Nice and Neat

Gerald Slaby


4th of October, 2007

Nice And Neat

It was the summer between junior high and high school, and my mother and my sister are fighting, again. They weren’t fighting about how the magazines on the coffee table were being stacked, which my mom thought was messy and didn’t look right. It wasn’t about the fact that we hated to do housework, and that the stupid magazines could just rot, for all we cared. This time, it sounded more like a real fight—a family ‘discussion’ that everyone knows is more of a shouting match, just short of a knock-down drag-out kind of thing. And while this was going on, I was in my usual place, upstairs in my bedroom, with my ear closely melted to the noise downstairs, already in my self-made dungeon, where all of the clothes on the floor didn’t look right, where I was intentionally away from all of the mess and all of the yelling.
As usual, mom wanted my sister to go to college, even if it was just a community college, like the one in my hometown. “No, I won’t! screamed my sister. “Yes, you WILL!” cried my mother. On and on it went, getting progressively louder, if that was possible They were really ‘discussing’ what Pam would do with her life. My mom thought that she should go to a place, like Michigan State, which was nearby-- a nice, neat little place—a real College, not unlike my mom’s own ideal world, that she created inside of her head. A place of order, in the middle of chaos, where simple lessons were taught—where SOMEONE could get through to these kids! Of course, she wanted me to follow Pam’s lead, even though I never figured out how this orderly world of hers worked, or how I was going to succeed.
Frankly, I didn’t care. I was enjoying myself too much, being a kid.
But Pam was determined to change mom’s world. It seemed like going to live with her boyfriend, Bart, was the perfect way to make mother mad, while at the same time assert her newly growing sense of self. It was like what all teenagers would ultimately do, tell their parents what THEY thought an adult should do.
Independence. What a nice-sounding word! Like you were given the keys to your parents’ car, and not even bothering to stick around to buy it. Taking off before your parents even have a chance to say goodbye. Pam didn’t want to do it mom’s way. She wanted to see if she could figure out this adult stuff on her own. Pam felt she was ready.
This didn’t sit well with mom, of course. What? Change the rules? Change MY idea of what’s right for you? This can’t be! Like many other families, she wanted her family to be successful, independent. You know how your family is. They want the best for you, but if you weren’t ready, you would be told so, and not quietly. It wasn’t so much that mom was worried about what would happen to her, it’s more like how it would look.

Don’t get me wrong. I really didn’t think that mom’s idea for a good life was so bad. But, I wanted to be more flexible. Besides, I hated order and cleanliness!
However, mother made it very clear that if we didn’t follow our unspoken family credo of order and stability, that we would be gone. Just like you would imagine it, clothes on the lawn and the tapping foot and everything, boiled down to one slightly messed up, but stubborn American ideal.
It’s too bad that I didn’t understand how this credo truly worked, but someday, I would have to.
But now, Pam decided to beat her to the punch and start telling her how her own world was going to work.

It was like a shot, even more so-something that gets your attention, like a drill sergeant, waking up the troops, rapping a garbage can with a big stick. A lot of yelling came from both of them. They continued to argue, and the pitch and the pressure increased with every minute. It was like, when you go to a rock concert, where the last song of the set comes closer and closer to its finish. The final encore. The big crescendo comes and then THUD. The ending is like a blast of wind in your face, like the blast of wind from a slamming door. There was no doubt that this fight was the last one.
That was it. It was the vision in my head, as I lay in my darkened room ,of Pam leaving and mom throwing a fit, and her boyfriend picking her up to go to who-knows-where.
I was alone, now—alone with mother and her orderly life.
No big sister to hide behind, when mom lost her cool. No one to stick up for me, when I had to take a stand. It all didn’t look right, in MY world, anyway.
So, what did I do after all of this? Did I take a stand? Heck, no. I did what I usually did. I pulled the covers over my shoulder, and I went to sleep.

Arizona is really not a bad place to live. I was twenty-two, and just floating around the area. I was like a lot of people, at the time. Hey, you just might have been like me!-- can’t finish anything you start. Going to college, dropping out, finding a job, going back to school, never quite getting to where you want to go. I guess there’s a lot of people like me, out there, somewhere.
The weather was as hot as you would think it would be. A hot, furnace blast of a breeze that made a noise in your ears, like a blast like an angry teenager, bolting out the door.
Hey, look at me! I’m independent at last! Well, at least I thought I was, anyway. But, in hindsight, I was only putting on a fake version of a life. At that time, my family expected me to hold a job, go back to school, and somehow get SOMETHING finished. Independence. Nice and neat. Make sure you do it right, Gerry!
But this certainly didn’t look like an independent state to me. I really looked more like a little kid, holding an expensive vase that he just broke.
But, I had my automobile, and it was a beauty! It made a horrible, screaming sound, when I used the clutch, but it was all mine. But, as time went on, I took the knocks of my car, and the knocks of my life, personally. I took the knocks of life personally. I really began to think that this independent life was not looking as good as I had hoped.

I kept my apartment clean. I paid the bills. I dutifully called my mother every Sunday. And I was at least putting up the appearance of being an adult. An INDEPENDENT adult, I would tell myself.
I remember only bits and pieces of what happened. I remember seeing the pink-colored rag, all torn and mangled, caught between the alternator belt and the flywheel, like an irritating mouse that just wouldn’t go down the throat of a swallowing snake. Too dumb to know that the game was up, but fighting just the same. And that sound! All that screaming is sure not going to be a help. Once you’re stuck, you’re stuck. No sense in running away from that.
You could say that this was where everything came together. The frustration. The anger of failure and not being who they wanted me to be. And that damned screaming! Screaming for no damned reason. It really got to me! And that rag was just sitting there, spinning in that wheel. It didn’t look right. You know, like anything that looks out of place. Hey, that piece of crud on the counter doesn’t belong there. Pick it up! Get rid of it!
I remember the thud—how it grabbed my hand and pulled me in. It jerked me in quickly, like that snake, grabbing that hopeless mouse. And the rag got stuck. And that damned sound. It was the screaming. Like the car was in pain, or something, screaming for help. All that screaming!
Then, I felt the pain. THUD. Like a slamming door, or an engine that wasn’t going right.
Then it REALLY screamed. My hand bounced out, and pushed me backward. BOOM! There’s that door, again! And through all of this, the stupid engine just kept on screaming and whirring and screaming (SHUT UP, ALREADY!) and I just kind of looked down, not even realizing that there was anything wrong.
Then I remember shaking it, shaking it like it was going to make it feel all better. Getting angry. Getting angrier.
And I shook it. And I kicked it. And I cured it. And I yelled at it some more. Then I cured the car. Then I cursed the air, like it had something to do with it. Then, I kicked the car, again. Damned! Why me? Why is it always me, God? Don’t you think I’ve tried hard enough? What more do you want me to do?
The rag quickly turned from pink to red, then the red got all over the place. Then I said something like ‘shit’! A lady walking by the parking lot asked me if I was ok. I said yea.
There was nothing nice and neat about any of this, that’s for sure.
I only remember bits and pieces of the hospital, with the sound of machines, and the look of linoleum, and that funky smell of Pine Sol that they always use.
So, that’s how it’s going to end, Lord?
Apparently so, because all I remember next was how it was all going to look.
And the funniest part is that I didn’t care about the pain. All I cared about was how I was going to tell my mom!
I kinda let go of everything, after that. I began to go downhill, from there. It seemed like I was never going to be able to live up to my mother’s expectations, and I just started to give up. The money ran out, the hope faded. I guess I figured if I couldn’t even fix a damned car, I wasn’t going to be able to do anything else, either. I left the whole hot and dry place called My Independence, tail between my legs, never to be heard from for quite awhile, after that.
As I write this to you, I’m relearning how to do it all right. But, I still feel guilty about that day, and the hot place that I left, where I thought I could do it all. And when I’m alone, I sometimes catch myself, looking at the tip of my finger, trying to figure out how things got all messed up, picking at the mangled and funky looking fingernail that sits on top, looking weirder than the others. Like an unwanted step-child. The one that didn’t make it. The one that doesn’t look like the others. The one that doesn’t look right.
And as I catch myself scratching that finger, that odd looking thing, and remember back to those times, I do what I always do, after that. I forget about my hand, pull the covers over my shoulder, and I go back to sleep.