(14 weeks)
SUNDAY.
I’ve just finished moving all my stuff into the new apartment, and deciding where to put certain personal effects is proving difficult.Where to place the empty box of Reese’s Pieces that contains a doodle I’m rather fond of ? In my old apartment, it just sat under the couch. Or what to do with the sunglass lenses that, years earlier, became detached from their frames—frames I’m still hopeful will one day resurface?
But I am enjoying the feeling of inbetweenness—that not-yet-being-settled feeling—and I plan on dragging it out as long as I can, because it’s a state of grace where all things are permissible. For instance, this evening I ate takeout pizza off a cardboard box while drinking wine from a soup pot (like a cowboy!), and I watched the TV on the floor beside me, inches from my face (like being at the drive-in!).
I think I may have stumbled upon a new school of interior design.
TUESDAY.
Marie-Claude and her daughters babysat Howard’s pugs, Desmond and Bruce, over the weekend. Marie-Claude calls up to let me know how it went.
“The girls want Bruce to be their godfather,” she says.
“But I’m their godfather,” I say.
“Lucky for you it isn’t an electable position.”
“A godfather’s job is to supply moral tutelage,” I say, defensively.
“Bruce licks their feet,” she says.
Not to lose the upper hand, I offer to pick up the girls for lunch. What taking a nine- and seven-year-old out for hamburgers lacks in the laughing-at-your-jokes department is more than made up for in the leaving-youplenty-of-leftovers-to-eat department.
After a hardy meal, I drop them back home and, after kissing them goodbye, press a small gift into their hands.
“A sunglass monocle,” I say, “for each of you.”
Tony knocks on my door, wanting me to join him for souvlaki. I tell him I’ve too much to get done in my new place. I show him the to-do list.
“You deserve a break,” he says, looking it over. “You’ve got half your items ticked off.”
“Yes,” I say, “but vacuuming, dusting—I did those things before making the list. I only wrote them down for the pleasure of ticking them off.”
Sometimes I write down “do the dishes” as “wash cups, wash cutlery, wash plates” just for the extra ticks.
“Give me that list,” Tony says. He pulls out his pen, writes something down, and hands it back to me.
Eat souvlaki.
Who can argue with a written commandment? I grab my coat and get ready to eat souvlaki. It will prove the most satisfying tick of the day.
THURSDAY.
I wake up out of a dream in which Tucker makes a cameo as a raisin in my porridge.
“What business is it of yours to dream about me?” he asks when I call up to tell him about it.
“I have no control over what I dream,” I say. “And why would you care anyway?”
“I’ve had occasion to glimpse the things that go on in your mind,” he says, “so the idea of spending any time there is upsetting.”
I change the subject by asking if he’d like my inflatable Bozo punching bag. It’s one of those dolls that, when you hit it, it pops right back up; but since I never got around to filling the base with sand, whenever I punch it, it stays down.
“I had one of those when I was a kid,” Tucker says. “Playing with it helped nurture my budding sense of futility.”
He agrees to take it, believing the defective version that stays down might give him the sense of accomplishment he’s always craved. I ask if perhaps coming over and helping unpack my boxes might also afford him a sense of accomplishment, but he declines.
The truth is, I’m pretty happy to keep living out of boxes anyway. The opportunity to live like a hobo in your own home doesn’t come along that often, so it might be nice to stretch it out for a couple more days. Maybe a week. A month, tops.