The Fault in Our Party Supplies

I know what my lot in life is. Death. The only reason I exist is to be destroyed. I don’t tell you this because I’m a nihilist. This isn’t that whole, “We’re born, we live, we die,” thing. This is realism at its most fundamental.

I’m a piñata. Papier-mâché and crepe paper. My inner turmoil bred of my fate occupies the same space as fun-sized candy. Twizzlers, Nerds, Airheads, nougat and chocolate that melts and cools with the humidity in the back of a party store. Though, I shouldn’t complain. I’m filled with good candy. And that makes a difference. Because, what, you think party stores don’t have caste systems?

I’ve seen the others. The poors. The ones filled with unbranded hard candy. Like those ones with the wrapper that looks like a strawberry. Flavorless cinnamon and butterscotch discs. I knew a piñata shaped like the sun with pointy rays and sunglasses and a big grin filled with Bit-O-Honey. Despite his bright appearance, there was a wretched darkness inside of him because he knew how disappointing his end would be to the children wielding that bat. No one likes Bit-O-Honey.

We are without agency, us piñatas. We do not determine what goodies are put inside of us. Candy or cheap plastic games and puzzles. I knew a bumblebee that was filled with little coloring books and crayons. She met her end at a farmer’s market somewhere in Brooklyn, I think. We cannot change our shape, our look, or our offerings. We are the product of mad artists, sadistic assembly lines. Our relationships are short lived. And, really, that’s for the best. Because why bother forming a meaningful relationship with a football or a taco or a boombox if we’re all going to be gone in a matter of days. Beaten to pieces by children or drunken adults then tossed into the recycling bin—if we’re lucky.

I had a best friend once. We spent three weeks in a large, plastic bin in the back of the party store. Other piñatas piled on top of us. A donkey, like me, he fulfilled his purpose—destroyed—at a gender reveal party. All blue Tootsie Rolls. The vanilla flavor. Not the ideal Tootsie Roll, but race reveal parties never really took off. Beats those strawberry things.

My time is nigh. A young mother came into the party store the other day and purchased me for her six-year-old’s backyard birthday party. I’m set to be the activity before they sing happy birthday and cut the cake. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to the ladybug or the rainbow or the crappy Spider-Man piñatas I’d been hanging out with on the pegboard behind the party store’s cash register. No matter. No relationships, remember.

Now, here am. A rope around my neck and torso. Waiting to be hoisted up and beaten until my insides fall out of me. I see that the birthday boy’s dad has brought a big, red plastic bat for the kids to use on me. That’s going to hurt. It won’t kill. Just prolong things; a fate worse than death itself. And now he’s hoisting me up. Not to be dramatic or to appropriate the Jim Crow South, but this feels like a lynching. And… and… what is this? Am I scared? Am I sad? This is my purpose. What am I afraid of? What am I upset I will miss? Living out a long life on a peg board behind a cash register? No one choosing me? Never getting to see the outside world for even a few short hours? There is no other path for me. And maybe that’s what this is. Sadness for not what could be or what was, but for what could never, ever possibly be. My life’s trajectory—that of all piñatas—is hardly more eventful than a gnat’s. But you know, the view from five feet up isn’t so bad. This is a nice backyard. That’s a lovely garden. Are those tomatoes? I have no idea. There’s a light breeze gently pushing me. This is quite nice.

Ah, here’s the birthday boy with the first hit. Heh… that kind of tickled. If all of these kids are as void of upper body strength as this one, every one of the Butterfingers inside of me will be crunchy pudding by the time they’re done. Good. Another smack. A tickle. Oh! That one had some heft to it. There’s that annoying pain I was talking about. That girl must be a third grader. That’s about when hormones kick in and these monsters start developing actual muscle mass, right? I guess I’ll just hang here and wait. I wish I had something else to think about. A vacation I took. An old lover’s embrace. The smell of fresh rain—which, of course, would also kill me. But slowly, gently. Ah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll think of more enjoyable ways to die…

The line has repeated eleven times now. Birthday boy’s dad has brought out a… is that a golf club? Nine iron. Perfect. Dad has taken off the blindfold. I hear the kid’s mom, the lady who bought me and stuffed me into the trunk of her car with the other party supplies and two cases of High Noon, and brought me here say, “Brad! Don’t let Carson use that, please. He’s going to hurt someone.” That’s the idea, lady. “That’s the idea!” the dad said, laughing. Asshole. That’s my joke. Carson—I guess that’s his name—brings the club back and… here we go… this is it.

Oh my god. He missed. What a clown. Speaking of… why don’t people beat clowns at parties? I heard mumbling at the party store that most people hate clowns. But they love piñatas? Human emotion is a strange thing. Why the need to destroy what you love? But now the third grade girl has the club. This is it.

It won’t be long before I’m done. My final moments will be spent staring up at the branch where I was hanging just a moment ago. I can’t even see the twisted joy these people are getting from raiding my insides like some inner city looters. I hope they all get cavities. And type 2 diabetes.