Recycling Bank

I changed my mind a dozen times before that Saturday morning came in the height of summer or what passes for such in Britain.

Much too good at talking myself out of one decision and into another and back again. Story of my life, relationships and jobs that drained me, sticking it out in the hopes of improvement which never happened or only in fits and starts that failed to satisfy.

But when the day arrived that I finally came to grips with the situation, for once and for all, my choice seemed not just inevitable but as if it had been the only possible outcome from the beginning.

With the taste of bitter coffee on my tongue and an empty belly, I slid the bottom drawer of the slate grey filing cabinet open, the sound of it bringing to mind the basement of the university library where whole bookcases could slide, condensing knowledge to make room for more.

I removed the torn padded envelope without needing to check what it contained. My name and address carefully printed by hand on the front seemed to mock me—oh, you again, haven’t we met before? As if every envelope was a reincarnation of the previous one and each of them had that regrettable ability to boomerang.

No ceremony needed to detach myself. I shoved the cumbersome envelope into my dark blue backpack before shoving the deep drawer closed. It clicked shut with finality as though agreeing with my decision.

I turned my head as if I heard a voice, but it was only the Remington typewriter sitting silent on my desk, waiting for me like the most patient of lovers.

Saturday morning was our time, very nearly sacred because it was the only gap I ever created in which to be myself, to pursue my dream, to sacrifice the necessary blood, sweat and tears. I missed my best friend’s wedding—fortunately I was not asked to be the best man or even a groomsman. I ended up late for my mother’s fiftieth birthday lunch because I had lost track of time.

And I messed up the start of a promising relationship because of what she called my Secret Saturdays. Her theories varied from the laziness of staying in bed until noon to the decadence of having a weekly tryst with an old flame. My stubborn refusal to explain increased her distrust until someone more dependable, open and supposedly honest stole her away from me forever. She has a baby now which could have been mine if I owned up to the cause of my weekend transgressions.

But I digress, which heaven and all the angels know I am exceedingly good at doing.

I descended the stairs, thinking that I really must sell this house if I was not going to invite anyone to share it with me with the intention of increasing the human race with a few more babies. Well, two really, one to replace her, one to replace me when we had gone to our respective rewards.

“Stop with the babies,” I muttered at the bottom of the stairs, but doubted my tendency toward depression would pay any heed.

So, to the kitchen where I crouched to remove a cardboard box that once held a fresh ream of paper, 500 white pages to feed into my typewriter one at a time.

As there were several, I read my scrawl on the top of the box to make sure. I stared at the date in the upper left corner. I would have said it wasn’t as long ago as that.

But no matter.

Today was the day of reckoning.

Though normally careful, I stuffed the box into my backpack and walked out into the back garden inhabited by a trio of cotoneaster plants which occupied most of the three brick walls. I glanced around, thinking it would have been nice to call a dog to my heel for this journey.

It struck me that, apart from those cotoneaster, I had nothing living in my end-of-the-terrace house apart from the odd spider or moth. Just shows how desolate life can be.

A little girl jumping rope in another back garden which had rosebushes stopped to watch me as I walked along the pavement. I managed not to remind myself that I could have had one of those if I had sustained any of my relationships for long enough to co-create progeny. Although with my luck, it would have been a little boy as awkward and stubborn as me or maybe more so.

The smell of roses came to me on a breeze I decided to label languorous as it wasn’t in any hurry to get anywhere.

Rose petals and thorns and rosaries and the necessity for pruning.

I could tell that my typewriter was missing me already but this wouldn’t take long at all.

By the time I got up the hill, I could feel the heat of the day. Maybe I should join a friend of mine who swam in various rivers after I accomplished this errand. A change was as good as a rest, wasn’t it? But how long had it been since I last went swimming? Was it with Doris or Melinda? The last thing I needed was to make a fool of myself.

Although did they say returning to swimming was as easy as getting back on a bicycle? Or had I mixed that up? Maybe it was supposed to be harder?

I felt the heave and clutter of too many words in my head. My fingers ached for the metallic keys of my typewriter, my ears yearning for the sporadic rhythm of typing ideas on pristine paper.

How many years was it that I had done anything different on a Saturday morning? More than five or less than ten? Or did I arrive at five and ten because these numbers were what one expected?

I plodded on, nodding to a random dog walker without trying to analyse his clothing as if I was Sherlock, avoiding the creation of a backstory for him and considering what conflicts or challenges he might, even while walking his dog, be facing.

What was the dog anyway? I turned around, but saw nobody. He must have vanished into one of the terraced houses.

I wondered darkly if there had even been a man walking with a dog or just my imagination speculating at the possibility of such an encounter and what might come from it.

As I walked past the large house containing the offices of Social Services, I thought to myself how many stories had played themselves out inside those walls, what secrets were shared, what frustrations and despairs alleviated or made worse.

Nearly there, I paused to watch an enormous coach thunder along as it made a beeline for the carpark where most of the coaches slumbered while their tourists meandered around the market town.

Pausing was a mistake.

I thought about turning back.

Mustering what resolution I could find, I continued onward.

A few wasps were hovering near the recycling bank, attracted by food remnants and maybe the dregs of beer or soda.

I would normally give them a wide berth since I knew how painful their sting could be. My foot would have swollen to twice its size, my mother’s friend told me, if I had not soaked it in the hottest, saltiest water that I could bear.

I tried to comfort myself by thinking of that sovereign remedy, but I never had done any research afterward to find out if it was correct or looked into what might happen if stung on the face. Swelling throat could be very dangerous, I knew that much.

One of the wasps drifted toward me.

Was this fate telling me to change course?

I could smell stale beer and unpleasant odours of what had once been food. Heaven for wasps, no doubt.

I sidestepped to avoid the floating wasp. I didn’t want the plastic or aluminium recycling anyway. I walked around to one of the big blue containers with the thin opening at the top.

The wasp did not follow me.

I shrugged my backpack off and dug out the tattered envelope. Since it was padded and also had my name and address on, I pulled out a sheaf of photocopied manuscript.

No, no, no, no, no. The chorus at the back of my mind didn’t even slow me down.

With satisfaction, I stuffed the pages into the recycling bank, repeating the action until the envelope was empty.

I folded the envelope back on itself to return it to my backpack.

Now for the cardboard box. I liberated it from my pack and opened it.

The title page made me catch my breath.

How many Saturday mornings and many other hours stolen from my evenings, days or nights had I spent typing, editing with a red pen, and re-typing this manuscript?

No. It was enough. I had lost count of how many times I had submitted it. How many times it had returned to me like an unwanted homing pigeon.

I grabbed at the pages and shoved them into the narrow gap in the blue recycling bin.

I felt breathless when the box was empty. As the cardboard itself was thin and flexible, I smashed the box and added that as well.

Unwanted paperback books which had not sold as well as expected were pulped.

I had just hastened the process, that was all.

I zipped my backpack closed and shouldered it again, noticing how much lighter it felt now.

I thought of my characters, their interweaving plot threads, and how hard I had worked to try and make their world real and entertaining for a potential reader.

But I had to get my book past an editor first. That was the problem.

Nobody had liked this manuscript and now I was free of it forever.

I might have a look at one of my other manuscripts when I got home or maybe it was time to begin something new.

I stood there, grinning like a fool, remembering that old adage often told to novice writers. Write what you know.

Well, I could start with a would-be author taking their manuscript to the recycling bank.