Live, Laugh, Toaster Bath

I watch my toaster float in the air as if an invisible someone was pretending it was a boat. Why the toaster was floating I wasn’t sure. I did, for a brief second, wonder why I was home at 11am on a Friday and reminded myself that yesterday was likely to be my very last normal day. You see, yesterday was Thursday. Yesterday, I had a job I hated. I had this gig working for a puffed-up woman running an art gallery. And when I say gallery, I mean a hobby shop that displayed the completed crafts of local crafters who crafted and called it art. Not to be pretentious or anything, but I have more skill in my pinky finger than these glue gun toting ruffians. I have a bachelor’s degree in art, so I should know. Like, please, you call that art? It’s literally colored popsicle sticks glued together with randomly placed googly eyes. It looks like a kid show puked up a biblically accurate angel that Picasso got a hold of.

“But then again, what have you accomplished since graduation?” says a tiny voice in my brain that sounds a lot like my mother. What an annoying little thing, this voice. It’s probably a tiny remnant of my Bible camp days where I was continually labeled a “mean girl” and sent to my bunker alone during the group activities so other people felt safe to participate. They always wanted me to at least fake being nice, but I never understood who that would benefit.

“What,” I say to the toaster, “are you doing?”

I am met with silence. Sort of. I feel myself start to spiral, my heart rate increases, it feels like I’m not getting enough air in my lungs, so I do the thing my therapist suggested called grounding, or something like that. Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying when he brought it up, but how could I when his right eye was doing that weird droopy thing all of a sudden? He wanted me to count, or something, and make a list of all the things I know or feel. Okay, here it goes, a list of things that I do know in this moment. One, I’m unemployed. Two, I’m totally, kind of, maybe, hopefully, alone in this apartment. Three, I should probably wash the dishes. Four, I really need to shower. Five, updating my resume is the number one priority of my day. Six, toasters aren’t supposed to float. Seven, I’m most definitely home alone because my roommate is at work, like I would be if I still had that stupid job. Eight, this list business isn’t working at all.

I watch the toaster make its way out of the kitchen. Following it would just give it the attention it wanted, so I walk to the kitchen and do the next best thing to making lists, pour the last half of the bottle of wine into my giant coffee cup. The late morning sun casts a halo of dust around the toaster as it floats in the living room and I made a mental note to try to replicate this majestic scene on canvas with a subject a little more normal. Before this started, I had just been walking around the apartment, taking a break from job hunting. I needed some sort of activity to interrupt the rising financial panic that threatened to make my I-just-lost-my-stupid-job hangover headache so much worse than it was. I was considering yoga and quickly turning that idea down when I heard a low growl come from the kitchen.

Now, I don’t have any pets. No animals of any kind live in this apartment, nor would even dare to come near it. Not since the squirrel incident. How was I supposed to know that I could simply leave the window open, shoo the thing out and it would most likely run off? Instead, I panicked and slammed the window shut. The bloody mess was one hell of a sign to the other squirrels who would have told the rest of the animal kingdom to steer clear of this place if they wanted to stay in one piece. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to do it and I sure as hell didn’t want to clean up that kind of mess, but whatever. I’m all set with animals and they are all set with me. So, did I want to know where that sound came from? Not at all, but also, I’m bored so curiosity got the best of me, and that’s when I saw the toaster.

Now that I have some courage juice in my coffee cup, it’s time to get to work on that job hunt. I sit down at my desk and scroll through the ads. Customer service is a no go. Medical stuff, yuck. What I’m looking for is strictly in the art world. And there it is. I stop scrolling. A job listing stares back at me. I have all the qualifications. It’s just a short walk from my apartment. The pay isn’t terrible. I jump up from my chair and dance around. The toaster floats behind me as I celebrate. I pull up my resume and open a fresh Word document to write a cover letter. I start by touting my accomplishments, maybe embellish a little, but everyone does that on their resumes. Once I finish typing I realize I didn’t even look to see who posted the listing. I needed a hiring manager’s name to address it to. I click back to the listing and scroll down. The last requirement was just above the instructions on how to apply and it caught my attention. “Above all else, the suitable candidate will be kind, respectful, empathetic, and engaging with our artists”. I was to submit my resume to a Missy Sanderson, the same Missy Sanderson who fired me the day before. I finish off the rest of my wine. I was applying to the job listing for the position I was just fired from.

The day before was difficult. I know that people usually get fired on a Friday at the end of the day, so when I was called into the manager’s office, I didn’t think much of it. It was bright and tacky in there and I hated it. The yellow on the walls suggested that happiness had left the building long ago. It looked like it was a bright and happy yellow that was replaced by this sun-worn, splotchy mess of a color that in all honestly begged for something complimentary, but had no place in thinking that anything would complement something so blotchy and disgusting. Oh, but Missy tried. The rest of the decorations were just bright colors that tried to outshine one another. Her desk was small, white, and most likely put together with an Allen wrench to not strip the over-priced particle board. The only interesting thing in there was the collection of macramé hanging plant holders filled with beautiful tangled vines.

“Listen, Sasha, I think we need to have a little chat about your performance here at Community Hobby.” She rested her elbows against the desk, held her hands together and placed her chin on top of them. She made some serious eye contact with me as concern stitched her eyebrows together. “What would you say is your most favorite part of your job?”

I hesitated. How do you tell your boss that the favorite part of your job is making as many snotty comments about the craft displays to the creators as I possibly can without getting fired? It wasn’t all the time, to be totally honest, and if I’m really stretching for a scapegoat here, it was pretty in sync with my cycle, so I always assumed it was a symptom of PMS. I almost missed the part where she said I was fired because I was too focused on if I could get a doctor’s note for that condition.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said.

“You’re fired, Sasha. I’ve let all the little comments go, made excuses for you to the artists, but,” Missy rubbed her fingers on the wrinkle between her eyebrows, “this time, it’s gone too far.”

“Missy, this is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m saying anything that art critics wouldn’t say. If these people wanted to be artists and share that ‘art’ with the world, then they need to grow some thicker skin. It’s not my fault they can’t handle it, and if they can’t, maybe they should just stick to craft fairs and Etsy with the fake compliments from people who don’t know any better.”

Silence filled the room when I fully expected some sort of recognition that she felt the same way, but instead she just stared at me. She shook her head, her short, dark curls bounced against her face and she pinched her lips together.

“I’m specifically referring to something you said to Sam the other day about her newest piece,” Missy said.

“Oh, that terrible thing? It looked like a dog got a hold of a glue gun, rolled it around in the grass, ate it, threw it back up, and then used a flimsy Bic lighter to mold it into whatever shape that was. Did you see she painted it? It was fuzzy and it had paint on it. Black and red, I think. It looked so stupid.”

“Did you happen to consider what she was trying to portray with it? Did you look close enough at it to see what she had even titled it?”

“What, ‘dog shit’?”

“No, ‘Depression’. She was severely depressed. Art, coming to this studio, was one of the things that her therapist had suggested she do. Sam was trying to work out what that looked like for her, to try to define what that felt like inside of her. It took her weeks to create that piece and even longer to get the courage to bring it in here, and it took all of five minutes for you to tear her down.”

“Art isn’t for the weak, that’s on the therapist for making that mistake.”

“Please,” said Missy, “please tell me that you didn’t say anything like that to her.”

“I didn’t. I just said that I was surprised she had the courage to bring it in here when it was destined for a trip to the dumpster.”

“You didn’t.”

“Now that I don’t have a job here anymore, I guess I don’t have to sugarcoat it. So, yeah, I did. And when she started crying, I told her to take those emotions somewhere else and do something productive with them.”

“Grab your things and leave, I can’t take this kind of energy in my space for one more minute.”

A rage had filled me. I was honest with her and she was shitting on me. My mother always wanted me to be a little more reserved, a little bit more cautious with my words, careful to consider other people’s feelings, but that wasn’t about to happen today, not after this insult.

“So, thanks for the opportunity to spend my days in a space, your space, that honestly should have had a bit of a makeover, like yourself, a few years ago. You say you love art and the creative process, but you haven’t done a single fucking thing to this place in how long? I can see the dust settled in the cracks of the walls from here. That nasty color yellow, these stupid looking pieces of shit all over the building. Just because you put a placard under it, doesn’t make it art. I’m grateful to be taking my energy, an energy that is far more advanced than yours in this world, and take it on down the road. And when I finally have a big-time gig in an art gallery, a real one, I’ll make sure to screen all the names of potential artists so none of these losers here have a chance to have their portfolio screened.”

Missy stood up so quickly she bumped into her desk and knocked over a ceramic pencil holder. I’m assuming it was made by a small child, but here, anything was possible. Her cheeks were a deep rose and tears formed in her eyes.

“I always thought there was something good inside you, hoped at least. When you were being rude to my artists, I defended you, I thought maybe it was some sort of defense mechanism, that you had been hurt or were insecure or a million other reasons other than you’re just a mean little child. But I was wrong. Oh, my God, was I wrong, and this is all my fault because of it.” She covered her eyes and began to sob.

“What’s your fault? Calling this place an art studio?” I giggled to myself.

“It’s my fault Sam killed herself last night, because I allowed you to stay,” Missy said silently.

Now, I’m unemployed, and watching this damn toaster float around my apartment. I slam my laptop shut. I cannot concentrate with this insanity. I need to take my mind off all the bullshit and decide a disgustingly luxurious bath is in order. I hop up from the desk and skip past the toaster, down the hall and into the bathroom. I’ve got the time, the apartment is empty, so I leave the door slightly open, light some candles, get out the bubble bath soap and set up the tub. I plug my phone into the outlet near the tub and put on some soothing music. The water is the perfect temperature, not too hot, but hot enough to make my skin burn just a little bit as I slide underneath the bubbles. Instantly, everything feels right in the world. It’s all a minor setback, I know it’ll all get sorted out. I just need to think.

A knock at the bathroom door startles me and I watch as the toaster floats in.

“What the fuck?”, I say as it stops just above the tub. The cord from the toaster floats to the outlet and plugs itself in. The handle pushes down and the electrical insides reflect a light red upon the walls. The toaster slowly lowers to the water and stops just above the bubbles, I see Sam. She’s standing there with a peaceful smile on her face, her hands are on the toaster, wiggling it just close enough to the bubbles to flatten them down a little. My heart races and I start to cry. I can’t move, fear has me pinning to the tub and my fingernails dig into my thighs. I want to say something, anything, but I can’t get the words out, they just come out as long strings of nonsense.

“Shh, Sasha. It’s okay. I want you to know that I did something with those emotions,” she says, “and I had to share that with you.”

The toaster plunges under the bubbles and I scream as the electricity pulses through my body.