21. The Ice Storm Cometh

January is the cruelest month. Oklahoma in January is dead cold with razor sheets of ice and body bags of snow. We don’t have the worst winters by far, like they do up north, but because what awful storms we do have are far between, we have absolutely no idea how to handle them. None.

The worst thing is the driving. The streets are never sanded thoroughly and no one out here knows how to drive on ice. So to try and get the people to stay off the roads, everything just closes down, including the schools, banks, and shops. Essentially as soon as the ice hits, the town just stops. And that’s good and sound, except then everyone just goes out and drives around on the ice anyway because that frontier mentality kicks in and everyone things they can handle it, plus they’re all off work now and hyped to do something. 

And that’s just great until some white trash idiot shoots his trucks off into a bar ditch and somehow kills sixteen innocents. And that sobers everyone up, so from that point out everyone just stays huddled inside, fearful for their very lives, waiting for the storm to pass. And this works just perfectly until the power goes out, which it often does for long stretches. This leaves you huddled at whomever's house made the pass, hoping to God their heat doesn’t go off and you all die in the night. And then three days later it’s sixty degrees and lovely out. Ah, the charms of an Oklahoma winter.

It was during the week after New Years that a magnificent fairy-tale sized ice storm blew into town late, late one night. I woke up to find a veritable winter wonderland of 12 degree icy death outside. Ice coated every surface like the set of an alien planet on Star Trek. So I was stuck inside and Thad was, of course, over at Bettina’s across town spending the night again. 

Frowning, I made cocoa and sat in my study to glare out of the window and wait for him to call. As I was still on winter break, I didn’t have to go to school to work, but we had the next few days booked with activities. From what I could see from my window it looked like we were easily going to be iced in for at least three days, and maybe longer. Charlotte Brontë came and curled up in my lap, and her purring was reassuring. A red bird landed on the feeder outside the window, pecked around, and then flitted off.

Thad called about 12:30.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he sang.

“Have you looked outside?” I said, pacing, wishing I still smoked.  

“No. Is it bad?”

“Yes, it’s bad. We’re iced in. Are you just getting up?” I was approaching livid. I had already called him twice and texted once.

“Yeah,” he yawned, lighting a cigarette. “I saw you called. We stayed up late watching Turner Classic Movies. Did you know Princess Leia’s Mom could sing and dance?”

“Yes. Debbie Reynolds. Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t.”

I scoffed like an old man, “There’s ice all over everything outside, and then snow on top of that. It’s not supposed to get above freezing for four more days, so we’re trapped. I guess Ma'am was right. We should have stocked up. Do you have your cling peaches?”

"Yeah,” he laughed, then said something to Bettina, laughed louder, and then said back to me, “Well, I guess I’ll just hang here till we can get out. Bettina’s going to call and cancel her clients.”    

“But we had plans,”  I snapped.

“What? You want to go antiquing out in the country? I am not driving in this.”

“I could come pick you up.” I sounded desperate but I wanted him to come home. I missed him already and was incredibly bored. I was bad alone. Bad like Shining bad when left alone, trapped.

“You drive horribly on good streets. Don’t you dare get out in this. You stay there and I’ll stay here and I’ll call you later. That’s that. Love,  love.”

“Yeah, well…” I began, but he had hung up.

I frowned at the red bird flying around outside the window; if only escape was that easy.

Here’s the good and bad thing about OCD: it gets a lot done, like it or not. So by mid-afternoon I had cleaned the house, baked a cake, done all the laundry, worked on my research book, talked on the phone to my mother and sister, made two lovely throw pillows for the Den couch, hand shampooed the bathroom rug, and read two frivolous magazines. Oh, and eaten most of the good food in the house, as I had decided to kick Oprah and her "Program" to curb as I was now eating for my life; there had to be a law somewhere that there is no dieting during weather you can literally die in.

And it was now just 3 PM and Thad had not called back yet. I looked out of the study window where nary a car went by. And when they did, it was only the big trucks, the ones driven by giant men with gun racks and massive facial hair; the ones who knew how to drive in this weather, or at least feared death so little that it didn’t matter to them one way or another.  

And I worried. About Thad.  

It's not that I didn't trust Thad, but I just really didn't trust Thad. Old habits never really died with him,they just fell to the bottom of his pants pockets until he randomly fished them out again. And Bettina was not a good influence. She was the cougar poster girl, with a Michelob in one hand and a Jager shot in the other, loudly wondering where her bra went. So I wanted to make sure he was okay. And safe. And still within my sphere of control. That’s all. So I worried.    

I watched a Volvo slide down the street and right through the four-way stop. It honked and turned slowly in a circle like a like giant metal ballerina. Hitting the opposite curb, it bounced off and continued on its way. There was no way I was driving, even though I desperately wanted to go gather him.

Thad called back at 5:15 and I was so pent-up and crazed I answered with, “Well, it took you long enough!”

“Michael?” Thad said.

“Yes,” I forced myself to calm. “Sorry.” And then I laughed an asylum laugh and whispered, “Oh, I was just watching TV. Sorry. Hey, honey, how are you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine," he said. "Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I stood to pace.

“Are you sure? You sound bad.”

“I’m really bored.” I said in a louder whisper. “I wish you were here. I just don’t have anything to do. And I’m starting to get really manic.”

“Starting?” He said with a laugh.

“Shut-up!” I barked. Charlotte Brontë came to rub up against me and I just pushed her away.

“Have you worked on your book?” he asked.

“Yes, what I have of it here. The rest is in my office. And I cleaned. And even hand shampooed the bathroom rug.”

“Didn’t you just do that last week?”

“It needed it.” I snapped, then quietly, “I’m just bored. I miss you. ”

“Oh, calm down. Enjoy the day. We’re having a great time…”

He proceed to tell me how he and Bettina had made paper mache masks and then drank lemonade as they strung beads while sitting on her bed and had watched Lifetime all day and made cookies with the “biggest chocolate chips you have ever seen!”and were about to do cucumber facials and watch How Stella Got Her Groove Back.

“Oh really?” was all I could muster. “Really? Sounds fun.”

“Yeah,” he said rather quietly.

We were silent.

“I’m sorry you’re bored.” Thad said. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.”

“Maybe the roads will be better tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Yeah, I hope.”

We talked a little more and I faked being happy until he let me go so he could go do his facial. I just wanted to see him. And I was jealous that she got him and not me. I was the husband. I was the one who deserved to be entertained and made cookies with the “biggest chocolate chips you have ever seen” when iced in from a storm. Not her. But at least I tried to fake it with him.    

As I cradled the phone an idea came to me. What if I just went over there? He couldn’t say no to me. I would surprise him! He would have to come home. I glanced out of the window: it was getting dark and colder, so it was now or never.

I ran to put on my big coat and my giant snow boots. Breathing heavy, I knew what I was doing was stupid, ridiculous, illogical, but I was too overcome to stop. It was the first time that day that I actually felt alive.

Charlotte Brontë ran from the room as I skittered this way and that.

Out on the big front porch, I barely made it to down the three steps with my life they were so slippery. The ground was just one giant terrifying sheet of ice. But I was determined. If I could just get to my truck and start it up to defrost it, I would be safe. The sun was just starting to set, and the shadow of the house hung darkly over me.

I took one wobbly step toward my truck, then another, crunching through the hardened snow down to the ice. I almost fell, but caught myself and took one more step. And that’s when my right leg shot out from underneath me. I fell completely backwards to hit the driveway with a massive THUD! A heartbeat passed as I realized I was on my back and out of breath, but okay. And then from my prone position on the ground, I ever so gently slid down the incline of the drive until I wedged delicately underneath my truck.     

Yup.

It was amazing how filthy the bottom of the truck was.

And I just laid there feeling so ridiculously stupid. I was not hurt, but realized if I had hit my head I could have been knocked out and then I would have died here during the night, wedged under the car. No one would have seen me. And everyone would have referenced me from then on out as “that gay guy who died under his truck during that ice storm. Why was he under his truck? Was he changing the oil? In that weather? How stupid…” And I just could not have that.

I took a deep breath and admitted to myself that I had been beaten. Mother Nature had made me her bitch, and now I was stranded like a turtle on my back to prove it. I slowly pulled myself out from under the truck, my nice warm jacket now smeared with dirt and grease. Once free, I rolled myself over and crawled - on all fours, mind you - slowly back up the three porch steps, one by one by one, head hung in defeat and shame.   

Once back at the front door, panting, I realized I would not be driving anywhere for a few more days. But at least for the first time since this morning, I was happy to be alive.  

That night I watched a lot of dumb TV, made a few more calls and put myself to bed early hoping for sun tomorrow. Channel 9 weatherman Gary England said, “Two more days below freezing…then hopefully sun. So just stay inside till then!”

 I slept with an extra quilt and pillows in the shape of Thad next to me.

22.el Niño

          I awoke early the next morning to throw open the bedroom curtains and see that things had not changed one damn whit since yesterday. In fact upon closer scrutiny it appeared what little had melted in the sun yesterday afternoon had refrozen over night, adding another level to the veritable icy deathscape that was my yard. I checked the news: travel was still seriously advised against. And per my near-death driveway slide from last night, I knew I was housebound for the day once again.   

          But today, unlike yesterday, I decided not to fret over Thad, and would rather occupy myself with projects. After breakfast and a steaming shower I began a list of Things to Do Whilst Trapped in the Death Snow. Making the list was easy, as I always had ideas on how to improve things. The first item I noted was daunting:  Clean Out the Files in the Attic. But with no other prospects of entertainment, I sucked it up and headed upstairs.

          One of the glories of my old 1925 house was that it has a full attic. And we’re not talking a dangerous half-space, but rather a giant full-size room that ran the entire length of the house. It had hard wood floors, decent lighting, windows, and enough room to park a Hummer. It was really only about $50,000 away from becoming a completely functional second floor master bedroom suite, but as I had never gotten around to saving that kind of money, I presently used it for storage. And for a packrat, nee hoarder, this much storage was a godsend.

          The walls of the attic held clothes racks packed with all of my 80’s and 90's wear I just could not part with. This included normal daywear like spandex shorts, acid washed jean jackets and David Bowie long cotton dusters, but also including all of the costumes I wore when I worked the door at Roundelay. These treasures included giant fur hats and sequined bolero jackets, a coat covered in silk flowers, and a fun fur caplets; all the frills of my bygone fabulousness.
           All of my holiday decorations were up here also, stored neatly in boxes, labeled and lined up in chronological order from Valentine’s Day to New Years. And in the remaining spaces were all of the furnishings of years gone by that I just could not part with, including interesting furniture, odd lamps, and the mannequins I once collected, standing sentry over my collected treasures. The whole room had a very Harry Potter sort of Room of Hidden Things feel to it. 

          After some maneuvering I found what I was looking for behind the second chimney stack, but before the pile of old vinyl records: my personal files. These ‘memory boxes’ held items that went back twenty-five years to high school. Years ago I had organized them into three distinct sets: Personal Effects (cards, notes, movie stubs, etc), School (including notebooks back to 9^th grade) and Business (where every credit card receipt, bank statement, and pay check stub I had ever been issued were housed). I had decided that I simply could not and should not part with the personal effects, but could stand to weed down the school and business files, as they were less sentimental. My goal today was to clear out the school notes, and later I would figure out how to weed down all of the sensitive business notes.            

          Being a hoarder is a hard thing to explain: everything has value, especially once it had been saved for more than a year, because then beyond its intrinsic value it also then has historic value. I am not sure why my hording instinct developed, but it had settled in around me during high school and was only beginning to loosen from about  my neck.

In the last three years Thad and I had been back together I realized that holding on to every shred of crap from the past was maybe not the best way to enjoy the present. Thad helped me see how the ‘now’ was more important than a box of handmade flash cards from my 1988 Botany class. I had also recently realized that I should keep some mementos from my past, but not all the mementos, every last one, as I had been doing.  Plus, he had begun to watch that dastardly A&E Hoarders show, and telling people, “Oh, that’s Michael. I expect to find a family of raccoons living in the attic any day now…” So to prove him completely wrong I had decided to weed some of these miscellaneous boxes out.

For the next two hours I worked through seven big 'School' boxes. As I began to peck and sort, I started two piles around me: ‘To Save’ and ‘To Toss.’ As I went through my high school and undergraduate notebooks one by one, sorting and moving paperwork, I kept finding more and more to put in the ‘To Save’ pile. First I found an exquisite high school Creative Writing paper I had made an A on. And then there was a  funny drawing someone had done on the cover of a notebook; I had to save that. And then I found a college bluebook that I had doodled the name ‘Thaddeus’ on, circa 1991; well, that certainly had to be saved.

 Then I moved on to the boxes of my graduate school notebooks, rediscovering many papers I had written on elusive literary topics including Justice and Spencer’s Fairy Queen and Homoeroticism in Melville’s Moby Dick. Well, I had to keep those. And then I got to the dissertation papers, I decided those were even more valuable. My dissertation, Dickens as the Lonely Everyman, had taken two years and many sleepless nights to finish. My research had also produced reams and reams of paper, all of which I now found immaculately organized, labeled, and boxed-up before me. After a breif go-over I decided I couldn’t part with any of it, as I still wanted to revise it to point where I could possibly get it published as a book. Now granted I finished my Ph.D. over a decade ago, and had never done a thing withj my dissertation, let alone all of these random notes, but I still could. And if I did rework it, I could possibly need every bit of this information. It all had to stay.  

As I finished off the last box, only a few random things sat in the ‘To Toss,’ pile, whereas everything else was piled in the ‘To Save’ pile. This made me very happy.

The phone rang and I sprinted downstairs, assuming it was Thad. 

“Hey,” Becky said, rushed.           

“Oh, hey," I said, disappointed. "How are you handling being snow bound?” 

“It’s okay. The travel agency is closed again, so I’m just watching the Oprah network all day.”

I told her about my attic project, and how it appeared imperative that I save most of the boxes of school notes I had originally intended to toss. Charlotte Brontë crawled back into my lap, cold.

“I still have all that stuff over at Mom and Smith's in their attic, so I never have to deal with it. I don;t think I could get rid of it."
"Yeah. Thad's called me a hoarder."  I began to get nervous, thinking of the empty ‘To Toss’ pile upstairs. I rose and Charlotte Brontë took off.

“Anyway," she continued, "Can I tell you something that you won’t tell Mom?” She sounded serious suddenly.

“Yeah.”

“And you have to swear Thad not to tell her either, as I know you’ll tell him no matter if I made you promise not to tell him anyway.”

“True. Okay, I’ll make him promise too.”

“Witch’s honor?” She said, using the old Bewitched phrase we had used since childhood to signify a pact of the utmost secrecy.   

“Witch’s honor,” I said making the V-sign on my face, as they had done on the television show.

“Okay,” She began, “You know I told you Ray and I had checked into  possibly becoming foster parents, and then maybe adopting, since, well, you know…” She trailed off.

“Yeah,” I knew her implication was ‘since I can’t have a baby of my own.’

“Well, we took those foster parenting classes about two years ago, and DHS was going to contact us if they had a child they wanted to place, but we had never heard back from them. Right?”

“Yes?” I did not like where this was going.

“They just called.” She laughed. “They have a four year old boy they want to place with us. Isn’t that great! His name is Pablo. And I’m thinking about doing it. Isn’t that great? We might finally have a child in the family!”

“Yeah. Is he white?”

“No, a little Mexican boy, from what they’ve said.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility. Have you really thought this through?” I was stunned.

“Well they just called. But Ray and I had really talked it out before and we were serious. So, I think so. Don’t you think I should?”

“Well, I don’t know.” I said in my 'adult, serious' voice. Becky was doing good to take care of herself, let alone a child. Those two terrified cats of hers were enough reason to know that she was not good with small messy things. I never thought she would be that good with a child. And with Ray out of the picture now, this would mean she would be raising this little Mexican kid on her own.    

“What?” She asked sternly.

“Becky, I don’t want to upset you, but what about Ray?”

She sharply drew a breath.

I continued, “Didn’t you and Ray sign up for this, that you would both be doing it as a couple? And now, it’s been how long since you have seen him?”

“Almost five months, but he texted me the other day.”

“For what?”

“To see if I had that big brass belt buckle of his. I do, but I told him I didn’t,” She snickered. “But that’s not the point.  I am almost forty. I want a child, and with Ray or not, I would like that experience of raising one, of having a son.  Plus, it’s a poor little kid who needs a home. And maybe with a kid it would make Ray see what he’s missing out on a real family. I mean, if I tell him, which I guess I will. But the state will give me, like, $300 a month to raise him, and that’ll pay for him. And this might be my last chance, you know? And it’s only foster parenting. It’s not adopting. I might not even be able to keep him, even if I wanted to, you know? So it's not even permanent.”    

“I know, I know, but what about the paperwork? Didn’t you sign up to do this as a couple? Won’t they pull out if they know, well, that it’s just you now? A single parent versus a couple?”

She was silent for a minute, and I knew that I had hurt her, but it was necessary; she could not take in a child willy-nilly, just as some sort of ruse to give her life meaning and as a ploy to get Ray back. She had to want to do it seriously, for her sake as well as the child’s.

“But we’re not divorced,” Becky said, “We’re not even officially separated. On paper we’re still a couple.”

“I wouldn’t lie to the government.”

“But it’s not a lie. According to the paperwork, we are still a couple.”

“That’s crazy. And unless you tell them it will just be you raising him, at least for now, it sounds against the law.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I just need to think about it. I just thought you would be happy for me; to have a child in the family for the first time.” She sounded very hurt, which hurt me. 

“Oh for God’s sake Becky. What you are basically saying is that you’re going to take this little Mexican child under false pretenses and then raise him yourself. If Ray doesn’t come back, are you prepared to be a single mother?” I was just exasperated. I did not want to see some random child, already hurt by poor circumstances,  emotionally damaged even more by Becky's instability. But I couldn't tell her that, Lord no.   

“Look, I’ll call you later. And don’t tell Mom.”

“Becky, just think of the child first, here, okay? I know you are sad with Ray gone and all...”

“He’s not gone,"She snapped. “He’s just up in the City.”

“Okay, Fine. But even with him just up in the city, I would really recommend you thinking about this before you bring a child into the mix.”

“Oh, I’ll think about it. Bye.” Her voice was icy as the day.

I held the phone and knew that she was absolutely going to take that little Mexican child. Poor kid; without his even knowing it, he was in for a world of Becky.

I called Thad immediately who responded with an unsympathetic whoop of laughter and a chant of “Andale! Andale!” He agreed with me that Becky did not need a child now, and we commiserated on the possibilities. It was nice to talk to him, just to hear his voice.
He went on to say he and Bettina were watching the Oprah network and thinking about making soup for lunch. I told him about cleaning out my attic files, but not about sliding under the truck last night during my fit to go pick him up.   

"Since we're still snowed-in," he said, "Bettina is fine with me staying another night."
"Yeah, that's great," I said through clenched teeth. 
 They had big fun plans for the afternoon, which I just grunted at. He did say he would call later and check on my progress. 

“We’ll see how much you can get rid of…” He said snidely, which scared me, as I was afraid he might be right.

I really had not gotten rid of much yet. 

23. Defenestration

After lunch I headed back up to the attic, and with clear eyes I reviewed my earlier progress: I had spent two hours going through seven boxes and had decided to keep almost every piece of paper I had touched. Whereas earlier this has entertained me, now it just horrified me; I was a hoarder! At this rate soon I would be keeping pizza boxes and toilet paper rolls, and then move on not being able to part with bags of trash and dead cat carcasses! I could not let this happen! And the first step was to get rid of all of the this random twenty year old paperwork. I had to find the courage to just get rid of it once and for all.

I sat back down among the piles and began to move things around. As I resorted everything again, I moved a few more pieces into the ‘To Toss’ pile, but the ‘To Save’ pile till stayed enormous. After an hour more of resorting, I noticed my nostalgia had kicked back in and I had begun to move things back from ‘To Toss’ again to ‘To Save.’ This would not do.

Running downstairs I poured a Diet Coke and paced. It was only three o’clock. I had wasted the better part of the day and had accomplished nothing. I had to get rid of a significant amount of something or it would prove Thad right; it would prove I was a deranged hoarder, a crazy person. I had to make a stand against this. I had to just get rid of it all, and apparently if I took the time to sort, I would never get rid of anything. I had to just do it. I had to make a quick break of it. I knew what I had to do.

Girding myself, I stomped back upstairs and threw open the attic window that overlooked the backyard. The cold air felt good against the musty attic stank.  I lunged at the ‘To Save’ pile and grabbed a handful of paperwork and sprinted over to the open window to chuck it out. The release of watching the papers float down to the snowy yard was so crazy liberating. I ran back and grabbed more. This was my moment. I would live in the present and stop hoarding the past! I was not insane! I threw more out: the papers flew from my hands to lilt through the air and alight on the snowy white ground below.   

I did this until only one notebook remained, one notebook of my most treasured memories-the important school papers, the doodled ‘Thaddeus,’ the first draft of my dissertation. Everything else was gone, as I had originally planned. And I felt good and sane and complete for the first time since beginning this demon project.  

Leaving the attic, I felt like a man who had never been in therapy once.

Pulling on my snow boots, I headed outside to the backyard. The ten degree weather cut bitterly, but all I had to do was gather the scattered papers and put them in the trash, then I would be done with them. Carefully, I walked through the icy snow to the get the big trashcan and drug it to the middle of the papers, which lay scattered in a giant circle from the point of impact. I began to gather them, chucking handful after handful into the big bin. I was so proud of myself, so thrilled to be moving from ‘Past Michael’ to ‘Present Michael.’ Moving from someone mired in collecting the past to someone living in the present. This was a huge step and I couldn’t wait to rub it in Thad’s prissy little face…

And that’s when I noticed something: my Social Security number written at the top of one of the papers, directly under my name. How odd. I shouldn’t let my Social Security number out, not in this day and age of internet identity theft. The page had to be shredded for my security. And then it occurred to me, it was college policy when I was in school in the late 1980’s that you wrote your name and university ID at the top of each page. And at the time, in that innocent period before Al Gore had invented the internet, and way before hackers and the treat of identity theft were even on your parent’s lips, that your university ID was your Social Security number. My pulse quickened and my eyes slid to the next piece of paper I had in hand. 

It was a history paper from 1989 about the California gold rush, and there on the top was my name and Social Security number written in my own innocent scrawled hand. I flipped to the next item: a Classics paper about Antigone, also with my name and Social Security number written at the top. And then the next item: a blue book from a history class with my name and Social Security number written on the top of each page of the ten page blue book detailing the origins of the Civil War.  

And then like a scene out of the X-Files or that movie where Russell Crowe is a crazy mathematician, I looked around me on the ground and every piece of paper I saw lit up with my name and Social Security number, my name and Social Security number, my name and Social Security number. Everyone of them. And if just one of these got out, if just one bad guy got a hold of even just one of these pieces of paper, my identity could be stolen and I could be ruined. They could get credit cards in my name, get into my banking information, and ruin me. Just flat ruin me.

With eyes bugged out, pale as the snow around, I let out a shriek so loud birds from a tree next door took to the air.  

And suddenly, with all of my joy gone, I found myself crazed, scooping up all of papers as if my very life depended on it, as it did! Frantically I gathered all I could from the ground into a huge armful just as the wind picked up to scatter the remains. And then in shin-high snow I crazily fumbled through the yard trying to catch page after page as they blew this way and that. As if even one got out, I could be ruined-ruined! And it would be no one’s fault but my own, that’s what Smith would say, and he would be right! It was my own fault for throwing them all out, and it would be my own fault if I was ruined!   

I trudged inside and threw what I held to the kitchen floor, and stomped back out to gather handful after handful and bring them back inside, they now wet and dripping, to thrown them all to the floor. I knew what I did was crazy, but I had to, as I couldn’t let them get away. I had to. Back outside, I dumped the trashcan over to recover the ones I had tossed in there. I had to have them all. They all had to be destroyed. 

After thirty minutes, and two slight falls on the ice, I had drug all of the paperwork into the kitchen, where it now all lay scattered. As I scanned it-name and Social Security number, name and Social Security number, name and Social Security number- I felt flat crazy, but knew I was not out of it yet. How had I been so stupid to not notice this earlier? I had to destroy all of these, but there was too much to shred in my little home shredder plus everything had staples, which would take hours for me to remove before I could even begin shredding, so what do I do?
I paced and spread everything out to dry. And I paced and moved things around, getting it back to a semblance of order; just to appease the chaos around me. And after much thought and some insane terror that I knew was false but I could not back down from, I decided it all just needed to go back up to the attic for safekeeping.  

Yup. That’s what needed to happen.

Out of sight, out of mind.

And then I could just deal with it later.

So like an automaton, a crazy, crazy automaton, I went back up to the attic,  got all of the seven original 'School' boxes and brought them back to the kitchen. Quietly I reboxed everything, and like an insane man, carried it all right back up to the attic from which it had been flung.

And I did this crazed with a compulsion I would not control, only obey.

And after another hour, after I had finally finished and was sweeping the kitchen floor, I realized that I had brought this misery upon myself: I had toyed with order, I had mocked my innate sensibilities and thus been smacked back into place. And I knew this was a fit, an OCD episode, but it was over now. I would keep the boxes of school notes for no other purpose than it might actually kill me to get rid of it all. But, now finally calming, I was deeply, deeply embarrassed as I was afraid I might actually be crazy.

As I put away the broom and went to lock the attic door I realized I was a hoarder, and maybe that wasn’t as bad of a thing to be after all.         

When Thad called later he did not ask about my project and I did not tell him about my episode: Some things between couples are better left unsaid. 

24. ShredFest

I awoke early the following morning scared and completely mortified by yesterday's fit. I should have just left everything in the trash and not worried about it; I mean what really are the chances of identity theft from one’s own home trashcan? But what I did was sound, if not crazy. At least I took care of it. But the scariest part was that I had felt like I was not in control of myself; that I had to return all of that paperwork to the attic, or something terrible would have happened.
And somehow things felt unfinished; the boxes upstairs still called to me, but I was not sure why.

During breakfast I watched the news. Everything in town was still closed, and the newsmen were still encouraging people to stay off the roads. I texted Thad, “Roads still bad, so still no driving. You okay?” but I did not hear back from him immediately. He and Bettina were probably working on limbo lessons or practicing their bird calls or something likewise as neato and cool.   

To occupy myself I worked on my research book and caught-up on some e-mails. Besides teaching three classes, working on a book, and being on a number of stupid committees, I also was chairing two doctoral students’ committees. Both were rather idiots, and Americanist and a Victorian, and both required exorbitant amounts of attention. Thank God for e-mail, as a short message usually meant I wouldn’t have to talk to them for 2-3 more days.  

I got an e-mail from my bank about an upcoming interest special. Just as I went to delete it, I noticed at the bottom the heading: ShredFest.’ Apparently my bank was offering the service of a shredding company: “Bring bags of your personal files in and we’ll shred them-for free!” The ShredFest wasn’t for a few weeks, but suddenly-like a the sun through the clouds- I saw an end to my angst over the attic paperwork! I would just take it all to the bank and have them destroy it! Perfect! And this way I could also get rid of all my business papers,  as I knew initially I could just not chuck any of those out with the trash. I reread the e-mail and then laughed out loud. This was exactly the ending I needed to rectify my insanity from yesterday. And Thad would never have to know about my episode at all.

Within the hour I was up in the attic reorganizing again. I first went through all of the School boxes, this time pulling out all metal coils from the spiral bound notebooks and the braided 3-hole punch pages from notebooks, as the ShredFest instructions said ‘staples and paperclips are fine, but no larger metals.’ This took a good two hours, and got me up to lunch.

I went back down to eat and Thad called.

“Hey! What you doing?”

“Nothing.” I was afraid he would figure out my craziness from yesterday, be able to smell it on me, and mock me for it.  

“You okay? You sound weird.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I rose quickly and began to pace. I told him about preparing things to take to ShredFest.
“Well, good for you.” Thad said, “has it been hard?”

“No. No, not at all,” I lied like a rug.  

“That’s great. I’m very proud of you.”

“And see I’m not a hoarder!” I spit out a bit too abruptly.

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He laughed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, we’ll see.” He said again, and then changed the subject to talk about all the fun he and Bettina had planned for the day. I frowned as he told of the snowy walk they had planned and then the big casserole she was putting in the oven for lunch, and I heard her laughing and laughing in the background, and it just burned my butt. 

“I want you to come home,” I blurted out.

“Well, me too, as long as you don’t act like that.”

We were silent for a second.

“Look, I have to go,” I said, “I have to get back up to the attic. You have a good day and call me later.”

“Bye bye,” he said coolly.

Frowning, I stomped back upstairs, Charlotte Brontë skittering to get out of my  way.  

I had decided I only needed to keep the last seven years of my financial notes, so I only had about eighteen years of receipt and pay stubs to go through. This equaled four big Business boxes, but they were much easier to go though, as they had less sentimental value. I did find my first pay stub from the University and the receipt from the first hotel Thad and I ever stayed in back in 1995, but none of these elicited the same level of crazy hoarding passion all of the school notes did. I simply unboxed everything, looked at it all, and then reboxed it all. This process was cathartic, as handling everything one last time made it easier for me to send them off to be destroyed; I had said my goodbye.  

By dusk I had settled the four Business boxes next to the seven School boxes, for a total of eleven boxes bound for ShredFest.

Back downstairs I called Thad but he did not answer. I watched the weather. The roads were to be drivable by tomorrow: I could finally see him-after four days! I called him again to tell him this, and he again didn’t answer. Frowning, I went to make dinner, assuming he was just busy with his bestest best gal pal Bettina.

Somewhere around 7 o’clock, still not having heard back from him, a thought crossed my mind: I had all of the paperwork for ShredFest in big boxes, and those would be heavy and cumbersome to carry down from the attic and out through the house, and then out to the car, to then deliver to ShredFest. What would make more sense would be to divide the contents of the big boxes into a number of smaller boxes, as those would be easier to maneuver. And I happened to have many small boxes up in the attic.

I mulled this for about fifteen minutes, with that same scary feeling of uncontrollable compulsion I had yesterday, before I just gave in and ran back up to the attic.

 I spent the next hour unboxing the eleven big boxes and putting everything into smaller boxes. By the time I was done, I now had thirty-three smaller boxes, all sealed and ready to be removed.   

Leaving the attic, I had a feeling of accomplishment. The project was finally over, and for that I was pleased.

Back in the chilly Den, I called Thad again; and still no answer. I ate brownies and wondered if he was dead, drunk driving into a lake, as Bettina laughed and urged him on, “Drive faster Thad! Faster!” I hated Bettina.

And then as I watched stupid TV it occurred to me. The ShredFest e-mail had said “Bring bags of your personal files in and we’ll shred them-for free!” Bags. And I had a flash that if I showed-up with all of my paperwork in boxes that I would have to unbox everything there out in the parking lot behind the bank, as their shredder could not handle boxes, and during that transfer paperwork could whirl away in the Oklahoma wind, and my identity could be lost just as easily as if I had thrown everything out in the trash myself!

And this thought brought the crazy compulsion back like the roar of the wind outside. I tried to work myself down, to tell myself it was no big deal that it would be fine; but I knew what I was eventually going to do, I just didn’t want to give into it again. I was afraid by succumbing to this latest fear it would prove that I was not just a hoarder, but indeed, just flat fucking insane.

I just wanted Thad to call; that would call me down.

I called him again; again no answer.

Twenty minutes later I was back in the attic, feeling like a unfettered mental patient. Frantically I began to unbox the thirty-three smaller boxes and move everything into plastic Wal-Mart bags I had drug upstairs with me. I muttered as I worked, “It’ll  be alright. This is it. This is the end. You are not crazy. You are just thorough. You are just following directions. Bags not boxes. They need bags not boxes.”

In the midst of my progress, the phone rang and I dashed downstairs to get it.

 “Hello,” Becky said.

“Oh, hi,” I muttered, vastly disappointed.

“Don’t sound too happy to hear from me. I was just calling to check on you. You okay?”

“No. No, I’m not.” I said. “I haven’t heard from Thad in about six hours and I’ve got this project where I threw a bunch of paper out of the attic window, but then I got all paranoid and just brought it all back in and carried it right back upstairs. And then I decided I needed to move everything from big boxes to little boxes, and I already did that but now I’m moving everything from little boxes to bags…”

“Oh, honey!” she said like she had just walked in to find me holding a half-decapitated kitten. I knew she was ashamed of me, as was I. But I also knew she understood the pangs of obsession, oh too well herself.  

“Thad won't call me back and I can’t make it stop,” was all I could say. I did not cry but I wanted to.

Becky cleared her throat and in a steady voice said, “You just need to watch some TV and go to bed. Thad is probably just playing with his friends. I’m sure he’s fine. Just lock the attic and leave it alone. It sounds like you’ve done a good job, but you need to stop now. It will be okay if you stop.”

We were silent for a second, where I heard the sound of the grinding of her teeth.
"It'll be okay, Michael. But you need to stop and start putting yourself to bed."

“Thank you.” It was exactly what I needed to hear. I loved Becky; she knew how to calm me down.

“Drink some warm milk and go to bed.”

“I will. I appreciate it. I just need to get out of this house. Being snowbound is just driving me crazy. I just need people and to see Thad and to go back to work, for the distraction.”

“You go get ready for bed, and you can call me back if you get upset or anything. I'm sure Thad will call you first thing in the morning, okay?”       

“Thanks, Becky. I appreciate it. I’m sorry to be crazy.”

“Don’t say that,” she warned, “You are fine. You’ve just had too much time on your hands, trapped inside. We can all get back out tomorrow, and everything will be better.”

“I can’t wait for that,” I laughed nervously, trying to sound normal. And then, “Oh, why did you call?”

She cleared her throat again. “I decided to take Pablo. I was going to call DHS tomorrow, once their offices are opened back up. I told Mom and Smith earlier. She was thrilled and he called me ‘stupid,’ but I don’t care. It’s what I want to do.”

As all I could feel was love and affection for my sister at that moment, I said, “That’s wonderful. You’ll make a great Mom. I can’t wait to meet the little guy.”

“Thank you Michael. Thank you. That means a lot to me. Call me later if you need me.”

“Thanks. Night.”

“Night,” she said as she hung up.

I went to the attic and finished bagging up the papers, ending up with fifty-seven bags to take to ShredFest. I then put the bags into all the smaller boxes for transport, and it all seemed right and good and that I was now finally, for the last time, done with the project.  

As I came down stairs, it now almost eleven PM, the phone rang again. It was Thad.  
“Hey, sorry,” he said, “Bettina and I were watching some movies and time just slipped by. How are you doing?"
"Good, just getting ready for bed."
We talked for a long time, both thrilled that the roads would be passable tomorrow so we could finally see each other again.

I didn’t tell him about this fit either.