MISMATCHED PURPLE

The TV was still on when Jimmy woke up on the couch. A few empty beer cans and a half-eaten bag of chips sat on the coffee table. Some documentary played about a bygone empire that didn’t seem too far bygone. The commoner loved to fight, fuck, drink, gamble and go to church once a week. But one thing was out of reach for most: the color purple.

Purple was worth more than gold. Some poor schmuck had to find thousands of snails, crush them, and endure that foul smell to dye a single garment. The rich just wore it.

A purple Beanie Baby stared from Jimmy’s shelf. Nobody online was buying it for two hundred dollars. The last recorded sale was only twenty.

He stared at his reflection in his Ninja Turtle boxers. Jimmy had always found the cautious and awkward purple turtle as the most relatable. But deep down, he wanted to be the charismatic leader like the blue turtle. Maybe working out was a good place to start.

Jimmy scanned his barcode. It beeped as he entered the twenty-dollar-a-month corporate gym. The girl at the counter didn’t say anything or look up from her phone. The walls, machines, and floor tiles were all a sea of mismatched purple.

Broccoli-haired teenagers scrolled on their phones while occupying idle machines. A toned woman adjusted her shorts in the mirror. One lone guy faced the corner, shadow boxed, and exhaled heavily on every strike.

Jimmy walked over to a leg press. A middle-aged man had a tripod and lighting set up as he filmed himself pointing and yelling into the lens. It was something about being a “real” man, “motivation”, and a discount code for some supplements.

He blocked that leg press and an entire row of unused machines with cones and a rope. Jimmy put his arms out, palms up, shrugged, and mouthed “what the fuck?” The burly man stood upright, and puffed out his chest.

Jimmy walked out beneath a “no gymtimidation” sign.

His phone lit up with a message from his coworker, Stew Hicks. Jimmy owed $25 for the monthly office snack and coffee fund that he didn’t use. He’d usually catch Stew bringing most of it home. Jimmy promised his peace offering, and said he’d bring in the money later.

But he had no cash on him, and Stew Hicks never accepted Venmo. He had too many scams and side hustles. Jimmy went to the pharmacy to buy something, so he could get cash back. “Smoke on the Water” played as he neared the register.

An elderly woman with a filled cart saw one deodorant in Jimmy’s hand, and let him cut her in line. Jimmy thanked her.

The woman asked if he liked to read. Jimmy nodded as she handed him a colorful pamphlet about Jesus. He politely declined, but the elderly woman insisted he take it. She tried a different approach and asked him about the price of gas.

Jimmy responded, “four dollars a gallon, but still not as bad as eight in California”. A man behind them said “it’s a small price to pay to stop nuclear war”. Jimmy nodded, but the man wouldn’t stop.

“You think this is a big joke?” the man yelled. Jimmy stared back and said nothing. The cart lady started yelling about heaven and hell, but Jimmy still refused to take the pamphlet. A third person yelled for him to “pay attention asshole” and to “step up to the register”. Then the cashier yelled at him for, “holding up the line”.

Jimmy said he wanted cash back. The most offered on the touchscreen was $20. The cashier handed him a receipt and a small, purple, complementary hand sanitizer. Jimmy threw it in the trash as he walked out the vestibule and passed an ATM.

He was a day late and five dollars short.