Not the Worst of It

Michael Lattimore can’t find his razor. This shouldn’t be the sort of thing that causes his world to collapse. Shouldn’t be the end of all things. He can’t find his razor. And that’s not the worst of it.

But he definitely can’t find his razor. He’d put it right where he always does: in the little cup on the third shelf, in the cupboard in the bathroom, just to the right of the sink. Not that he likes putting it there. Messy, cluttered. Unable to tell apart his own replacement blades from his son‘s.

He is fond of the heavy cork-covered handle. The way it sits in his hand. So different from the lightweight plastic disposable he‘s using now.

But it isn’t there. And that’s not the worst of it.

It had taken Michael 30 years to find a good razor, once he started shaving. At first, he had gone for the gimicky ones. Shipped by mail. Nice quality. Made him feel grown up. But replacement blades had “cost me more than I made in a week.” Which was true, but he’d only worked four hours a week then, Mondays after school.

He tried electric ones. Grew a beard. Never satisfied with his shaving experience.

When he’d discovered the cork razor, Michael felt like he had arrived.

But now he can’t find it. And that’s not the worst of it.

Michael thinks that maybe he should be more concerned about the other missing things. But he’s having trouble keeping track. His phone charger isn’t anywhere to be found. His phone, too, seems to be misplaced. And the shoes he leaves by the front door. And his jacket.

And his family.

He should have noticed that right away, he thinks, instead of the razor. Should have noticed he hadn’t seen Rachelle or Peter or Emily. It’s as though the other Lattimores disappeared. Except, that’s not quite right. They must still be there.