Barcode Wrist: The Recall I Filed Against Myself

The Courtyard Queue

I camped on the pavers, pink tarp tucked under my elbow, waiting for the first kiln‑fired gloss to drop from the popup kiosk.

A shopper in line leaned in, teeth perfect, and bit clean through my receipt; by dawn the wound had sealed into laminated stripes that now pulse like a barcode under every courtyard light.

I read the warning label—it was the ad—and knew exactly what made me rabid, yet I chose the queue anyway, reapplying my loyalty to the clearance rack of free will.

At low tide I walked to the Adamson House, basket still hooked, scratching the tile where the last real gloss of this coast fired, contouring the signal of the tide line like an endcap that reads “everything must go.”

If you seek the tape, head to Zuma Beach at twilight, face the lifeguard tower, pace twelve steps west, and dig six inches beneath the pink kelp line where the disposable‑camera snap of a pink gloss shard glints.