In My Possession
Only two things of his remained in my possession: the menorah I bought him on our last holiday season together and the printer he said I could keep until I got a new one of my own. The menorah will go to a friend who is at least as Jewish as my ex pretended to be. The printer had been staring at me from the back seat of my Jetta for months. My intention was to live up to my reputation as a kind and forgiving rube. I planned on returning it to him. Someday. Just as soon as I could stand the sight of him. You see, he makes me puke.
So today, I threw the damned thing away. As I pulled out of the parking garage to run errands - like maybe, possibly, finally swinging by Goodwill to clear out my back seat - I looked at the trash dumpster. I looked at the printer box in my rear view mirror. Instead of turning the next breath into a sigh of resignation, I stopped and threw the car into "P" for Park. I would have slammed on the brakes, but at 2 to 3 MPH and with no one watching, what's the point. To compensate, I made the conscious choice to slam the car door and storm around to the passenger side. I forced open the door to the back seat with all my might. I dragged that fucking printer out by it's stupid handle and flung it into the dumpster with one hand while the other hand propped open the dumpster lid.
The printer made kind of a thud. Not even a dumpster metal echo. ....thud....
I confess my disappointment.
I wanted a horrific *CRASH!* accompanied by plastic snapping and electronic components shattering. I wanted mayhem. I hoped there would be blood. I stood silent and dumbfounded, still holding the lid high over head. This wasn't good enough. There would have to be more.
I had been watching the first season of "Deadwood" on DVD and was fascinated by the filth and moral decay the show depicted against the backdrop of the Wild West. What a perfect place for my ex, I often thought. One aspect in particular astounded me. This afternoon, it suddenly thrilled me. Whenever the town boss, Al Swearengen, wanted to dispose of an antagonist, he would contact the Chinaman who raised pigs and ran the adjacent slaughterhouse down the nastiest alley in Deadwood. Pigs are disgusting, omnivorous beasts. Bodies had a way of disappearing into the mud after being dumped over the rail fence to their pen.
It was a lovely thought. Imagine the satisfying rush of ripping his fucking head open, peeling the skin from his body and keeping him alive long enough to allow pigs to feed on his squirming carcass. Alas, I had no pigs, no bloated carcass of an ex boyfriend. But I did have the master keys to the apartment building. And in that moment, I do believe, my heart swelled with purpose and I smiled.
I dropped the lid to fish in my pocket. Behold, the keys to Anger Management!
At the risk of being judged by nosy neighbors, I snuck back into the garage and headed for the supply closet. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in each breath as I whispered, "Please, be there. Please, be there."
Sweaty palms and jittery fingers made it difficult for me to keep my cool while I searched for the right key - square, short, brass, not silver. "Focus. Breathe."
I finally managed to operate my fingers, the key, the door, the light switch. It felt like I ransacked the place with Hulk-like imprecision. In reality, I stumbled over piles of cleaning supplies and extension cords toward the back of the room. I found the tool I needed quickly and ran back into the sunlight.
Behold, I held in my possession, the key to Anger Management! A sledgehammer.
If I couldn't skin my ex-boyfriend alive in retribution for his soul-sucking inhumanity, I could find satisfaction in destroying his fucking printer.
*CRASH!*
*SNAP!*
*RIP!*
Breathe.
*Sqeal!*
*Oink!*
Focus.
Die! You motherfucking scumbucket!
I mean, I was going to throw it out anyway, right?
So today, I threw the damned thing away. As I pulled out of the parking garage to run errands - like maybe, possibly, finally swinging by Goodwill to clear out my back seat - I looked at the trash dumpster. I looked at the printer box in my rear view mirror. Instead of turning the next breath into a sigh of resignation, I stopped and threw the car into "P" for Park. I would have slammed on the brakes, but at 2 to 3 MPH and with no one watching, what's the point. To compensate, I made the conscious choice to slam the car door and storm around to the passenger side. I forced open the door to the back seat with all my might. I dragged that fucking printer out by it's stupid handle and flung it into the dumpster with one hand while the other hand propped open the dumpster lid.
The printer made kind of a thud. Not even a dumpster metal echo. ....thud....
I confess my disappointment.
I wanted a horrific *CRASH!* accompanied by plastic snapping and electronic components shattering. I wanted mayhem. I hoped there would be blood. I stood silent and dumbfounded, still holding the lid high over head. This wasn't good enough. There would have to be more.
I had been watching the first season of "Deadwood" on DVD and was fascinated by the filth and moral decay the show depicted against the backdrop of the Wild West. What a perfect place for my ex, I often thought. One aspect in particular astounded me. This afternoon, it suddenly thrilled me. Whenever the town boss, Al Swearengen, wanted to dispose of an antagonist, he would contact the Chinaman who raised pigs and ran the adjacent slaughterhouse down the nastiest alley in Deadwood. Pigs are disgusting, omnivorous beasts. Bodies had a way of disappearing into the mud after being dumped over the rail fence to their pen.
It was a lovely thought. Imagine the satisfying rush of ripping his fucking head open, peeling the skin from his body and keeping him alive long enough to allow pigs to feed on his squirming carcass. Alas, I had no pigs, no bloated carcass of an ex boyfriend. But I did have the master keys to the apartment building. And in that moment, I do believe, my heart swelled with purpose and I smiled.
I dropped the lid to fish in my pocket. Behold, the keys to Anger Management!
At the risk of being judged by nosy neighbors, I snuck back into the garage and headed for the supply closet. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in each breath as I whispered, "Please, be there. Please, be there."
Sweaty palms and jittery fingers made it difficult for me to keep my cool while I searched for the right key - square, short, brass, not silver. "Focus. Breathe."
I finally managed to operate my fingers, the key, the door, the light switch. It felt like I ransacked the place with Hulk-like imprecision. In reality, I stumbled over piles of cleaning supplies and extension cords toward the back of the room. I found the tool I needed quickly and ran back into the sunlight.
Behold, I held in my possession, the key to Anger Management! A sledgehammer.
If I couldn't skin my ex-boyfriend alive in retribution for his soul-sucking inhumanity, I could find satisfaction in destroying his fucking printer.
*CRASH!*
*SNAP!*
*RIP!*
Breathe.
*Sqeal!*
*Oink!*
Focus.
Die! You motherfucking scumbucket!
I mean, I was going to throw it out anyway, right?
posted by Scott Macphee at 11:10 PM
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