Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead Read online

  “What happened to your arm?” A little girl tugs on the sleeve of my coat.

  “I was in a small car accident,” I explain as I look away from an article about a man and a lava lamp. The man could not get the lamp to work, so he put it on his stove and turned the heat on low. The liquid in the lamp started to move and bubble before it overheated and exploded. The lamp popped and the colorful wax, clear fluid, and shattered glass flew through the room. A piece of the glass flew into the man’s chest, pierced his heart, and killed him. All the comments beneath the article ask what possessed this man to conduct such a harebrained experiment, but I once microwaved a lightbulb when I was a teenager, out of blind curiosity. I understand how the train of human thought can derail. It is tragic both that this man has died and that his stupid impromptu attempt at entertaining himself misfired in a way that will now define him.

  I wonder if my death will be what defines me.

  “Can I sign your cast?” the kid tugging at my coat asks.

  I look at her dirt-encrusted fingernails, and then at her pink, slobbery face.

  I answer, “Sure,” even though I would prefer it if she didn’t touch me.

  I sit, a martyr for this child’s happiness, while she draws with a red permanent marker all over my new cast. She keeps accidentally drawing on my skin and on my clothes.

  When she finishes, I ask her what it is she drew, and she tells me it’s a dog. I look down and examine what appears to be a drawing of a penis with eyes, and sigh.

  The coffee shop employee shouts my name, so I stand up.

  She hands me some sort of smoothie, and I accept it without flagging that she must have misheard me when I ordered.

  I guess I probably mumbled.

  * * *

  I think that I am allergic to whatever was in that smoothie. My tongue feels like it’s two times larger than it is supposed to be.

  “For fucks sake,” I groan out loud while rubbing my eyes with the edge of my new cast.

  Someone touches my shoulder.

  I turn and gape into the face of an elderly woman framed by a habit. I gasp because I didn’t turn expecting to come face-to-face with a nun.

  I am not religious, but still would not have chosen to say “for fucks sake” in front of an old, devotedly religious woman had I known she was within earshot.

  She beams at me. “Are you okay, dear?”

  “I’m fibe,” I answer. My tongue has expanded so much that I now have a speech impediment.

  “You sounded frustrated by something,” she comments.

  “Oh no, I’m fibe,” I repeat, smiling insincerely.

  She smiles back at me. “Can I offer you a church newsletter?”

  She hands me a folded piece of yellowed paper.

  * * *

  I have started to collect dirty dishes in my bedroom. My smoothie cup from earlier today is sitting on top of a small stack of cups, plates, and bowls. Piling the dishes feels sort of like building a block castle. Every dish I add is risky. At some point the castle is going to collapse.

  Thinking about washing the dishes feels a lot like thinking of going for a jog.

  I will do it tomorrow.

  * * *

  I bought the last three editions of Guinness World Records before I was fired from my job at the bookstore. I bought them thinking I could return them after I read them. It was my lazy alternative to the library. Now I can’t return them without confronting my old employer, who thinks I am untrustworthy and irresponsible. I’m worried if I did try to return these books, he would just accuse me of stealing them.

  I was a bad employee. I find it hard to wake up, so I was rarely on time. I often missed entire shifts. I don’t think I added much value when I was present, either. I don’t have the right personality for customer service. A customer once asked me if I was really an employee of the store, or if I was just three possums in a trench coat. I was so confused by the remark, the customer had to explain it to me. She said that possums are notoriously skittish. I said, “But what about the trench coat, though? I’m not wearing a trench coat. And aren’t possums kind of small? Wouldn’t I be like five or six possums in a trench coat, if I had a trench coat?”

  She complained to my boss about me. He made me sit in the back room and listen to him preach about the five pillars of good customer service. I was so distracted by how impassioned he was by the topic, I couldn’t retain anything he said.

  I crack open the most recent edition of Guinness World Records. I flip through its glossy pages. I read that the oldest human to ever live was 122 years old. She was a woman named Jeanne. She died in France.

  I touch my greasy hair, turn the page, and wonder if there is a record for the longest a person has gone without showering.

  * * *

  My heart is pounding at a faster pace than a rabbit’s when being accosted by a fox. I am standing in front of my bathroom sink, telling myself repeatedly that I am fine.

  I am fine.

  I feel like someone is sitting on my chest, but that is fine.

  I tear open my bottle of vitamin D, pop two tablets in my mouth, and chew.

  “This should cure me,” I say out loud, knowingly deluded.

  I haven’t inhaled properly for at least five minutes. There is no oxygen reaching my brain.

  I should go to the hospital, but every time I go to the hospital, they say it is just anxiety.

  Is this just anxiety? Is it worth risking that this is a real heart attack? What if that car accident exacerbated a legitimate heart attack?

  I reach for my phone and dial a number that I have memorized.

  A man’s voice says, “Hello, you have reached Telehealth. If you are currently experiencing a medical emergency, please hang up and call nine-one-one. How can I help you?”

  “Hi,” I say, breathless. “I’m having an attack.”

  “Please go to the emergency room.”

  “I’ve been there too much,” I explain, panting. “The nurses know my name. That isn’t normal, is it? I can’t go back.”

  “You’ve already gone and seen a doctor?”

  “How can I tell if it’s a heart attack or a panic attack?” I clutch my chest.

  “If you change positions, does the severity of the chest pain change?”

  “Let me check.”

  I lie down on the cool bathroom tile, clutching my knees to my chest.

  I pause to listen to the rapid thud of my heart.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “It’s likely a panic attack, then,” the man explains. “Do you have issues with anxiety?”

  “Apparently,” I say, the pain in my chest easing slightly.

  “Do you have anyone you can talk to about that?” the man asks me after a quiet moment passes.

  “I have you,” I say.

  He laughs.

  * * *

  “How is the old bookstore treating you these days, sweetie?” my mom asks me while slopping a heap of mashed potatoes onto my ceramic plate.

  “I got fired,” I admit while shoveling a forkful of the potatoes into my open mouth.

  I once read that human beings can live solely on potatoes. A potato contains all the essential amino acids humans need to build proteins, repair cells, and fight diseases.

  “You got fired?” my dad chokes out. “What? Why would they fire you?”

  You would have to eat about twenty-five potatoes a day to get the recommended amount of protein, however, and you would have calcium deficiencies.

  “Hello? Why did you get fired?”

  Eating just potatoes wouldn’t be exactly healthy, but you would live longer than solely eating foods like bread or apples.

  “Are you deaf?” My dad waves his hand in front of my face.

  “What?”

  “Why did you get fired?” he asks, his face slightly red.

  “I don’t know,” I say, despite knowing that they fired me beca
use I didn’t show up for five consecutive shifts.

  “Did you get caught stealing books or something?” my brother, Eli, jokes.

  “Have you been handing out your résumé?” my mom interjects before I can respond to Eli’s allegation.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  We all stew quietly for a moment in my unemployment.

  My mom sighs. “Should we open a bottle of wine?”

  “No,” I say quickly.

  “What?” My dad looks at me. “Why not?”

  “Because,” I insist, “I’m on medication.” I hold up my broken arm.

  “You’re on medication?” my dad says. “I thought you said the car accident and your injury were both minor? Are you badly hurt?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “And yet none of the rest of us can have a drink?” he scoffs.

  “That’s right,” I maintain.

  * * *

  “There won’t be any more issues.” My dad shook hands with my principal. “Her mother and I will handle it. Thank you, Dave.”

  When I was fifteen, my parents were called to my school because I was being suspended for two days.

  My class had gone on a field trip earlier that day. When we were leaving, my friend Ingrid and I took the seats at the back of the bus. A group of girls confronted us there. They insisted we give them our seats. I started to stand up, to comply, but Ingrid refused. She held my wrist and said, “We’re not going anywhere.”

  The girls who wanted our seats started calling us lesbians.

  Ingrid was not a lesbian. She was often accused of being one, however, because she was my friend, and there are some misconceptions about how it spreads.

  Everyone on the bus was looking at us. People were laughing. A guy named Brandon started shouting, “Dykes!”

  “Stop calling them lesbians!” Mrs. Camp, the teacher supervising the field trip, finally intervened. “What an awful thing to say!”

  The girls had to sit down in the seats in front of us. Ingrid felt so enraged that she took her lighter to the ends of their hair. The girls weren’t hurt, but their dead ends got a little fried, and the bus stunk.

  Mrs. Camp made Ingrid and me go to the principal’s office. The other girls weren’t sent. I saw Mrs. Camp consoling them as Ingrid and I walked to the office. She patted their backs and said, “I know that was scary.”

  My dad lectured me while he and my mom drove me home. He said, “When you grow up, you’re going to realize you could have worse problems than stupid girls bullying you on the school bus. You need to keep your nose clean.”

  “It wasn’t even me who—”

  “I don’t care. The people you hang out with are a reflection of you. You shouldn’t hang around this Ingrid girl if she’s lighting people’s hair on fire—”

  “Those girls were—”

  “I don’t care! You should’ve kept your head down.”

  My mom was silent.

  * * *

  Different-sounding sirens are intermingling outside my apartment. Together they are creating a vibrating, hostile music that I am unable to sleep through. I open my eyes. I stare at the ceiling above me.

  I fell asleep on the beach one summer, and Eli buried me up to my neck in the sand. I woke up completely immobilized. I couldn’t get up without him digging me out. I feel like that now. I feel chained to my bed.

  I kick my legs until my blankets unchain me. I muster all the strength stored in the caverns of my body to stand up.

  There is a bright orange light framed in my window. I approach the light and peer outside. The house across the street is on fire. There are fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars circled on the front lawn. I stand at my window and stare down at the glowing house. Flames have engulfed the upstairs. They are burning through the roof. I hope no one is inside.

  My eyes dart, looking into the windows. I am trying to spot silhouettes of people. The windows upstairs are glowing. There are no shadows, just bright yellow light. I can’t make out if anyone is in there. The windows downstairs are expelling black billows of smoke. I can’t see through it.

  I pat my chest with my fist to steady the thump of my worried heart.

  The firefighters are blasting water into the flames, but the fire is still raging. I think the roof is caving in.

  The sirens are so loud that I can’t hear anything but them. I hope no one is screaming for help. I feel panic twinge in my chest. I watch the water blast from the hose and tell myself the fire is going down, even though I can’t tell if it is.

  People outside are shouting. What are they saying? I can’t make them out. I open my window. The late November air is warm from the fire. The smoky, acrid smell of the burning house seeps through my screen. I try to hear what the people are shouting.

  “Where’s the cat?”

  “Is the cat out?”

  I press my forehead up to the cool glass and scan the darkness, searching for the missing cat.

  My search for the cat is obstructed by the people who are crowding around the house. An audience is forming. They are standing in their pajamas, watching the commotion. I notice that some of them are holding take-out coffee cups. A man has his kid on his shoulders.

  * * *

  A yellow eye contained in the decomposing carcass of a seagull watched me sunbathe the same day my brother buried me. It was in the middle of August. I was nine years old. My parents had taken me and Eli to Port Stanley, and they had unknowingly laid our beach towels a stone’s throw from a hot dead bird.

  As the day progressed, I noticed living seagulls would visit the dead seagull’s body. I imagined that they were doing so to pay their respects. I thought I was witnessing the poignant wake of a seagull.

  My dad noticed the carcass after a while and said, “I think those disgusting sea rats are trying to figure out how that other gull died.”

  * * *

  “Shame about what happened across the street, eh?” the woman who lives in the apartment next to mine comments as I lock my door behind me.

  I look at her. She is dressed in a pink bathrobe, and her hair is wrapped in a towel.

  “Yeah,” I reply, wondering why this woman is lingering in the hall.

  “Scary living in an apartment building,” the woman continues, now eyeing me up and down. “You never know if your neighbors clean their lint traps or leave their candles unattended. Of course, you have a fire extinguisher in there, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I lie. “What kind of irresponsible asshat doesn’t have a fire extinguisher?”

  * * *

  I devoted the past four hours of my life to locating a store that sells fire extinguishers. After visiting three stores, and speaking to five salespeople, I was finally able to charge a sixty-dollar, top-of-the-line fire extinguisher to my now-almost-maxed-out credit card.

  I am now quashing my compulsions to grunt, swear, and pause for breaks while I smuggle my shiny new fire extinguisher into my apartment. I am doing so with one working arm. My prying neighbor, who I am afraid will spot me with this and realize that I lied to her, is oblivious to the lengths that I have gone to to safeguard her life.

  I feel the apparatus slip slightly from my sweaty grip. I start to picture myself dropping it. I think of it rolling down the stairs and crashing through the floor. I think of the noise it’ll make. I picture it crashing through someone’s ceiling, plummeting through the air, and clunking against the skull of some poor, unsuspecting victim. I imagine my neighbor emerging from her apartment in her pink bathrobe to confront me and the murder scene.

  I drop my keys twice while I fumble to unlock my front door. Once I finally get inside, I kick the door shut behind me, and toss the fifty-pound apparatus onto my unmade bed. It immediately bounces from the springy mattress into the air and crashes clamorously onto the floor.

  My heart twinges.

  I rush over to inspect the damage. I see that it landed directly on the remote for my TV, which I carelessly flung to the ground last n
ight.

  I examine the damaged remote. It is cracked down the middle. Five of its buttons are pressed into the plastic and are now unclickable. I tell myself, It’s okay. I can just change the channel from the TV from now on, and chuck it back on the ground. Its batteries fly out like gutted innards.

  I watch the batteries roll across the floor, and then I scan the room. What else am I supposed to do to ensure that I am not responsible for killing the people who live in this building?

  I check my lint trap.

  I throw the two candles that I own out.

  I unplug my stove.

  I pull the cabinet below my oven open. I look down into the drawer at heaps of mail and paper. It dawns on me as I scan the mass of combustible material that I am a hazard.

  My apartment has limited storage. I have been keeping all my paperwork here. I never cook, so the danger isn’t imminently threatening, but still.

  I kneel in front of the cabinet and start shoveling through the mass of unopened mail, newspapers, and letters.

  I shift through a lot of overdue bills before spotting an advertisement.

  It says: ARE YOU FEELING LOW?

  Yes.

  DO YOU NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO?

  Apparently.

  COME TO 1919 PEACH TREE CRESCENT FOR FREE MENTAL HEALTH SUPPORT.

  * * *

  The words LOST CAT confront me from a sad, wrinkled poster plastered to the telephone pole outside my apartment. Mittens, seven years old, last seen napping in his favorite windowsill, has been missing since his house caught on fire. He is friendly and responds to his name. His family is offering a reward for his safe return home. He is gray with white front feet—hence the name “Mittens.”

  “Mittens?” I call into the dark bushes as I walk by them.

  “Here, kitty kitty.”

  I peer over a fence into a backyard. There is frost on the grass.

  “Mittens?” I call out into an open garage.