Fishbowl. Sarah Mlynowski
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This is a bad plan. A very bad plan. My computer chair is one of those $15.99 You-Put-It-Together! chairs whose wheels are about as sturdy as legs in high heels after three glasses of zinfandel. Unfortunately, my other chairs, which are metal, sturdier, more appropriate for this situation (and which used to be arranged around a glass kitchen table which had to be placed beside the kitchen instead of inside it due to space limitations) are gone. With the glass table. In Vancouver.
I pump the computer chair as high as it can go. And now, the moment of suspense. It’s just me, an eeeeeeeeeeeeeping smoke alarm, and a rolling computer chair in a couchless, coffeemaker-free apartment.
Steady. Stea-dy. Lift right arm to smoke detector. Lift left hand to mouth. Insert pinky nail between lips. Excellent nail over-growth. Mmm. Missions accomplished. Superfluous nail piece is freely rolling around my tongue. And both hands are placed squarely on the smoke detector.
Now what?
Press button?
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP. Whoops. Remove batteries? Why can’t I remove batteries? Chair! Swerving! Seconds from head injury! Need both hands to balance! Steady! Stea-dy.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Stop. That. Now. Remove smoke detector? Crunch. Smoke detector removed. Three-minute wait. Beeping stopped.
Tee-hee.
I think I broke it. I guess I should put it back on the wall. I can’t just leave it on the table. What table? (Do milk crates covered in a tablecloth count as a table?) Okay, smoke detector is now back on ceiling.
I carefully crouch into a sitting position and insert another finger into my mouth. I wait three minutes.
No eeeeeeeeeeeeep. Not even one tiny eee.
Now, isn’t that better?
2
JODINE DOESN’T WANT TO TALK
JODINE
August 27—Agenda:
1 Call car to bring me to airport.√
2 Call mother to remind her to pick me up at airport.√
3 Purge fridge of remaining food.√
4 Sweep.√
5 Throw out garbage.√
6 Close windows.√
7 Return apartment key to superintendent.√
8 Save car receipt to airport (firm has agreed to reimburse).√
9 Verify frequent-flyer points credited to account.√
10 Bring suits to dry cleaner.
11 Call Happy Movers to confirm truck rental for move to new apartment.
“Hello,” the annoying businessman sitting in the window seat beside me says as he removes his suit jacket. “How are you doing on this fine day?”
Terrific. Shouldn’t the fact that I’m in the middle of reviewing something be a sign that I’m not interested in pursuing a conversation? “Fine, thanks.”
He squashes his arm on the seat rest. “I’m doing well, too.”
I pull out the New York Times. People are usually less likely to intrude on one’s personal time when one appears to be engaged, especially if the engagement happens to be reading the Times. It’s not a comic book, or worse, a fashion magazine. It spells serious all over it.
“What are you reading, little lady?”
It takes me another moment to get over the traumatizing shock of being called a little lady. Is he blind? “The paper,” I answer in yet another dismissive attempt. Maybe now he will set sail the notion of small talk? Float away, annoying man! Float away!
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a student.” Now vanish. Enough.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he says in a pat-me-on-the-head voice. Notice he does not think to ask the obvious question, What are you studying? Not that I care. I do not wish to engage in a conversation with this man. I’m not sure why people believe being seated next to someone implies an ensuing conversation.
He puffs himself up like a blown-up life jacket. “I run an international appliance sales force. It’s one of the largest in the world.”
I don’t remember asking, but now that you’ve opened the field up for discussion, let me ask, is that why you’re sitting in 23D in the economy section, next to me? Because you’re so rich and powerful? “That’s nice,” I say instead. It’s not that I’m a coward; why should I be rude?
I slip my Discman headphones out of my carry-on and over my ears. Unfortunately, my CD player is broken. I realized this while waiting to board. But the important thing is, he doesn’t realize this. Maybe if I nod my head and shake it side to side as if I’m in the swing, I’ll be able to pull it off.
Forty-five minutes until landing.
My mother had better be on time to pick me up. In her last attempt to pick me up at the Toronto airport, when I flew back from a law conference in Calgary, she was fifty-five minutes late. Apparently she was under the false impression that my arrival time was at five, despite the photocopied version of my itinerary taped prominently to the refrigerator, which clearly stated that my flight was landing at four. When she drove up at four-fifty-five, she was congratulating herself for arriving five minutes early. My primary question, ignoring the more obvious why-didn’t-she-pay-attention-to-the-time-on-the-fridge query, was why didn’t she call the airport to verify the arrival time? Why, why, why, would one drive to the airport, a forty-five-minute trek in Toronto, without first confirming the accurate arrival time? The possibility of my flight being delayed was more than likely. It was December; a snowstorm was practically guaranteed. It made no sense.
This time, I specifically instructed her to call the airport. I even gave her the number. I should have insisted, however, on taking a cab. Sigh. Her inability to make it here for the assigned time is now beyond my control.
Dear, sweet Mom. In the last year, at least four times that I can remember, she’s left her keys in the car while it was running and had to call my father to bring her the spare. Not that my dad is much better. Once when my mom—“But it slammed shut so fast! Before I could catch it!”—locked herself out, smack in the middle of downtown Queen Street, my dad trekked all the way to meet her, only to realize he’d left the spare keys back at the house, on the—“But I could have sworn I’d put them in my pocket”—kitchen table. They called me to rescue them. And when I got there, after two hours of subway-hell, they were having a giggly submarine picnic lunch on the hood of the car. How frustrating is that? Fine, I admit they can be a tiny bit adorable. They thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to them.
One week of living with my parents. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. That’s all I have left. Seven days of explaining to my mother how to work that “intercourse machine” so that she can go “to the line” (“Internet, Mom. Online, Mom”). Seven days of picking up my father’s seemingly strategically discarded socks on the kitchen floor. Why would one take off his socks in the kitchen? There is no carpet, just cold tiles.
They will be fine without me around to take care of them, won’t they?
I should get a cell phone to make sure I can be reached at all times.
Besides enabling me to live in New York for the summer, my summer job allowed me to save up enough money to afford my own place here in Toronto. If I had to make the one-hour subway trek to school from my parents’ house in nosebleed land for one more year, I think I might have dropped out of school and taken a job at the corner coffee shop. Yeah, right.
Last year, I had to walk fifteen minutes just to get to the bus stop that would take me to the subway that would take me to school. My new apartment is a five-minute walk from school. Five minutes!
My