Musty

I knew it was going to be a long day. My task was not going to be pleasant, but it had to be done. It had to be done by me, before the vultures descended, and I took a certain pride in that. I stood looking over the expanse of my father's garage, trying to decided if I was going to try to recycle anything, take some things to a shelter...or maybe just burn it. I wanted to recycle some of the stuff because my family doesn't believe in that sort of thing, doesn't see the use in it, addresses the subject with an "Aw bullshit" as the material is tossed into the trash. I wanted to take some things to a shelter so I wouldn't have to suffer anyone wearing that old stuff around me. And I wanted to burn it so that it would all be gone, gone, gone.

I decided it was best to go through the paperwork first, the desk and drawers, get all that stuff out into my car so I could go through it later. Going piece by piece wasn't going to happen just then, so I started dumping it all into the boxes I'd brought from work. I started taking things down off the walls and nearly got caught up looking at the drawings I'd made so long ago. There were stacks of magazines all over the place, stacked about knee high, the most recent at the top. Some of them, most of them, weren't even in print anymore. I wanted to kick them down, as navigating them was beginning to be a chore, but I thought walking over top of the glossy cascade over and over would be hazardous in my haste...and also, it would have felt like knocking down some kind of temple, in a way.

Everything in the garage was piled in such a way that there was a clear place for a vehicle to pull into, a space on the floor that looked like a car had been murdered there and there was nothing to show for it except the crime tape and some oil stains. I started setting boxes into that cleared space to better get a handle on the situation, to try and calculate what would fit in my car, how many trips I would have to make. Was I being selfish? Yes. I kept going.

I went through my old toys that hadn't been touched for twenty years. I went through the books that just happened to make their way out here. I rifled through some clothes and tested the weight of old paint cans. I opened a box of old VHS tapes but didn't go through it. I kicked open an old trunk and found an empty bottle of peach schnapps. I started piling tools in one spot when I found them, my hands turning black. I turned on the washer and dryer to see if they worked, and washed my hands in the work tub. I smelled an old dog collar but couldn't tell what dog it had belonged to. I tossed marbles over my shoulder to listen to them ping around. I checked discarded lamps for bulbs and wondered at how heavy things used to be.

I found an old tape-recorder, its buttons all worn down, stiff and unyielding. I was getting tired so I sat down on an old wire spool, stretching my back, still holding the recorder. None of the buttons worked, seized in the grip of time, of disuse. The oily resin on it's backside made me think the batteries had probably leaked. But I could see clearly there was a tape still in it. I kneeled down among the tools I had piled up and started looking for a slotted screwdriver, of which I found several. The blade of it cut into my hand as it slid across the old plastic and I tried again. Just happy to have one discernable goal for that second, fruitless as it may be. There was a small snap and the tape slid out into my hand. On the white label someone had written "Christmas '95" across it in small, precise blue ink.

It took a while to find something to play the cassette tape on. I found that the tape was mislabeled. The following came to me in my father's slow, deliberate voice, in the sing-songy manner in which he utilized when we was thinking aloud.

[Sound of tape reeling]
I see you. You that speeded past me....sped past me. You in the blue
[long pause]
four-door van or...sedan...or whatever you call it. You that were in such a hurry. That you cut in front of me. I can see your stupid ass religious sticker
[pause]
and now, I can see your car, flipping
[chuckling]
end over end over end
[coughing]
over end. You dumb ass, your dumb ass is dead
[singing] You dumb ass / your dumb ass is dead
When your neck broke
[pause, breathing heavily]
When your neck broke, if that was all the sound...if we could have only heard the sound of your neck breaking, it would have sounded like a pop can opening
[laughing]
I only wish you had survived because..because I wish you could see me driving past your burning car
Your car is on fi-re.
[Sound of tape reeling]

In the garage I couldn't find any more cassette tapes, I was exhausted. I went back to the paint cans and looked for the small red flame symbol that would tell me that that product was indeed flamable.