Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [101]
I never used the stove and during the warm months filled the oven with paperback novels. At any given moment, the refrigerator contained twenty bottles of seltzer water; my watch, keys, and wallet (so I wouldn’t misplace them); and a hundred rolls of Fuji Velvia slide film.
The kitchen cabinets themselves were filled with more books, empty seltzer bottles, and unread mail.
The sink in the bathroom was crusted with five years’ worth of dried toothpaste. And the dozens of magazines that covered the bathroom floor were all crinkly from water because I never used a shower curtain.
It wasn’t because I was poor that I lived this way. I made decent money at my advertising job. It was just that I really didn’t know how to live any other way. I’d even begun to feel above all things domestic. Anybody could clean, after all. But not just anybody can create the next global advertising campaign for UPS. So I spent all my time at the computer, either working or writing in my journal. “I live in my head,” was my own justification.
Dennis didn’t see my apartment until we’d been dating for nearly two months. In one way, this wasn’t odd because we were taking it very slow. We weren’t sleeping together; we were getting to know each other in jazz clubs on the Bowery, at restaurants, on park benches in Central Park at midnight. We were courting each other like people did in the forties.
When Dennis took a trip south to Kentucky to visit his business partner’s family, I took the opportunity to clean my apartment. He was going to be gone for four days. I calculated that if I worked twelve hours a day, I might have the apartment presentable by the time he returned. While I understood that I would not be able to have the apartment “clean” by this time, I could at least remove the majority of the debris and make it appear as though a bachelor lived here and not a psychopath.
By the end of day four, I had slept a total of nine hours, removed fifty-one garbage bags, and torn a ligament in my back. Yet the apartment still looked terrible. I felt like an unattractive girl who must wear a ton of makeup in order to get all the way up to “plain.”
But at least the sofa was free of clothing, the wood floors bare. I’d collected all the books that were previously strewn around the apartment and stacked them into two skyscrapers next to the bed. I went across the street to the store where the NYU college students get their dorm room furniture and purchased three metal Metro shelving units. I assembled these and lined them up against one wall. Then I stacked my clothing on the shelves. In between two piles of white T-shirts, I placed my Bang & Olufsen stereo. I bought a twenty-dollar area rug to cover the dark stain of unknown origin in the center of the floor. And I bought a shower curtain.
When Dennis finally saw the apartment, he was surprised by the tiny size. But he was pleased with my bed, which was now fitted with three thousand dollars’ worth of sheets, down pillows, and down comforter from ABC Home.
I was relieved that Dennis thought me eccentric for being able to live in such a tiny apartment. “It’s like the dorm room of some rich kid,” he said. While certainly not impressive, at least the apartment was no longer a deal breaker.
And now, one year, three months, and seventeen days later, I am in Kmart selecting an iron.
I choose the top-of-the-line. There will be absolutely no compromise here.
Back at the escalator, I see that the “down” side is working. Of course, this would be the case. The “down” side always works. You can always slide down with ease. It’s going up that sometimes takes extra effort.
The symbolism is not lost on me as I drift down to the main floor.
I take the subway uptown. I think, Have I given up anything by living with another person? Has there been a trade-off? Always,