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Doing Without
Jessica Manack | | | | | |
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When I found my old copy of The Metamorphosis underneath my pillow two
weeks ago, I knew it was all over.
I was one of those people who drowned themselves in poetry all through
college even while my parents begged, "Please study something more
practical: you can always write on the side." I kicked and screamed
and threw temper tantrums daily, whining about wage slavery, the
bourgeoisie. Then I graduated and got a job as a copy editor. I'm a
pushover. I always knew that my schooling was too expensive and I felt
guilty. So I accepted writing on the side. I've published two books of
poetry, though. Mom says I've got the best of both worlds, I took her
advice and see how well it's all turned out? Well I might be doing all
right but I'd never admit it. Taking her advice was draining enough.
Besides, copy editing is hardly what I'd call a fulfilling vocation.
Most days I'm so sick of it the only way I can get through the day is by
fantasizing about sleep. That day two weeks ago was one of those. I
was a clockwatcher under normal circumstances but that day was
interminable. And my boss was babbling about her chiropractor again. I
just wanted to sleep. When I got home, I ate some Kraft dinner and
watched Jeopardy! before taking a shower and heading to the bedroom.
What should have been a relief soon crumbled into despair. I shut off
the lamp and wrapped the blankets around me only to feel something
pointed and hard under my pillow. I turned on the light and put on my
glasses to see what it was. When I recognized the book I felt ill.
I had loaned the book to my girlfriend Siobhan. She obviously planted
it there while I was at work so I'd find it when I went to sleep. I
thought of her coming in my house to return it when I was working,
chastized my bad habit of forgetting to lock the doors. But I got her
meaning, giving back this book while I was out, so we wouldn't have to
see each other. She was done with me.
Siobhan was a painter and never read most of the books I had loved
since high school. I regretted that she hadn't discovered quality
literature as early as I had, but it was just as well because I had a
large collection and was happy to be the one to bestow my favorite
volumes on an eager pupil. I get very attached to books. I often buy
them used and piece together the small clues that the former owner left
behind, wondering. Books with inscriptions are always fun, like my copy
of Crime and Punishment with its shaky "To remeber me by, Dobie 1973."
Books trap our detritus, our hair, nails, eyebrows and eyelashes, if
you look closely, and things we cannot see like cells upon cells, the
skin we are forever dropping in invisible trails behind us. As I
willingly gave her books each time we saw each other, I couldn't help
but think of how she was really taking with her pieces of me.
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