2134wds

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF…                

That August morning the milk in my cereal began to curdle and form little grayish blobs.  My tongue touched a painful sore on the inside of my mouth that I assumed was a canker sore. It was only 9 a.m. and the thermometer outside had already hit 90 degrees. 

           Opening the front door of my house, the air hit me like a surge of steam, making it difficult to breathe.  I rolled down the windows in the car, and then sat down in a lawn chair when I noticed its left rear tire. It looked somewhat low and, when I kicked it, gave out a slow dying wheeze. Strands of frizzy hair were now sticking to the back of my neck and I pulled it back with a hair tie I keep around my wrist. Then I got in the car and proceeded slowly to the gas station up the block. I could feel the rim scraping the road and pulled in just as the car ran out of gas. When I got out I said to the attendant with the dirty blonde ponytail and Grateful Dead tee shirt who was pumping gas into the tank of a shiny, white Caddy, “Can I get a tire fixed?  And oh yes, I’m out of gas too. The car stalled, see…right over there.”

“Yeah,” he answered with a drawl—either mid-west or early 70’s high school drop-out. “The mechanic is inside. Can ya pull the car around to the bay?”

“I could, if it wasn’t out of gas.”

Then he yelled out, “Hey, Pete—come on out—we gotta problem with this lady’s old Chevy.”

I was glad it was the Chevy he had referred to as old.  Pete was a short, fat, balding man in a faded green jump suit covered with soot and grease.  “Yeah, lady,” he said, rubbing some of it across his face with a soiled handkerchief. “What’s the trouble?”

           I pointed to my Chevy and told him it had run of gas and had a flat tire as well.

           He grinned, showing an interesting speckle of brownish teeth. “Got the keys?”

           “They’re in the car,” I answered, feeling the sun blotch my skin, since I was allergic to extreme heat. He walked over to the car and, with what seemed like very little effort, pushed it into the bay. I watched it slowly rise on the lift. “How long do you think it will take?”

           “About half an hour—give or take. You can wait over there in the office. It’ll be much cooler.”          

           “Thanks,” I said and went inside. I sat down on a ripped vinyl chair and felt a slight breeze from a dirty, oscillating fan that groaned as if every turn of the blade was its last. I looked around but there was nothing to read except for a Hot Rod magazine and a menu from Chin Young Wang’s Chinese take-out. I opted for the menu. It took just about half an hour and when he was done I handed Pete my credit card.

           “OK lady, you’re on your way. I put some gas in too.”

           “Thanks.” Resisting an impulse to hug him, I headed for the supermarket.

           Because I was cashing a check I had to get on the regular checkout line instead of the twelve items or less. I have a habit of counting the items of the people ahead of me, just in case they’re trying to get away with something. 

           There was a woman in front of me with two kids who were trying to climb out of the wagon as she struggled to restrain them with one hand, while counting out food stamps with the other. When the acne faced cashier with an Adams apple about the size of a walnut and thick silver bands on his teeth tried to explain that she needed ten dollars more, one of the kids turned, stood up in the wagon, and slapped a wad of pink gum on my arm. The mother who had bleached hair wound around pink sausage rollers cried in a shrill voice: “ROBBY, I’ll smack you—Bad Boy!” Then she grabbed Robby’s fat, pudgy hand and slapped her own huge one on top of it. The kid began this strange contortion with his arms and legs and started to scream.

           “It’s OK,” I said, turning my arm around, trying to pull some of it off my skin.

“I’m really sorry. It’ll probably come out with some gum-out,” she offered, wiping the sweat from between her breasts with a tissue. The air-conditioning didn’t seem to be working. “They sell it at K-Mart. It’d be cheaper there.”

           “Sure,” I said, feeling sorry for her as I noticed the kid trying to stick the gum into his nose. Then she began pondering what to take out of her order.

           “I’d go with the pop-tarts and the ring-dings.” I said.

           She glared at me and proceeded to take out the pop-tarts, the ring-dings and a mega-size box of Cheerios. “No!” the other kid cried, trying to grab the mother’s arm but it was too heavy and, defeated, he let go and began kicking his brother who was trying to pull the gum out of his nose.

After she was finished, the cashier started ringing up my order and scowled when I handed him a check. “Is it yours?” he asked. I couldn’t resist. “No, I found it under the pickles.” He stared at me and then laughed, flicking a piece of food from between the silver bands. “Funny.”

In back of me was an old man with a large bottle of prune juice-extra pulp and a six pack of no frills toilet paper. “Big night, ahead?” the cashier asked as the old man fumbled, trying to find his senior card. “Can I help?” I offered but he looked at me through glazed eyes and shook his head, causing him get a bit dizzy, which then caused him to hit a gum and candy rack and some of them came falling down.  One of the kids ran over and began to grab as much as he could. The mother began smacking him and tried to put some back on the shelf. “Hey,” the cashier said, “Don’t worry, someone will take care of it. “The mother smiled in relief while the old guy started mumbling about being sorry and struggled to get the juice into his wagon.

“As I was pushing my wagon out I could hear the cashier kid yelling, “HELP NEEDED ON CHECK-OUT LINE 4!”  

While driving home I couldn’t help picking at the gum, which was coming off only in little bits. When I got there my poodle was so happy to see me I almost tripped over him. “WATCH OUT!” I yelled and then whispered: “I’m sorry,” stroking the sweet softness behind his floppy ear.  “Look.” I showed him the can of dog chow and he began licking the outside that had a picture of a classy poodle with a pink bow in its hair. 

It was then that I heard it. It sounded like water running and seemed to be coming from the downstairs den. I peered down the steps and saw that part of the rug was covered in almost two inches of water.

           “Oh my God,” I cried and rushed down the stairs. I stood at the bottom step and stared at the water. Then I took off my sneakers and began wading toward the laundry room. It seemed the toilet tank had overflowed and the water, which at least was clean, was running out at a slow, but steady pace. I lifted the tank cover to see what happened. I had hung one of those disinfectant cubes inside—you know, the ones that make your tank smell clean and turn the water sky blue, and it had shifted so that it now blocked the ball in the tank. I grabbed it and threw it in the wastebasket. I really didn’t know what else to do so I just sat on the toilet seat and put my head in my lap. I sat that way for a few minutes before I came to my senses and jumped up.

Sobbing, I grabbed a mop and began trying to sop up the water. After a few wrings and a terrible aching in my arms, I gave up. I went upstairs and stood in the kitchen, splashing my face with cold water when I heard a car door slam and my husband walked in. His face was red from the heat and his shirt crinkled with sweat.

           “What a scorcher!” he cried, wiping his brow and pulling off his tie. He went over to the refrigerator and peered inside. “What’s for lunch?” I didn’t answer. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking out some ham and a hunk of moldy Swiss cheese. Things like that don’t bother him—eating bad food or anything. Once he ate soup that had mealy worms in it and he never even got sick and he never lets you throw anything away. Even if it smells awful he insists it won’t hurt you and if he finds it in the garbage (he checks all the time just to see what might have been carelessly thrown out) he screams how you’re wasting good food. Sometimes I just wrap whatever it is in a brown bag, put it in the car, and discard it at a local garbage bin. The problem is a few times I did forget and had some awful moldy, smelly thing in the car for days.

           “I think you better look downstairs,” I told him, feeling my heart begin to accelerate. It felt awful hard to breathe. I wished I had taken a Valium earlier but reached for now, getting it down as quickly as possible.

           He bit off a piece of moldy cheese and then looked down the steps. After a moment of silence he yelled: “WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THAT? What happened down there?” 

I tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen. He just started running back and forth, like some sort of madman, his arms flailing and cheese flying out of his mouth. It was sort of scary.  “I’m sorry…I just didn’t realize…I mean…it was an accident, just an accident…”

           He continued ranting while I tried to tell him about the cube and how it was a silly mistake anyone could make—even him—but he wasn’t listening. He ran downstairs, rolled up his pants, took off his shoes and socks and began mopping up the water, mopping and wringing, mopping and wringing, while he went on and on about how only a complete idiot would do something so stupid and how I was that idiot and a general pain in the ass as well.

           I just sat on the bottom of the steps waiting for the Valium to kick in and took my punishment. Actually, I was beginning to enjoy it. It felt sort of good, like when you were a kid and you did this really bad thing and your parents couldn’t stop telling you over and over how really god-awful it was. And you sort of liked all that attention.

Then the dog came over and sat down next to me, licking my hand and rubbing his nose against it. “Can I help?” I finally called out, but my husband didn’t answer, just kept mopping and wringing, mopping and wringing, flinging out a curse every now and then. So I gave up and watched as the dog tried to scoop up the scattered bits of cheese, licking cool water from between my toes with his warm tongue. The thermostat on the wall registered 101 and the breeze from the ceiling fan tangled the frizzy curls of my hair. When the phone rang I didn’t answer, just listened to the message from Pete at the gas station telling me the credit card company had denied payment and tried to figure out how to get a Valium down my husband’s throat by pretending it was something edible.

           The dog and I dozed slightly, his pink tongue trying to lick the air, until my husband stepped over us struggling to get up the stairs, mumbling, Idiot, at least three times and I mumbled, I’m sorry, at least four times so I figured that sort of made us even.

I knew he wouldn’t see it that way but what the hell…this day had to end eventually. Then I heard him scream: “SON OF A BITCH!” when he tripped over the opened bottle of Valiums I had left at the top of the steps and I frantically thought—They’ll never give me a refill –not at least for three more weeks…