I live a rich life.
Take, for example, my queen-sized mattress and box
spring.
In fact, you may actually take them, as they are now
balanced against the garage.
“What’s this?”
Kurt grins.“You
have to open it.”
I tear at the suspiciously flat gift.Inside is a bright blue folder.I grin back.“You got me homework?”
Inside the folder, however, are two sheets of paper. “Please take,” says the first.“Queen-sized mattress.”“Please take,” says the second.“Queen-sized box spring.”
I look from the sheets to him, back to the sheets, back
to him.I narrow my eyes.“Heeeey, what’s the big deal?”
“You need a new bed,” he says.
And so over the holiday break, we went mattress shopping. Frankly, if there is anything nicer than a brand new
bed, I don’t think my heart could take it.
The old ones have leaned against the couch in my library
since then, a stately addition to a room chockfull of books, seating, and, here
and there, the forgotten and crumpled paper airplanes from a Christmas party
run amok. They leaned until yesterday, that is, when Kurt helped me
move them into the alley, signs attached, to await Tuesday morning’s garbage
men.
The library seems so much bigger now.
Tuesday after work, however, I get a text from Willie –
my ex and, oddly enough, next-door neighbor.“Recycling is next week.Did they
take your mattresses?”
I pull on my boots, hat, scarf, mittens, and coat, trudge
back to the alley.
And there they are, looking for all the world like things
that will, during the course of the week, fall into the paths of cars, causing
neighbors to look askance in my direction, perhaps pass judgment on my
housekeeping abilities.
I contact Sally, currently renting my garage, to explain
the situation.Can I move them inside,
away from prying eyes and passing cars?Can I leave them there until next Monday night?
Of course, she
says.
I pull them into the garage one at a time, straining,
heaving.When did they stop putting
handles on mattresses?I shake a
trembling fist in the direction of Big Mattress, no doubt in cahoots with Big
Chiro.
Back in the house, I remove the many layers of clothing
required to keep my flesh from freezing and throw myself on the couch.
But it won’t leave me be.It’s not right, is it?She rents
the garage.It’s her garage.What if both cars won’t fit now?
Dagnabit.
Sighing, I re-dress, clomp back out, where I pull the
heavy, ridiculous things outside once again.Sweating,
grunting in the demure manner of a woman at the end of a day, and, possibly, a
rope of some kind, I maneuver them against the garage, lawn-side this time,
where they lean, ice cold and, somehow, triumphant.
It is the dead of winter. I have mattresses in my backyard, pressed against a cinder block garage.
Until Tuesday.
Who has more fun, huh?