He jiggled the key in the lock, just like the landlord showed him. That did the trick, and the door, loose on its hinges, opened with a squeak. He picked up his groceries and walked into the room. It was painted a very light gray. The paint was old and cracking in places. He had covered some of the worst areas with cheap pictures purchased from a nearby thrift store, or placed furniture strategically in front of scuffed or peeling paint to hide the most obvious flaws. The erratic placement of the few items of furniture gave the room a chaotic feel. One had to weave among the odd old pieces to cross the room to the counter that divided the living area from the kitchen.
Placing the three bags of groceries on the counter, the man pondered how to organize them in the small kitchen space. Boxes of macaroni, pouches of Ramen noodles, frozen pizza. All of the things one would expect of a man just starting out who could not cook. The boxes went in the cupboard next to the range, just above the plastic plates and cups and the boxes of ivory colored plastic utensils yet to be opened. Another bag carried frozen dinners--pizza, Salisbury steak, pot pies. One lasagna to try, although he doubted that it would be even close to what he was used to. These he stacked neatly in the freezer. It was only now that he realized that all of his purchases were for dinners. He had utterly forgotten anything for breakfasts or lunches. And what would her serve when his guests came? He would have to go back to the store, but not today. It was quite a walk and he was tired. He would make the trip tomorrow.
He tried to forgive himself for his stupidity. This was all new to him, after all. Living on your own is not something he was used to. It was something his parents had warned him against. "Try to find a nice girl," his mother had said. "Someone who can cook and keep a clean house." It was easier that way, he reflected. Living on your own, all of the duties, all of the chores, all of the responsibilities were the weight of only one person. Like Atlas holding up the world, the person living alone had to bear the burden alone. It was a lonely feeling.
As he put away the last of the groceries, his mind wandered to the other side of the equation. Living alone was an act of freedom. Atlas could carry his world any way that he wanted to. The responsibility was only to oneself--and what greater responsibility could there be? Now, he was accountable only to his own reflection, and perhaps to the landlord.
He looked around the small apartment. What was contained within those walls were his and his alone. He did not have to share with anyone else, and that fact alone told him that it was worth it. He had made the right decision, done the right thing. Although the space was sparsely furnished now, over time he would buy more and more of what he needed. He would decorate it with more sense, get some modern art and bright colors to cheer up the place.
He stopped feeling sorry for himself. His wife had gotten the house, which he gave up willingly. No longer would he have to climb the ladder every spring and scrape out the gutters. He would not have to mow the grass or rake the leaves or bring in the smelly trash cans. He was free from the chores of married life, free from the responsibility of fixing the leaky pipes and adding insulation and remodeling the kitchen. Now, all of that would be done for him. All of this freedom for only a small sum paid out each month for the kids and for alimony.
He thought about the future, about next week, the day his kids would come to see his new world. He was proud of what he was building. He had bought them a bunk bed advertised in the paper. He was proud that he got it for such a good price, proud that he was able to fix it and make it sturdy again with some scrap wood and a few screws. He was proud of the paint job he had done on the bed to make it fun. He painted it red white and blue and stenciled a few stars around the frame. The mattresses were still usable. He bought some brand new sheets and covers--the only brand new things in the entire dwelling. There was a lamp in the room too, that he found on the side of the road waiting to be tossed out as detritus. It was an ugly lamp, a spiral base in a glossy green glass that shone like it was coated with petroleum jelly. It was missing a shade. This problem was easily solved by searching through the dumpster outside of the apartment building. A broken lamp was tossed away and he liberated the shade and placed it on the glossy green lamp. It as an odd pairing. The shade was a very light pink, stained with grease from the dumpster. A very thin lace frill surrounded the bottom of the shade. Using paint left over from the bed, he painted the names of his children on the shade, trying to hide the clash of color and style and to add a personal touch to the room. That the extent of furnishing of the room.
He was glad now to be a part-time parent. No longer would he have to be awakened from a deep sleep to take a coughing child to the emergency room. No longer would he have the responsibility of fielding calls from the schools, for buying clothes, of dealing with picky eaters. He enjoyed the sense of freedom that came with not having to write checks for Boy Scouts, little league, and school supplies. No more scraped knees, no more falling from bikes. No more middle school drama. No more crying days and sobbing nights. That was all her responsibility now.
He knew that his ex-wife would fail. She had neither the intelligence nor the emotional constitution to run a household by herself. Even with the help of his monthly checks, she would not be able to afford to keep the house or pay for sports or maintain the lifestyle she had come to expect. He knew that she lacked the patience to deal with the children by herself. While his temperament tended toward the mild, hers tended toward the aggressive. That was one of their problems. She would lose her temper at the slightest provocation while he waited to see how the situation would play out.
"I could use some help here," she would say.
"Let's see how it plays out," he would reply as their son flailed on the floor screaming.
So it went. With his new found freedom, he was no longer obliged to explain himself to anyone. He did not have to compromise. Working late was no longer the cause for argument. Neither was taking a day off from work. There were no more negotiation about where to spend holidays or where to vacation. He no longer had to put up with her stealing his covers at night, elbowing him in bed as she tossed and turned. He no longer had to listen to her complain about his snoring. For the cost of monthly alimony, he was finally free of her.
He took a frozen pizza out of the freezer and carefully cut open the box with a pocket knife. It took him more than a minute to figure out how to turn on the oven. A knob fell off when he turned it, and he fumbled to put it back on properly. He was not sure how to adjust the heat. Once he figure it out, he put the pizza directly in the oven because he did not have a pan to put it on.
For a moment, he was completely silent. The only sound was the gentle buzzing of a light bulb in the kitchen, a bulb that came with the apartment and which was very old. There was no cover over the bulb to muffle the noise. He took a deep breath of stale air and looked at all that he had managed to accomplish in so short a time since the divorce. His new kingdom was small, but it belonged to him and to him alone. It was a kingdom he could grow into, to make into his own. Some fresh paint, some more modern art, some toys for the kids. He was excited for the kids to visit. He wanted them to see all that he had accomplished. He wanted them to be proud of him.
He imagined Christmases with the children--the judge had ruled that in his favor, over the loud objections of his ex-wife. A tree, a small tree, to make the presents look bigger. He would let them make decorations from construction paper and glitter and paint. He would make popcorn. He might even put up a few lights around the living room and hang some stockings if he could find them inexpensively. He wondered what toys he would be able to afford to buy for them.
He thought of Halloween, his favorite childhood holiday. He imagined each child posing for the camera, donned in their costumes, holding their plastic pumpkin for carrying candy. “Can we go, Daddy?” says the little one. “Yeah, let's go already” says the older brother. But where would he take them? Around the apartment complex? Around the mostly unlit neighborhood, begging for candy from people who struggle to keep their lights turned on, who might just as well rob you as give you treats?
Suddenly, he smelled burning cheese. Since there was no pan under the pizza, the cheese dripped onto the coil of the oven, scorching and blackening and smoking in the small apartment. The fire alarm went off when he opened the oven door, creating a moment of chaos in his head. Grabbing a chair to stand on he turned off the alarm. Then he opened a couple of windows to let the wisps of smoke dissipate by being sucked outside into the chilly evening. He took out the overcooked pizza by sliding it onto a plate. Without cutting it, he bit into it, burning his lips and tongue. That was all the excuse he needed. He began to gently weep, alone where no one could see, his tears dripping onto the burned pepperoni.
