jason describes his current mantra as, “Find your nowhere.”  After hearing that, my current mantra becomes, “Fuck you, Jason.”  To his credit, he writes in Voyage LA that he is “working on communication… both at work and at home.”  I shiver at the thought of Jason’s home.  His wife is white and beautiful on Facebook.  I don’t think I’m projecting the deep sadness I see in her eyes.  

Jason has identified a real weakness, but I do not want to imagine him improving.  To believe in Jason Widener’s capacity for growth would make room for belief in my own capacity for growth, and I don’t want to grow.  I want to hide as my body destroys itself, talk shit about people I don’t know, and do nothing to better myself.

I ignore calls from the infertility clinic.  They want to freeze my eggs, but it costs thousands of dollars and do I even want children?  I buy a stuffed bunny at Lazy Acres and name her “Endometriosis” after my new disease.  My boyfriend and I stop having sex and start watching Peaky Blinders.

My pain gets worse and I leave Erewhon.  I leave my aisle with the colloidal silver.  Charles Melton in flip flops holding shampoo.  $45 sushi.  My boss and her 1975 pins.  I leave my boyfriend and our apartment with the red shower curtain.  I leave the waiting room and lie down for an MRI. 

My gynecologist is almost as beautiful as my mother.  I see her smile for the first time as she tells me my body is responding shockingly well to the new medication.  “Sometimes, we just need Western medicine” she says as she points to my shrunken cysts in the ultrasound imaging.  She informs me there is no reason I won’t be able to have children someday, should I want that.  She’s glad I’m eating red meat again. 

I honestly think Hailey Bieber did a great job with her smoothie.  I savor each sip so I can accurately describe it to my new friends and colleagues in New England.  I’ll tell them we had gray days in East Hollywood too, but sometimes I wanted to die even in the sunshine. 

I’ll tell them the men are boys who kiss without tongue. They have skincare routines and threaten to hit you. But there is linen against our legs at night and al pastor you follow with psyllium husk.  There is the dustiest hike ever.  There are long days and good people here, mixed in with all the rest.  My prefrontal cortex formed on Wilton Place and I didn’t get botox, even though I googled a lot about it.  I wonder what I’ll miss most about Los Angeles.  I’m sure I will be surprised.

I dreamed last night I was on the airplane, watching our city disappear.  With calm and purpose, I started to give birth.  Sweating and alone, I pushed out my perfect son.  I held him gently and named him Jason.