Another Night of Recycling Cans
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On Tuesday evenings I think about taking the blade from the lawnmower and bashing it into my skull. I’m not sad. In fact, there has been little despondency in my life since mother died of Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease eleven years ago. Shortly thereafter, my family and I relocated from North Carolina to a nice residential community outside Fort Lauderdale. Aside from the occasional outburst from my nine-year-old son, Samuel, for not understanding word problems in math, or an annoyed glance from my wife, Meredith, when I forget to pick up soy creamer for coffee, I feel loved. At the accounting firm, I have a secretary who buys me a nice bottle of port around the high holidays and a boss who gives me raises without my having to beg. Still, there is that lawn mower. It’s right behind the newly leased Camry. Tonight, when I’m in the garage compressing cans with the contraption Meredith bought on SkyMall, I actually consider removing the blade.
What fascinates me is not so much ending the mundane cycle of my existence, because I don’t look at it like that at all – in fact, I like the simplicity of suburban life – no, what fascinates me most is the idiosyncrasy of the thing. I’ve never heard of anyone dying like that. You can’t. A person couldn’t physically swing their arm with enough force to crack the bone. Also, the body’s failsafe would interject before impact so the blade wouldn’t connect. Even if you did manage to trick yourself into preforming the action, there’s no guarantee. Sometimes death is certain and slow like those little prions that attacked mother. The neurodegeneration made these tiny holes in her brain and rendered the tissue spongy. On the other hand, death can be ambiguous and quick, but that type is rarely self-inflicted. So, I’m willing to bet, my idea wouldn’t work. More than likely you’d just have this scar on your head from a stupid moment in your life. At least there’d be something to show for feelings.
I like that. I like the idea of other people visibly seeing your emotions. In fact, I’d shave my head and wear the scar with pride. There’d be this high school girl scanning my soy creamer and she’d say, “That’s a big old scar you got there. Did you get in some kinda accident or something?”
“Nope,” I’d say. “I bashed a lawnmower blade into my skull.”
I smile.
- Nick Seifert
On Tuesday evenings I think about taking the blade from the lawnmower and bashing it into my skull. I’m not sad. In fact, there has been little despondency in my life since mother died of Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease eleven years ago. Shortly thereafter, my family and I relocated from North Carolina to a nice residential community outside Fort Lauderdale. Aside from the occasional outburst from my nine-year-old son, Samuel, for not understanding word problems in math, or an annoyed glance from my wife, Meredith, when I forget to pick up soy creamer for coffee, I feel loved. At the accounting firm, I have a secretary who buys me a nice bottle of port around the high holidays and a boss who gives me raises without my having to beg. Still, there is that lawn mower. It’s right behind the newly leased Camry. Tonight, when I’m in the garage compressing cans with the contraption Meredith bought on SkyMall, I actually consider removing the blade.
What fascinates me is not so much ending the mundane cycle of my existence, because I don’t look at it like that at all – in fact, I like the simplicity of suburban life – no, what fascinates me most is the idiosyncrasy of the thing. I’ve never heard of anyone dying like that. You can’t. A person couldn’t physically swing their arm with enough force to crack the bone. Also, the body’s failsafe would interject before impact so the blade wouldn’t connect. Even if you did manage to trick yourself into preforming the action, there’s no guarantee. Sometimes death is certain and slow like those little prions that attacked mother. The neurodegeneration made these tiny holes in her brain and rendered the tissue spongy. On the other hand, death can be ambiguous and quick, but that type is rarely self-inflicted. So, I’m willing to bet, my idea wouldn’t work. More than likely you’d just have this scar on your head from a stupid moment in your life. At least there’d be something to show for feelings.
I like that. I like the idea of other people visibly seeing your emotions. In fact, I’d shave my head and wear the scar with pride. There’d be this high school girl scanning my soy creamer and she’d say, “That’s a big old scar you got there. Did you get in some kinda accident or something?”
“Nope,” I’d say. “I bashed a lawnmower blade into my skull.”
I smile.
- Nick Seifert