Under my skin

I lugged the television down the street to the dumpster. Why’d they have to put gravel on this driveway? It made walking in Birkenstocks impossible – with or without the forty extra pounds. But the townhouse board voted for it …

The television made a loud thud when it hit the bottom of the dumpster. Thank goodness that was done – only one more load this morning. When I got back to the house, the phone was ringing. The funeral home called. Mark’s ashes would be ready for pickup at 9:00 this morning. That gave me two hours.

A knock on the door.

Jim Hildredth, this bony wisp of a man, lips more pursed than Queen Victoria’d ever done. I breathed slowly. What would it be this time?

“You’re not allowed to put televisions in the dumpster,” he said. “We’re going into Labor Day weekend. You can’t be filling it up today.”

“No worries,” I paused. “I’ve only got one more load.”

“But you will have to remove the television.”

All week long, all week long – trying to clear Mark’s house of the clutter and dealing with this Wicked Witch of the West at the same time … I pictured myself climbing into the dumpster to retrieve the television from the Jurassic era.

“I’ll get it shortly,” I lied. “Have a good morning, Jim.”

I turned my back to him and walked to the back of the house.