Gassed

 I didn’t know the moth balls would kill me but they did.

They killed Lester too.  Apparently he died in the position he’s usually in, licking where his balls used to be.  They found me clutching a black, felt-tipped, expensive pen designed especially for acid-free paper and archival documents in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other.  I was slumped over a table piled high with photo albums, stickers, and folders.

I’d been immersed in a scrapbook-making project for my daughter’s thirtieth birthday.   I saved everything over the years, from the stump of cord that fell off of her belly button when she was a baby, to her parking tickets from Philadelphia.  I saved every certificate she ever earned, even the one for being the most annoying person at camp. 

I’d packed everything carefully in Rubbermaid tubs. I thought it would be a good idea to throw mildew discs and packets of mothball crystals in with the stuff.  I didn’t want anything to deteriorate in the heat. 

I’d dragged all the boxes into the house from the utility room and pulled the lids off, thus releasing a toxic gas that immediately made my eyes burn and throat constrict. I figured it was an asthma attack.  I used my inhaler, cranked the air, and poured a glass of wine.

I pulled stuff out of every box and spread it around the house so I could visualize what I had for the books. There was a shitload of stuff.  I couldn’t see very well, so I splashed some water in my eyes.  I sat and read some of a baby journal that I didn’t remember writing.  I poured another glass of wine and hit my inhaler again. On April 27, 1983 I wrote;

The air is thick with tension when your Dad and I are together. It’s like a room filled with gas.  It only takes a small spark and we explode.

Jesus!   Why would I write that to her?    I began to feel a little light-headed so I put my head down to rest. How’s that for irony? The last thing I read was a bad metaphor about gas.

What a bitch!  I died before I could finish the scrapbooks and I had at least three weeks of ironing piled up around me. The damned overtime at work didn’t leave me time to do anything at home.  How the hell would I finish the project now?

The mortifying part was the mess. The guy found me in the middle of it all. The dust had become an inch thick on everything.   The entire house was stacked high in newspapers, journals, photographs, and old magazines. The dead cat sealed the deal.  Headlines read   Elderly Safety Harbor Woman Found in Piles of Debris-Also a Dead Cat. I was labeled a hoarder!  My family was shocked. My sister felt terrible because she used to kid me about vacuuming too much.

My friends discussed my demise at lunch.  I hovered overhead and listened.   

                                                                     

“I thought she was obsessive compulsive?  She took pills for it!  I mean, didn’t she always polish her desk with Windex?”

“Apparently her meds didn’t work as well as they were supposed to. [Snorts of laughter all around] The guy found her in a mountain of paper, surrounded by piles of clothes.  AND, there was the dead cat.    That’s so typical of a hoarder.”

 “There are all kinds of obsessions.  It doesn’t necessarily have to do with cleaning.  Maybe her obsession was saving things.  I guess we’ll never know ...such a shame.  She was sorta young.”

I wondered if I could spit on their heads.  Can dead people spit?   I tried.  No one flinched. So I guess the answer is no, dead people can’t spit. My friends continued to trash-talk me, excuse the pun.

“Why do hoarders have dead cats?  I just can’t get over that the place was such a mess.   I’ve been there.  It always seemed pretty clean to me.  I mean, she had weird things, don’t get me wrong, but at least it was tidy. Are you going to finish your chips?”

 “Help yourself.  I heard they found her holding a glass of wine.”

“Shit, we KNEW she was a drunk…but a HOARDER?”  [More snorts]   Bitches!

                                      ***********

I have to hang around for a while in this celestial station while I wait for my assigned bus. It’s really cool.  It’s all decorated in shades of white, kinda like the Delano hotel in Miami. Unfortunately, the magazines are older than the ones at my doctor’s office, 1955 Vogues for crissake.  Thinking about my demise seems like a better way to kill time.  Again, no pun intended.

HEY!  I don’t have to WORK anymore!   Still, I hate to leave everyone with that mess.  I hope Kristin finds my Jimmy Carter peanut roach clip. I hope Lester isn’t mad at me for being stupid.  He was already miffed that I switched to a cheaper brand of cat food. He loved his Fancy Feast. Maybe he’s waiting for a bus too?  I should look around. 

DAMN! Is that Brando over there?