Sometimes I find myself under attack by unconnected, various and diverse hypotheses. I have no idea from whence they come, but I find them—or they find me. Two have been rattling around in my mind for sometime now. The first is: You never know who you’re sleeping with. The second is: You never know who you really are. Any feedback you get from friends, relatives, or strangers, solicited or not, is wholly subjective—for you are many things to many people. Yesterday, unsolicited, as usual, I was put upon by these postulates which appeared to echo just a bit louder than normal in the hollows of my mind.
Recently, my other half and I were passing the time of day; one of those, depending on perspective, inconsequential conversations that marrieds hold when they are conscious and isolated (read: “stuck” together).
Some days these conversations wander in convoluted ways—her fault. Some days, they disappear like smoke out of a chimney on a windy day—my fault. On occasion, these conversations lead to Blackhole, a medium-sized place in the Commonwealth of Frustration. If the human animal isn’t talking, it’s thinking. She was talking. I was thinking. Suddenly, I found myself in the world of the Great What-If, a potentially dangerous, potentially creative, and at the same time, limitless territory. In the Great What-If one can wander the highest ethical plains to the lowest depths of depravity. I’ve had my highs and lows. This particular day I was headed for Never-Never Land.
Now, I’m not the type to think in terms of murder. The thought of “doing-in” another human is simply beyond my comprehension. My mother taught me that. Television and the movies don’t count as an education. Well, maybe they do. In real life, the act of “doing-in” is rather repulsive, if not just a bit immoral, unethical, and illegal. Unfortunately, we have no choice but to live with our thoughts, like them or not. Sometimes I like my thoughts, and at other times…well, I like to call it the Great Escape.
As she continued to talk, I continued to ponder. Somehow, inexplicably, the pondering had taken a great and totally unanticipated leap. Suddenly, I was disposing of the body. I’m thinking it may have been her tone of voice that drove me there.
Once you have a corpse (I told you I didn’t do it), disposal is well within the realm of reality and necessity—I got that from Alfred Hitchcock. I see the sin of doing-in as mortal and the disposing as venal. For some reason, the disposing idea continued to grow in my mind’s eye, while my life’s partner continued idle chit-chat, on…and on…and on…and on. I’m sure you get the idea.
“Are you listened to me?” It was a pithy voice out of the darkness.
“Hmmm.”
“What does that mean?” she queried more pithily.
“Uhhh.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do…do what?” I stammered.
“You always do that. You never listen to me.”
I thought: “Here it is: The Always-Never Syndrome”.
In what century of man’s evolution did we learn this little trick? Every spouse—well, not every spouse—almost every spouse has it in their arsenal. My spouse has an apparent lifetime supply. My mother did it. But wait; my dad didn’t. Hmmm… something more to think about. Anyway, in those, my formative years I decided to stay a stone’s throw away from relatives, friends, and any other acquaintances that tended toward linguistic terrorist tendencies.
A sudden realization struck: I had been holding hands with a terrorist. How smoothly, slickly, stealthily she had hidden her arsenal while we dated. I never did check the marriage license for small print. Too late now.
Back to the matter at hand: what to do with the body. First thought, don’t mention her recent demise to relatives. They might misunderstand, and they usually won’t pitch in. A great quote comes to mind: “Friends help friends move; real friends help friends move bodies.” How about disposal somewhere in dry land, like a vacant lot? Or how about wet water, something beyond the swimming pool? Dry land imposes a requirement for heavy labor; shovels, and the like. Water may be the way to go, less labor intensive. Listen; can I borrow your boat and trailer?
“Are you listening to me?” she queried.
“Actually, no,” I responded. “I happen to be thinking about how I’m going to dispose of your body.”
“What?”
“I know you’ve indicated that you want to be cremated, but that seems to be a huge waste of money, not to mention the unnecessary fuel consumption just to reduce fine flesh to fine ash…and a fine ash you do have, my dear, if you don’t mind me saying so.
Remember how we agreed that we want to do as much as possible for the environment? Well, this is my thought: I will give away whatever of your body parts that remain utilitarian for needy and living members of the human race, and save the rest for future meals. I’m thinking you’d probably taste like chicken. I can freeze your legs, thighs, breasts. And I’m thinking, like cow: tenderloin, liver, butt, rump, tongue. Are you with me so far?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t understand why we can’t agree on anything any more. It makes great sense: Waste not, want not. Based on your current weight, whatever that may be, I could cut out buying from the butcher for at least six months. You know how I love Philly cheese steaks. I’m thinking your butt might be the perfect cut. And you know how I love your inner thighs, maybe with mashed potatoes and baby carrots.
“I’ll have to check the Internet for recipes. I doubt that our Betty Crocker Cook Book covers some of the concoctions I have in mind; and to waste any of your delicate parts would be a terrible sin. Speaking of waste, what would I do with all your leftover bones?”
“Make the dogs happy…Of course,” she said with a sardonic smile.
I just love it when she contributes.
The End
