Trevor and the Existential Toaster

It began with a toaster. Not even a good toaster. A clearance-rack, two-slice, chrome-flecked, half-hearted hunk of betrayal that couldn’t even brown a bagel evenly.

Trevor hadn’t asked for much—just warm bread and the illusion of control over his life. He initially enjoyed the sense of agency he felt every time he pressed the button, sending each slice of square gluten to its approximation of the pits of hell. But instead of toast, he got charred tops and tepid bottoms. A suitable metaphor for his options in the bedroom, but unsuitable for warming bread.

So he packed up the toaster, still warm with mediocrity, and trudged to the store. The customer service desk was nestled between the lost-and-found (mostly dentures and dreams) and the “Unclaimed Babies” department, which, to Trevor’s dismay, was having a clearance sale.

He trudged to the service counter, noting the gentle wafts of urine perfuming the air as he approached the teal Formica.

“Hello,” Trevor said, placing the toaster on the counter. “I’d like to return this.”

The clerk, a humanoid figure with the eyes of a resentful raccoon and a name tag that read Beryl, blinked once.

“Do you have a receipt?”

Trevor hesitated. He had burned the receipt in a symbolic protest, not realizing symbols lacked refunds. “No,” he admitted in defeat.

“You’ll need to speak with the Regional Oracle then.”

Before he had time to protest, the piss-stained linoleum beneath him opened, revealing a cavernous mouth in the shape of a slide. He promptly slipped through the bowels of the store into what he could only presume was the basement.

One lone torch hung on the wall to his right. It illuminated a small patch wet of cobblestone beneath his shoes, and nothing else. He transferred the toaster to his left hand and cradled it between his armpit like an awkward newborn. He briefly flirted with the idea of what it would feel like to be suckled by the machine before perishing the thought and proceeding through the basement, torch in hand.

“It would hurt”, most likely. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.” “In which case, you may want to keep it. Who says male nipples are useless?”

The disembodied voice in the distance must have been the Oracle.

Within a few minutes time, he found himself face to face with the Voice, complete with raven and grey hair, deep wrinkles, and heavy set blue eyes.

Though the woman before him was clearly adept at mind-reading, he felt it unnecessary to explain himself. He never could stand awkward silences.

He explained his toaster troubles. The Oracle listened solemnly, then pulled a lever. A pigeon in a tie flew in, slapping Trevor across the face with a file folder.

“You may exchange the toaster,” she said. “But only for something of equal existential weight.”

“I… what?”

“You may choose between: (1) a sack of slightly disappointed hamsters, (2) a novelty mug that says ‘World’s Okayest God,’ or (3) a memory of your grandmother that never happened.”

Trevor chose the mug. Obviously.

He climbed back through the plumbing system to reach daylight, drenched in spiritual sewage and self-awareness, emerging into a part of the store that had not previously existed.

Aisle 47½. The Aisle of Forgotten Needs.

He met a woman trying to return an emotion she had felt too deeply in 1997. Next to her, a man was locked in a wrestling match with his shadow, who had unionized and demanded better lighting conditions.

Trevor sipped from his new mug. It leaked hope.

He left the store with nothing he’d come for, and everything he hadn’t asked for.

Back home, the toaster was still there. Waiting. Smug.

He plugged it in. It hummed ominously and projected a hologram of his father saying, “I’m not angry. Just disappointed.”

Trevor unplugged it. Set it on fire. Danced around the flames like a man who had forgotten the original purpose of his rage.

The mug cracked. The world shifted slightly to the left.

Somewhere in the distance, the Oracle whispered, “Toast is just a metaphor.”