Hey hun,
I heard you’re still job hunting. You really haven’t heard back from anything yet? You know, in my day, you had a pretty fair shot of getting a job in town unless someone else could type out their resume, slap on some lipstick, and lie their way through an interview before you could. Then again, what do I know? I’ve been retired for a millennia, and I’m pretty sure you can’t even smoke in break rooms now.
Speaking of old shit, did your mom tell you that my fridge petered out on me? The other day I was finally getting ready to evict those squirrels out from under the porch (God forbid Harold actually perform any cat duties and chase them out) when I smelled something off in the kitchen.
Well lo’ and behold, turns out the fridge, which has been chugging along fine since the 70’s, suddenly decided to jump ship during my Forensic Files marathon last night. Considering the little heat wave we had that day, it’s safe to say that everything in there was rotten, no good, curdled, fermented, harboring new life – you get the idea.
There was nothing for it, so I called down to the appliance store and yelled the whole situation to Ben, who’s a little hard of hearing now. I only ordered a basic model but the damn thing must be getting hand-carved out of marble because they’re not delivering it until Monday morning.
I had to clean out the old fridge before it became a biohazard, and judge me all you want, but I haven’t cleaned out the freezer in God knows how long. But what do I need to look for in there besides the fudge ripple? Anyway, as I was tossing things in the trash bin, I pulled out a long, weird…thing. It was wrapped in yellowed wax paper and I slowly unrolled it to reveal a rock-hard, greenish beige tube.
What was it? A forgotten loaf? A moldy pork loin? Some freaky craft your Granddad was doing? I stared at that thing for maybe 10 minutes before it hit me. It was one of those freaking cookie dough things you kids made me years and years ago for some Grandparents Day.
You were so excited to see me bake up a tray when you brought it over, so I cut off some discs and put them in the oven. They kind of glooped up to be cookie-ish lumps and when I took a bite, it took everything in me to not spit it out into the sink. I don’t know if you mixed up salt and sugar, or baking soda and powder, or added arsenic in just for fun – but that shit was awful. I’m sorry, I know I told you it was wonderful, but you looked so proud about your little monstrosity. So, I wrapped it back up, and chucked it into the back of the freezer, where it festered until now.
I can’t believe it took me so long to remember that. I won’t say it feels like it was a lifetime ago, but more like a different life altogether. What I mean is, I’ve noticed that sometimes I can’t reach back to feel yesteryear, as if it all happened to someone else. It’s like a strange amputation; a crease where the page falls.
When I was a girl, my father used to take me with him when he went to the dump. Then, it was a nasty old hole, filled with appliances, mysterious old lockboxes, and trash bags. I used to think they slowly sank into the soil, failing inch by inch over the years until they hit the center of the earth.
Call me crazy, but then I thought volcanic eruptions happened when too many fridges and ovens hit the center at once. That dump actually still exists, and maybe that’s where the old fridge will go. Maybe, as it drifts down into the muck, its long life squatting in my kitchen will fade into a different life altogether. Then I’ll have a shiny new model in its place, sending its predecessor away from all recent memory.
It’s just an old fridge, I don’t know why it makes me sad. I suppose the longer I’m around it becomes clear that we’re all sinking through these chapters, unaware of how far down we’re falling.
Well! There I am getting strange and morbid. I should be getting back to chores and you should be back to convincing people to hire you. Listen, tell half-truths, raise hell, make your money, then leave. Don’t take any of these jobs too seriously, it’s only for now. Plus, they’ll never love you like your old Grams.
Talk soon,
Grams