A Paper Bag Full of CDs

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We don’t have a paper bag full of CDs….

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That was the sound I heard, though, from the tiny bathroom — arms overhead, curling iron in hair, Sunday morning light reflecting back at me from the small mirror. 

Even if we DID have a paper bag full of CDs (which we DO NOT) WHY would Michael be rifling through them at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning. He’s sound asleep…

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Carefully placing the hot iron on the tiny vanity, I stepped into the kitchen, marched across the cold linoleum (a total of 4 strides in our tiny one bed/one bath) and gazed into the bedroom directly at the big man dozing.

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If he’s sleeping, why do I keep hearing a human rifling through a paper bag full of CDs? We are the only two humans in this home right now.

Even I was struck by how ridiculous it was that this was the very specific sound I was hearing. But that’s what it was. I was so sure of it that my mind started trying to remember if I had left a paper bag of CDs in our living room….

From where I stood, I could only see part of the living room….

What if someone broke in and is rifling through that paper bag of CDs I’m sure I don’t have on the other end of the living room….

This, despite the fact that I could also see the door (the only entrance into our second-floor apartment home) was securely locked with no sign of forced entry.

This was the only reasonable explanation my extremely confused brain could conceive of, though, so the only reasonable thing for my heart to do was to start beating like a wild animal against its cage. The lungs also fought for space; my breath coming short and quick. It would only take one step to land inside the bedroom with Michael and close and lock the door behind me, but I was frozen in place.

“Michael…” I tried, but the sound would not come out. Panic had set in. There WAS a strange person in the next room rifling through a paper bag of CDs. I was sure I did not possess such a bag, but certain that a strange person was there rifling through one.

This is so fucking stupid. There isn’t a person in there. There isn’t a paper bag of CDs in your entire apartment. Just step into the living room and LOOK!

Panic let loose its grip for a moment and I almost fell into the living room.

See. No one. Idiot.

Everything sat as it had been left the night before - an empty pizza box, ice cubes melted in glasses next to it, crumpled napkins, shoes and socks kicked off onto the floor.

We’re gross….

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WHAT THE FUCK??!!

It was most certainly behind me and here it was again: the heart, the breath, the panic. Frozen.

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After standing with my back to the kitchen for what seemed like an eternity, I somehow found the courage to slowly turn around.

I only briefly registered the large squirrel perched like a statue on the window sill over our kitchen sink (the giant hole scratched and skchrlskchrlskchrlskchrlskchrl’ed and clawed into the screen behind him) before bounding with a scream into the bedroom. Slamming the door and locking it — WHY DID YOU LOCK THE DOOR, YOU DUMBASS?! IT’S A SQUIRREL! — I turned around to find Michael sitting on the edge of the bed trying to piece together what the actual hell was going on. 

“OHMYGODMICHAEL!” I gasped. “There’s a SQUIRREL in the kitchen!”

“What…?” He was still trying to wake up. Words are wasted on a brain still booting up. Nevertheless, I persisted. 

“A SQUIRREL!! ON THE WINDOW SILL! OVER THE SINK!”

He was coming around. I could tell he had understood some of the words I had shouted. He stood and I hopped out of his way as he shuffled toward the door. He did know about my past squirrel trauma, after all. A terrifying incident that had taken place one Christmas morning when I was a teenager which involved a squirrel leaping out of the fireplace and chasing not only my small dog, but my Christmas pajamaed ass all through my family’s old home until I found the safety of my parents’ room where I slammed the door, locked it, and fell onto the bed panting, tears streaming down my face, clutching the small dog to my breast as my father chased the squirrel out the door. Fairly certain Michael only needed to hear me scream the word “squirrel” and register the legitimate terror on my face in order to spring into action.

“Sorry! I locked it…” I blurted as his hand tried the knob. A small chuckle snorted out of his nose as he unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen closing it behind him in the name of safety. 

“Well, hi!” He was awake now, striking up a conversation with his new furry friend. “You can’t be in here.” I imagined him ambling over to the coffee pot under the squirrel’s tiny toes, taking out a couple mugs (one squirrel-sized, of course) and pouring a cup for each of them, all the while explaining with great diplomacy why it was simply just not an option for us to have a live squirrel in our kitchen.

Instead I heard some scuffling, swearing, and, finally, the window slamming shut.

As I stood frozen at the end of the bed, the door slowly opened and Michael stepped inside and got about the business of laughing himself to tears. I couldn’t help but join in, particularly as I explained my theory about the paper bag of CDs.

Somehow we never called the landlady to get the screen fixed. (Probably because we didn’t want her to see other damage we had yet to address. Sorry, Phyllis.) I didn’t mind the hole, though, because about once a week, as I sat at our kitchen table working I would hear the paper bag of CDs and turn around to see my new squirrel-friend perched on the counter next to the sink. “You know you’re not supposed to be there,” I’d say, giving the squirrel a meaningful look.

Cocking her head, she’d fluff her tail in response, hop onto the sill and skchrlskchrlskchrlskchrlskchrl her way back out the hole.