The Shelf Life of Fire

by Robin Greene

  “Can I see you again?”

  “Maybe. Perhaps. I’ll see you in class on Wednesday.” I’d gotten my sneakers and jacket on.

  “No. You know what I mean.”

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  Later that week, however, I agreed to see Nick again. On our first “date” we walked out to Seaside Park, a long stretch of beach that opened up to the Connecticut side of Long Island Sound. And that stretch eventually turned into the city landfill, where we continued to walk. Somehow, it was all romantic—and we continued our stroll—even around mounds of garbage, broken appliances, and feeding seagulls that squawked as they fed, and we took in the mixed smells of brine and rotting food pungent in the air as we talked philosophy and finally sat, at one point, on a concrete bench together near the sea.

  We continued to see each other. I liked him, but certainly felt nothing stronger. He, on the other hand, by the fourth time we got together, insisted that one day I’d marry him.

  “Yeah, right,” I’d said. I was still seventeen—even after my four months in New York City—and marriage was the furthest thing from my mind.

  After a rather rocky beginning—I dated other boys even as Nick continued to pursue me—we finally became a couple and pretty much inseparable.

  For my eighteenth birthday, we went drinking—the legal age then—with a bunch of our college friends at the Sportsmen’s Pub, a working-man’s bar on the outskirts of campus, near the docks of Long Island Sound. I got drunk on Rum and Coke. Looking back, I remember only small moments from that night: walking into the bar, insisting that we sit at one of the round tables by the window where the Sound stretched mirror-like into the night, Nick by my side, proposing a toast to the girl he’d one day marry.

  So, it’s Saturday. Saturday, Saturday, Saturday. My thoughts are chaotic, even paranoid. I imagine that Nick has found a young woman writer or artist with whom he’s having an affair. Maybe there’s no woman but only a newfound freedom with which he’s fallen in love.

  Afternoon now, but I’m not hungry. I need to get out of the house. Perhaps some retail therapy. I offer myself a bargain: take the clothing I’d previously identified as unwanted, sort it into throwaways and giveaways, bag it all, and bring it to the garage so that it’s ready for Goodwill. Then I’ll treat myself to a modest shopping spree. I’ve spent the morning trying to write then reading on the sunroom couch, but now, motivated, I go upstairs to make good on my bargain.

  In my bedroom, I turn on NPR, the “Talk of the Nation” as background to my purging. Obama is fighting with Congress, and the Tea Party is fighting to repeal Obamacare. In Afghanistan, car bombers have blown up a van near a marketplace—thirteen dead.

  Holding in my hand a thrift-store blouse I’d bought but never worn, I feel saddened as I sit by Jake on the edge of my bed. It’s in the “keep pile,” but now its polyester fabric and muted paisley design strike me as very out of fashion. Why did I buy it? Why, during my first sorting, did I decide to keep it? It’s all very sad. I weep over the shirt, but really, I’m weeping for our broken government, our divided country and violent world, my potentially broken marriage, the mess of my life, my dead father, my dying brother.

  By 2:00, my clothing is bagged, my crying jag is over, and I’m feeling better. Bags in hand, I descend the stairs, go to the garage, and find a good spot to leave them until I can give them away.

  I feed Jake an early dinner in case I’m late getting home, change into my North Face roll-up pants, a black tight-ribbed tank top, and a button-down cotton over-shirt. I’ve retrieved the two garbage bags full of clothing I no longer want and now plan to drop them off at the Goodwill on Raeford Road before I hit some clothing stores.

  My plan is to go to T. J. Maxx, then Talbots. This way, I’ll avoid the mall, which isn’t pleasant, though it’s been recently remodeled with high-end marble tile and a new food court.

  I’m thinking that I’ll shop for school outfits—new stuff to teach in, wear to meetings, etc. Maybe I’ll even try on shoes. I have foot issues, and for the last twenty years have only been able to wear Birkenstocks. My podiatrist has told me that Birks are a great solution and that if my Morton’s Neuroma were to act up again, I’d definitely need surgery. My feet are also flat, and the Birks with their high arches correct my pronation.

  At T. J. Maxx, I start combing the racks—first sale, then clearance. But I’m not having much luck. Nothing school-appropriate, nothing out for fall yet. I meander over to the shoes to find a pair of clogs—which I love and slip on—but they immediately hurt my feet. I’m discouraged but then, returning to the pants rack, I find a pair of black skinny jeans on sale, along with a heather-gray cotton sweater and a sleeveless hot pink knit shirt. Might lift my spirits, I think, as I decide to try them on. But in the dressing room, as I pull off my clothes, stand in front of the full-length mirror in underpants and camisole, I look at myself, immediately getting depressed. My breasts are soft, stomach no longer flat, my butt, well…not good. My young body has abandoned me. There’s no escaping death. “Don’t get so dramatic,” I tell myself, and thinking of my brother, I say aloud, “Sorry, sorry.” And I’m filled with remorse.

  With that, I close my eyes, sit on the tiny corner bench seat in the dressing room, breathe deeply, exhale, fight back tears.

  Then, I flash back to my suicide attempt. I see the middle-aged woman I am and the young girl I was. I imagine a glass of vodka in my hand. I taste the clear, sharp liquid.

  Now, I’m no longer interested in the clothes I’ve taken into the dressing room. I pull on my shirt, pants, return my three items to the rack outside the dressing room, and leave the crowded store.

  I’m off to Talbots now, more upscale, and maybe the attention from the sales women will give me the human connection I need.

  But before leaving the parking lot, I sit in my little Honda Fit, weeping again. Ruby’s interior is brutally hot, but I rest my forehead down on the steering wheel, try to pull myself together.

  I’ve wasted my life. I should have completed my PhD. I should have stayed in New York. I should have moved to Iowa when I was wait-listed for the Iowa Writing Workshop MFA program. Perhaps I should have reconciled with my brother before it was too late. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.

  I find myself praying. Then, I berate myself. To whom is my prayer directed? I think of my youthful prayers to an anthropomorphic god. I think about George Bush calling himself “the decider,” and now, I’m imagining God—my present image of him or her—as the decider.

  A woman with a shopping cart walks over to the white Lexis next to me. She glitters—her silver hair is pulled into a knot at the back of her head. Her shirt is studded with small rhinestones and a bizarre pattern of pink and red swirls. She’s my age, but about forty pounds overweight, and stuffed into her clothes. She lifts two large T. J. Maxx bags from the cart into her back seat. She feels me looking at her and turns to me through my car’s closed window, smiles briefly—a warm, unexpectedly genuine smile. I smile back, a human connection. Then she’s in her car, starting the engine, backing out, leaving the parking space empty by Ruby’s passenger side.

  I’m unraveling. I don’t know who I am. I have no center of gravity.

  Also, I’m suffering in the hot car, so it’s time to move. I crank up Ruby, and hot air blows through the a/c vent. I back out of my spot, heading to Talbots, a five-minute drive. The tears have stopped, and I feel okay, better in control. I decide to stop first at the nearby Burger King, to use the bathroom, splash cool water on my face, comb my hair, straighten my clothes.

  The bathroom is empty. And alone there, before I leave, I take off my glasses, and washing in cold water, I splash my face. At the paper-towel dispenser, I pump out a few sheets to dry myself before looking into the mirror—which feels dangerous. An older woman stares back at me, in disarray. Removing a comb from my bag, I run it through my hair, short, gray, not attractively cut. Oh, well.

  I stand there and, for a moment,
think back to Bush, “the decider,” and begin to chuckle. I lean against the tile wall of the bathroom, now laughing out loud, almost hysterically, almost enjoying myself.

  In the mirror, I see that my face appears a little swollen. I feel punch-drunk and decide to shop for a few minutes in Roses, a very low-end discount store across the parking lot from Talbots and Burger King. Get your shit together, I tell myself.

  As the bathroom door swings shut, my cell phone rings. Quickly, I open my bag to find that my phone isn’t in its little side pouch, so I have to root around until I locate it, which I do, without looking at its face to determine who’s calling.

  “Hello,” I call out, rather loudly, my back to the Burger King side exit, pushing it open.

  “Hey, Mom,” I hear, recognizing Will’s voice.

  “Hey, good to hear from you.” I’m walking to the car.

  “Good news. Just wanted to let you know. I’m at the Glass Center. Can’t talk for long.”

  “Great,” I say, sitting in the driver’s seat with my feet out the side, car door open because it must be 100 out.

  “Sold a set of my wobbly whiskey glasses, with a decanter, then a set of glasses, and a bowl. Also, got a check today for $500. So anyway, just wanted to share the news.”

  I can hear noise in the background, and Will’s voice is loud, shouting above it. “That’s wonderful. Really good.”

  “Yeah, and Dad called yesterday. He’s having a great time. Sounded really good. Met some artists or something. Another writer. We didn’t talk for long. Anyway, got to go, Mom. You okay?”

  “When did he call—Dad, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Yesterday. Afternoon. Late. Maybe five or six. I was on my way home…talked for a few minutes. He had people waiting to use the phone.”

  Before I can ask Will anything more, I hear someone call his name.

  “Gotta go, Mom. Speak with you again soon.”

  “Yeah. Great news, sweetie. Really good. Be careful. I love you. Call when you can talk. Love you.” I’ve blurted all this out, tears welling up again. I end the call, try mindfully breathing in and out to stop another meltdown.

  In Roses, I walk around the circular display of women’s jeans, Wranglers, old-fashioned high-waisted seconds. I tap them, thinking that I might look for my size, but I’m not really interested. I’m having trouble swallowing and feel short of breath. Also, I’m hungry, and my stomach feels hollow.

  A young Black woman walks by with a toddler in tow. She’s wearing a tight tee-shirt with the words “NEW YORK, THE BIG APPLE,” written in glitter across the front. Her young son—I’m assuming he’s her son—dawdles, walking with his hand extended, trying to touch as much merchandise as possible. He has a lollypop in his mouth.

  An older White woman in an electric wheelchair passes down the wide center aisle. She’s about sixty, with one foot wrapped in a black plastic immobilizer with Velcro straps. She holds an oversized purple cloth purse on her lap, and she’s moving rather quickly toward the back of the store. She must be with someone, I think, looking around for that person, following the wheelchair with my eyes. But then the wheelchair turns by the shoe aisle, and the woman vanishes.

  I’m standing by the scarf display, so I rifle through them, thinking I might find an all-cotton one I like. But I don’t.

  I leave through the automated door between the two security poles. Outside, the late afternoon is still scorching, and the parking lot wavers in heat that rises from the asphalt. I don’t want to speak to Nick. Or anyone. I’m no longer in the mood for Talbots, with its attentive saleswomen, its orderly racks of tailored, well-designed clothing.

  Outside, there’s a full-length mirror by the display window. I glance at it, shaded by overhead cloud cover, and see myself—my pants hang, too baggy, unflattering, my dark cami too revealing, my unbuttoned over-shirt too loose, like an aging hippie or someone who’s fighting mental illness.

  I hit the key fob, unlock the door of my little red car, my Ruby. Inside, her black upholstery is again very hot, as is the dashboard and steering wheel. Nonetheless, I get in, turn on the ignition, the air conditioning , drive from the parking lot, out to Morganton Road, which will connect to Skibo, which will turn into Pamalee, then Country Club, where I’ll turn left onto Ramsey Street, head north until I turn left onto Ridgeway, which will take me to my street. A fifteen-minute drive if I hit the lights right.

  A psychologist I used to see once told me to watch myself for times when I remove or detach myself, feel unhooked from my surroundings. “Those moments of dissociation are psychologically dangerous,” he warned me.

  As I drive, I feel like a cartoon version of myself, like I’m floating rather than driving. At a light, I look to the left at the Dollar General lot to see four antique cars—restored Model As or Ts—parked with a group of people gathered around them. Then, traffic backs up. I turn on NPR to hear something about global warming—which feels very real this summer—then, I’m on Ramsey Street, and soon, I’m pulling onto Ridgeway, then onto my street, into my driveway. I turn off the engine, get out of the car— mindfully, I might add, bringing attention to every small action. I check my mailbox—four pieces of junk mail and a bill from Nationwide, either for house or car insurance.

  Inside, Jake lies by the front living room window. He doesn’t get up to greet me but thumps his tail. I go over, bend to pet him, then sit on the floor to stroke him lengthwise along his lumpy body.

  Rising, I hang my purse on a kitchen chair, then go back to the living room, collapse on the couch, close my eyes. Tears gather. I’m a mess again.

  Soft pinkish light spreads behind my eyelids—transparent, soothing, mixed with tears. It’s evening now, Saturday; I’ve fed Jake again but not walked him—too hot out there, and I’m too beat. Sprawled on the couch, grateful to relax, I fall into a sort of trance, remembering an experience I had many years ago during college, in a sensory deprivation tank.

  Nick and I had heard of the tank from a psychology student at UB. It was designed by a professor who was doing experiments with it—although I’m not sure about the nature of those—the tank was made available for students and faculty to use free of charge.

  Nick and I walk down concrete stairs into the basement of an old building. There are lockers where we can change and clean towels that we can use to wrap ourselves once we undress.

  A grad student, a man in his thirties with black hair and tortoiseshell eyeglasses, asks to see our student IDs, takes down information about our academic majors, and records it in a log.

  When I ask him if there are any dangers involved with using the tank, he turns to me and says, “If you’re going to go bananas, it’s in the cards.”

  Nick and I exchange looks. Bananas? In the cards? Not very professional language. And what is he implying? That the tendency to go insane is predetermined?

  Nick decides to go first. I wait in the locker room, sitting on a bench, reading Pride and Prejudice for a Brit Lit survey class while Nick is in the tank. The Psych Department’s policy is that no one is to remain longer than a half hour.

  When Nick’s time is up, the grad student walks into the room, and, a few minutes later, Nick returns, wet, wrapped in his white towel.

  “How was it?” I ask.

  “Sort of boring,” Nick replies and sits down by his clothes on the bench near me.

  “Is that it?” I stand up, put my book in an empty locker, indicating to the grad student that I need to get undressed.

  “I’ll leave you alone for a moment. Call when you’re ready,” the student says as he leaves.

  “Don’t expect much,” Nick warns. He’s back in his chinos and pocket tee-shirt. He, too, has brought along a book.

  Wrapped in my towel, I call the student, who comes, then leads me to the back room, which is very dark.

  The tank is located on a wooden platform in the middle of a small room. When the door opens, I see the platform, the tank, and the concrete-block walls, all painted blac
k. The student awkwardly tells me that I’ll have to be naked for a moment with him as he gets me situated in the tank; then he’ll close the lid and return after the half hour. If I panic, he assures me, I can simply push open the lid and call for help. Otherwise, he’ll see me in thirty minutes.

  Taking my towel, he explains that he’s placing it on the platform, near the lid. Just in case.

  “In you go,” he says.

  “Yup,” I agree. In I go.

  The water, exactly body temperature, requires almost no adjusting to—unlike getting into a hot bath, a swimming pool, or the ocean. I hear the water lap gently against the tank’s sides. It’s rectangular, like an over-sized coffin, large enough to stretch out my arms, not touch its sides, and long enough so that I can float effortlessly.

  After I’m in, the student asks if I’m okay and if he can close the lid. I tell him yes.

  The tank is rather shallow, I quickly realize, but the water is so saline that I float with ease. I hear the tank hinges creak a little, feel the lid close, and there I am.

  “Cool,” I say aloud in the tiny chamber. I like my voice, so I hum a few bars of “Amazing Grace.” I don’t hear him, but I assume the student has left the room. I begin reciting Hamlet: “To be or not to be: that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…”

  I open and close my eyes to see if there’s any difference. There isn’t. Then I think about how much time has passed. I don’t know. I settle down, thinking that I should just “be” with myself. A Zen idea, a pretty good one, so I tune into my body, listen to my heartbeat, think that perhaps I can even hear my blood coursing through my body. But no, I’m not hearing that. Just the occasional lapping of the water if I move and the feeling of my body swaying.

  I begin to relax, not that I’m tired exactly, but my brain is letting go. By now, I’m not interested in thinking anything, so I don’t. Then, I feel sad. Not sadness connected with any particular thought, but body-sad, as if all of me were rising and falling in a full-body breath. No thoughts. The clarity is nonverbal. Tears well up in my eyes, rolling from my cheeks into the water. I feel sad, yet whole, nourished, with a soul, an essence.