6:15. The buzzing alarm actuates my arm. After twenty years of programming, it automatically shuts off the alarm before I am fully awake. I revel in a slow stretch, arch my back, and let out a long yawn.
6:40. I'm out of the shower standing at the sink. While brushing my teeth, I look in the mirror at this human being that I haven't figured out yet. I swish a gulp of water around my mouth and spit into the sink. I open a prescription bottle and swallow my new "mental health pill." Apparently, the old ones were no longer effective. It's so hard for me to tell. My primary care physician's rule of thumb is, "If you're feeling okay, then they're working." Who am I to argue?
By 7:15, I'm dressed and staring at the toaster, waiting. When the Pop-Tart jumps up I say, "Ow." I jam my burnt fingers into my mouth.
Megan enters and crosses her arms. "You think maybe you ought to take a little time to think this through?
I smile. "This is the best idea I've had in years."
I lean in to kiss my pretty wife. She pulls away.
By 7:35, I'm sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic but this time I'm riding the bus, inching along with a herd of cars all slowly crawling toward our downtown destination. To get the vibe of the morning rush hour public transit rider experience, imagine that you're sitting amongst thirty people between the ages of twenty-five and fifty who have been harvested by an intimidating superior race of aggressors from another galaxy. In exchange for not being dissected and eaten by their captors, the thirty people have agreed that each day they will awaken at the crack of dawn, groom themselves, and then board a prisoner transport vehicle (the bus) to travel downtown where they will perform brutal hard labor in a one-hundred-forty-degree facility while "Achy Breaky Heart" blares from loudspeakers on a continuous loop for ten straight hours.
That would be a practical explanation for the expressions on the faces of my fellow passengers, half-dead humanoids who appear to have been gradually hollowed out by their bitter existence.
#######
When I enter the office, Rhonda hollers, "Someone call 911!" She runs away.
Audra avoids eye contact as she trots past me on her way to the coffee station.
Wren extends her hand. I surrender my key card. Wearing a solemn expression she says, "Your laptop."
I slip my Dunning and Brannigan shoulder bag over my head, take a quick look inside then remove a notebook. I hand over the canvas bag containing my laptop. While she checks out the computer, I start down the hall.
In my office, I open the top drawer of my desk and remove a box of business cards. I spill my cards into the trash container. The only personal effects on my desk are a couple of polished stones that Jilly-bean gave me as a present a few years ago and a hand-painted pencil holder she made for me last Fathers' Day. I add them to my cardboard GO BOX. I decide against taking the peculiar potted plant that has occupied a corner of my desk for the past few years. Ours has been a strained relationship. I feel no remorse for leaving the plant behind and I'm reasonably certain that the plant feels the same sentiment.
I step out into the hallway, carrying my box. I pass Carl who watches me with narrow eyes. He purses his lips and shakes his head.
#######
By 12:48 I've returned home, had lunch, and cleaned up the kitchen. Next on the agenda, figure out how I'm going to get my car back. But first I need to find it. After six phone calls, I finally manage to track down the impound lot where my car is in lockdown. I'm on a call with Stu, from AJ's Towing Yard. It sounds like he's eating something as he's speaking with me. I hear the crinkling of a wrapper. Yep, Stu is definitely eating.
"That the car that was towed in last Thursday night? No windshield?"
"Yep. That's the one."
"Let's see... The tow was three hundred fifty dollars."
"Ouch."
"On top of that, you got a two hundred dollar impound fee."
"Okay."
"And then there's twenty bucks a day for the first five days on the lot and forty-five a day after that. So right now you're at... let's see."
I hear a calculator clicking.
"If you was to pick it up today, that would be fifteen hundred ninety-five dollars."
"Holy crap!"
"Plus there's the release fee of a hundred twenty-five bucks. We don't take personal checks."
"That's crazy."
"Take it up with your insurance company. Oh, and one other thing. You can't drive the car off the lot."
"Huh?"
"Not without a windshield you can't."
"Isn't there one of those windshield repair places that could--"
"No mechanical or body work is permitted on the lot."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Well, seems to me you got two options. Both of them start with you paying me the fifteen hundred ninety-five dollars to release your vehicle."
"So what are the options?"
"You could pay me then have your car towed to an auto repair shop."
"What's option two?"
"You could pay me then push your car outta the lot and then call one of them windshield replacement places. You coming in today? We close at 6."
"I'm three hundred miles away."
"So add another forty-five bucks for an extra day if you ain't coming in til tomorrow."
I decide to think about this before I call my insurance company.
#######
The digital clock on the microwave in our kitchen changes from 6:18 to 6:19. Wearing two oven mitts, I remove a homemade pizza from the oven. I've made a big, happy face with pepperoni for eyes, a long slice of red pepper for a nose and a ring of olives arranged in a huge smile.
I call out, "Anybody want some pizza?"
Jillian wanders in. When she sees the pizza she's disappointed. "Oh, you don't mean real pizza."
"It's really good. Just the way you like it."
"You know I don't like olives." She realizes she's hurt my feelings and adds, "But that is a funny face."
Megan passes through the kitchen, laptop under her arm.
"Pizza. Fresh from the oven."
"I'm not hungry."
I follow her into the dining room. She sets her laptop onto the table then flips up the screen. There is an uncomfortable pause before I offer, "Hey, Megs. Now that I'll be spending more time at home, I can make dinner."
No response. She takes a seat, her fingers go to the keyboard.
"Or anything else that needs to be done around here."
Crickets.
"Did you check your pockets?"
With her eyes glued to the computer screen, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws the familiar folded paper. She places it beside her laptop without opening it. Ouch.
I sigh. "I'm really sorry. I guess I didn't realize how much all this stuff has been getting to me. Mostly I'm sorry for upsetting you. What I did had nothing to do with you."
She's too perturbed to look at me. "You're my husband. How could it have nothing to do with me?"
"I know I should tell you more often. I love you. With all my heart. You and Jillian are the only things that make me happy. That mean anything to me."
"So you take off and leave us behind. That makes a lot of sense."
"It doesn't make any sense. I wish you'd stop being mad at me."
"I'm working on it."
#######
It's Saturday morning. I'm out of bed early. Maybe it's the new medication, but I can't sleep. I don't want to wake anyone, especially anyone who's already mad at me, so I slip into a pair of ripped jeans, a paint-stained sweatshirt, and sneakers.
I quietly make my way downstairs to the kitchen and brew myself a cup of coffee. I reach for the Pop-Tarts on the pantry shelf but change my mind. Clearly, I've overdone it with the Pop-Tarts. I settle for a bowl of cereal. I wait until the flakes have become soggy before I dig in. Vigorous crunching might be an invitation to disaster.
I glance out the window. The grass needs to be cut and the hedges are overgrown. I'll deal with them later. For the time being, I need to find a much quieter activity. My eyes settle on the detached garage at the end of the driveway. I've been meaning to clear out all that junk and clutter for years.
I gulp down my coffee and quietly rinse my cereal bowl in the sink. I slink out the backdoor and cross the yard to the garage.
There's my neighbor, Josh at his usual post, watering one of the flower gardens in his sumptuously landscaped yard. His front lawn looks like a major league ballfield with neat, alternating stripes in the weed-free, freakishly uniform grass. His backyard is a spectacular display of ornamental shrubs, mounded flower gardens, mulched pathways lined with pavers. The lawn chemical truck is onsite every Tuesday morning precisely at 10 AM without fail. Comparatively, my yard is a weed-infested patch of ground with a few vintage shrubs that have seen better days.
"Morning, Josh."
Without uttering a syllable, he raises a hand.
I turn on the overhead light in the garage. On the old metal shelves lining the wall are hundreds of useless, forgotten items. I slip my old work gloves onto my hands and carry a grease-stained, flimsy cardboard box to a large Rubbermaid garbage can. The box contains car cleaning products from three cars ago. I don't have a car. I won't be needing these.
I heave an old pair of roller skates into the garbage bin. I walk back to the shelving unit, find rusted cans of paint, wipe the dust from their lids, and drop them into the garbage bin. Another trip to the shelving unit and I return to the garbage can with an old coil of split garden hose that I've been meaning to repair for at least five years. Back and forth, back and forth.
Three garbage cans are nearly full now. I've lost track of time. Once again, my trained automatic arm is deployed, reaching into my back pocket for the phone I no longer own. I shake my head with disgust.
Back to the task of purging. On tip-toes, I stretch for the shelf above my head. I feel something, an unfamiliar something. I pull the object toward me and, as I look up, I'm greeted by a huge clump of dust.
I hack and double over, spitting chunks of saliva-soaked grime into the air. I rub the debris from my eyes and seize the object from the shelf.
It's an old birdhouse. I reverently carry it to my workbench. I brush off the dust and examine the long-forgotten relic of my past. I pull off my gloves and run my hand over the little blue roofline.
Megan enters. "There you are. We're having some lunch."
I don't respond.
She steps closer and sees the birdhouse on the workbench. Her tone softens. "Where in the world did you find that thing?"
"My dad." I swallow hard, gulping down the tide of emotion. "I made this with my dad. Musta been eleven years old. First time he ever let me use his table saw."
Tears stream down my cheeks. Megan slips her arm me.
"Can't believe I got so choked up over... over some stupid old birdhouse." I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
"You're not gonna throw it out, are you?"
"No. No. Think maybe I'll clean it up. Maybe put it in the yard."
#######
Later that afternoon, I watch Jillian prepare to paint the roof of the birdhouse. She stirs a small can of light blue paint.
I tell her, "You don't have to use blue."
"I know."
"Make it any color you want."
"I think grandpa picked a good color." She dips her brush into the small can of paint.
As I watch her, I realize that I was wrong. So what else is new? There are amazing things going on around us constantly. And if we're too numb or too blind to connect the dots, or too busy to stop to appreciate them, well... But in this old birdhouse, I found meaning. Beneath the layers of dust and the years of neglect, I found Phil. And Phil is alive. Very much alive.