“Man, man, Johnny Carson…” the cashier trailed off, glancing at the magazine emblazoned with Johnny Carson’s handsome, smiling face before passing it forward into the pile of organic peanut butter, cinnamon toast crunch, dried apricots, etc.

Behind my mother, I stiffened. In front of me, she did as well, though the verbiage would probably be different. Tensed, perhaps. Absolutely sprung back, about to launch, tensed.

“When’d he go off the air? He used to be–“

“His last show ended May 22, 1992, at 11:30pm!!”

Normalacy halted. The cashier startled and looked up. My mom was vibrating.

I wanted to cringe into myself.

“Oh,” he said, slowly. He had stopped booping the items over the little screen. The line behind us was not amused. “Eh. A fan, I take it?”

My mom was already reaching for me. I lifted a hand, face ducked, shoulders curled as much in around my chin as they could be. I still lifted the hand, though. The barest awkward wave of recognition that I was in this story. “This one had just popped out! Just as it was ending, I remember! And you know, she wasn’t breathing right at first, her heart wasn’t working correctly, and it was chaos! So! His last show–the farewell, all of it–it’s seared into my memory now, trust me.”

“Ah…”

“So now I’ll always remember!” she crowed, reaching over and snapping the strap of my training bra into place before pulling my shirt up over it and patting it nicely, let this hell planet swallow me whole on lawrd, “Johnny Carson’s last show–May 22, 1992, at 11:30pm!” She laughed again, delighted.

He laughed, too. He was utterly charmed.

Everyone always was.