Artifacts

TW: Substance Abuse, Implied Suicide, and Child Abuse

Baby Talk.  

It’s all I have heard and all I have known for the past 8 months and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The Coos and Waas eventually evolving into Dada and Mama while my son gains soft awareness behind his bright blue eyes.  

My eyes. 

Tubbie time is always a surprise with him because instead of tears there is absolute wonder that seems to soak into his skin as he gently touches the bubbles and plays with his bath toys.  

I say “he plays,” but really; let’s be honest... It is more ME playing with the toys and keeping his baby brain occupied. His favorite tubbie toy being the S.S. DayWel; a small sailboat that belonged to my little brother, Darrell. 

It was a silly name for a boat, but when asked what he wanted to name it, he simply replied with his own name. Unfortunately, the linguistic skills of a toddler seemed to fail him in his R’s, so we simply painted S.S. DayWel on the side. I often wonder if My son will struggle with his R’s like Darrell, but it is hard to imagine that my son will be anything other than this cooing child with eyes full of wonder in the bathtub while I tell stories of pirates sailing the cerulean foamy ocean. Their search of treasure only interrupted by having to fend fend off the Deep-Sea Quackens and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. His eyes always light up when the DayWel comes out and it truly is quite the sight when he sees the sails rip through waves and suds to finally come to rest on the tub-side where the treasure lies.  

The same stories and games that Darrell would play.  

To be frank, I forgot about the S.S. DayWel until I was forced to clear my mother’s pitifully 60’s feeling apartment a few years ago.  

She passed away from what was likely a mixture of Gin and Tonic with a Lexapro chaser and while we weren’t exactly close, I didn’t have much choice in cleaning her mess since I lived the closest. I never really understood why she disliked me, but this hoarder habit must have been one final, “Fuck You,” to me knowing that I would be the one who would do the Majority.  

A dumpster rented, industry grade respirator masks purchased, and disinfectant by the barrel - all on standby while I performed Hercules’ final labor of tackling the Beast of the Hoard. My battle was Legendary. Made up of Tchotchkes from shitty midwestern shops being condemned to their final resting place of a landfill as well as the Kitchiest plates; art with native stylized wolves adorning the walls of this dusty tomb. There was no world where someone wanted these artifacts.  

They are the relics we pass down to our children who in turn toss them aside.. 

Just as we toss our parents into nursing homes subconsciously thinking thoughts of revenge for the perceived wickedness and generational trauma put forth one tree branch after another - after another – after another. A never-ending tirade of generational trash aged into oblivion. I used to wonder what she was forced to clean when Grandpa died, but once I was forced into her loving garbage heap, I knew that she never actually threw anything away.  

What perceivable use did she have to keep golf clubs when she could never afford to golf? Why did she keep coffee mugs when she lived off Beefeater sipped out of plastic to-go cups from movie theaters? Her sick sense of humor shown through when I found not one, but four copies of the same book. Why in the world did she need four copies of ‘Iphigenia in Aulis’ that she probably never fucking read? 

It was always because Everything held some fucking Meaning and every year held the family’s annual denying of her trying to give all of us her trash. It was as if she really thought her collection of thirty-six music boxes that she bought from thrift stores a dime a piece would one day hold value. At the end of the day when the sun finally sets, the only value that they held was based on how many fucking garbage bags I had to go through to make sure they didn’t pierce the sides and rip. A rage filled as I, like Sisyphus, tossed trash bag after trash bag into the dumpster abyss. I did try to find things that held meaning that we could save at first, but you start to black out when you find thirteen VHS tapes labeled ‘Days of Our Lives’ in a milk crate resting on top of what had to be 63 years of magazine subscriptions to everything a haggard widow could ever want.  

And the fucking Smell.  

The wings of Baal spread open as the apocalypse happened within your nostrils; a true calamity. Obviously, it was the supernatural side effect of filling a small enough space with so much furniture, knick knacks, and rubble that there were only 3 routes to go: Kitchen, Bathroom, Bedroom; The Depression Grand Prix. Entropy sets in as the dust gathers and cleaning dies in the hellfire of elderly alcoholism and dementia.  

Mom truly was a bitch in the end.  

My Backup never came and I was alone on the frontlines of a battle that I was losing. I may have made progress on fighting the trash heap, but my sanity faltered to dangerous levels of hopelessness as I used up a Costco Pallet’s worth of trash bags. Though my determination faltered, the dulcet tones of Bowie would cheer me on until the progress finally became palpable. The Hoard’s mountains transformed into heaps which transformed into piles and eventually hardwood was made free after years of darkness and forgetting its own existence. The more I unsoiled, it became apparent that if one covered their nose and splashed their eyes with acid, they could be fooled into thinking that this apartment had potential at some point.  

My final labor for the woman who brought me into the world was cemented as “Worth It” only after I found the box labeled “Darrell’s Stuff” 

An unassuming cardboard box filled with stuffed animals, baby blankets, and a photo album heavily featuring him and I together. As I dug through my little brother’s treasured memories without him there, I found the S.S. DayWel. 

I ran my fingers along the hull of this shoebox- sized plastic and felt my breath catch. 

39 years ago 

A bathtub of sudsy water just like my own boy enjoys. Darrell’s childlike glee as he played “Pi-Wates” and laughter as the water would splash onto the various toys and obstacles the Pi-Wates would navigate. Like all 4-year-olds, bathtubs were a trove of Adventure for me. It was always the high seas calling for exploration and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. Darrell was unfortunately not big on sharing during tubbie time and his terrible 2’s came with the price of never getting along with his older brother. I may have been older, but he was like a miniature Wyrm guarding his gold. His talons were screams that would wake our angry parents when we fought.  

Subterfuge or speed was required if I was to get him to part with his prize and plans had to be made to occupy him with shinier toys. 

I looked through our toybox in desperation, hoping to find something to replace the S.S. DayWel, but Hot Wheels, Etch-a-sketches, and purple singing dinosaurs had never cut it before. A gloom began to shudder over my heart as the realization took hold that I would never be able to coax the sailboat away from him. Then I heard him. The splashing toddler glee as he played in the tub reinvigorated me as I was permeated with veridian envy and the urgency of my plight took hold. Creativity was a must.  

Which toy was the most precious of all? The answer was obvious and I was surprised that it had taken me so long to think of it.

The Orange Gun. Bright, loud, and capable of creating all sorts of legendary battles! It's cold plastic was smooth and the buttons were a veritable treasure while a rope that ran for a country mile was attached to the grip. I made my way to the bathroom and spied the gun hanging out of a drawer.  

Darrell’s eyes drew on me faster than a cowboy at high noon as if he knew that mischief was afoot while he clutched the DayWel like an opera goer clutches her pearls. I needed to put on a performance worthy of a Sesame Street child actor in order to make this trade seem viable. My hands wrapped around the replacement toy as the tapestry of deception wove in my imagination.

I pointed the pistol skywards and invisible aliens in their UFOs shot across the ceiling. It was up to me to save the Bathroom.  

“BANGBANGBANG! TAKE THAT! BANG!”

I fired my pistol and kept them at bay, but always – my heart’s true desire was the real prize of the DayWel. My little brother's eyes lost their defensive aura and began to turn a shade of emerald as he wished to play my game and I knew that I had him. I set my pistol on the porcelain bowl and held out my hand towards the boat that he clutched. His gaze darted to my hand and back to the DayWel before they finally rested on the Orange Gun. The sound effects and bright colors were far too tantalizing for him as he handed me the sailboat; the silent trade and interaction. I had my prize and began to walk away, but started to hear protest.

I had forgotten to make good on my end of the wordless bargain. I made my way back to the toilet with the orange toy resting on it. I had My Prize of the boat, yet the downright evil thought that flashed across my soul was to take both for myself. My left hand wrapped around the gun and my right hand held the DayWel. I knew that both were precious, but I also knew the tears and the screams from an angry toddler would cause far too much commotion. I looked at the tub and the suds had almost completely dissipated and Darrell’s adventures on the high seas would be done soon. The glee of an imaginative tubbie time would drain.. So I decided to do the right thing and give him the gun rather than keep both toys for myself.  

I was the older brother and it fell to me to make sure that he was happy.  

I tossed the hair dryer into the tub.