Zen and the Art of Absurdity

All right, fine--you forced it out of me.

I believe it was Billy Graham's wife, that when asked the question, "Have you ever thought of divorce?", came back immediately with the quip, "No, but I have thought of murder."

It was two years ago.  Just before Doubleday bought my first novel, and before I found myself contemplating the same solution as Billy's wife.

We were living in a one-room efficiency apartment.  You know the kind, with the drop-the-damned-thing-on-your-foot-no-matter-what-you-do Murphy Bed, and the combination kitchen/bathroom/entertaining area.  I could actually soak my feet in the kitchen sink while enjoying my Sunday morning "quality time," and still have enough room  to prepare a vegetable plate.  We had to keep our laundry in our cars, and the cat was allowed to visit, but only on the weekends.  Our mother-in-law detested the place and always refused to stay over.  So we played the heroes and invited her as much as possible.

I love my wife dearly, don't get me wrong.  It's just that. . . .I hate her.  We are the kind of married that would take the hair off a sweater.  The kind of married that if one of us farted, the other would say, "It was the dog."

She has never been very supportive of my career as a writer, and that's fair, since I've never been supportive of her career as a couch potato.  But at least she does it well.

So when the time came for me to have my own writing space, I put my foot down, with her permission of course, and demanded one.  She didn't take to the idea like I thought she would.  And that's when the fencing began.

"You cannot be serious!" she said, one afternoon.  "How pretentious is THAT?  Look at you.  You're 41, never held a serious job your entire life, and now you think you're some writing buff all of a sudden.  Honey, it aint-a-gonna happen.  Wake up and smell the printer cartridge."

"Did you ever think of quitting your imaginary day job to become a comedian?"

"You're just jealous because I have a very full life," she said.

"You'd actually need to get up before noon and do something to have a full life," I said, very proud of myself.

"You know what your problem is?" she said.

"Oh puh-leeze, englighten me."

"You never talk when I'm listening to you."

"All right.  That's IT.  I've had enough of your self-aggrandizing, solipsistic BS for one day.   Now I am going to retire to a quiet corner of the house and do what I do best."  

"Honey, the only people they pay for that kind of work, are sperm doners."

I picked up my laptop from the dining room table slash sink, pulled the toilet tissue slash kitchen towel from the bottom of my shoe, and started to leave the room.  "Oh, and another thing.  You're wearing an ugly shirt."

"Best of luck writing the great, American leaflet!"

I turned back to her.  "You think this is funny?  I need my own work space.  It's pretty hard to compete with One Life to Live at one, Days of Our Lives at two, and Oprah at three."

"Fine.  On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays between the hours of 1:00 and 1:23 p.m., you can have the house for writing.  Any room you wish."

"That's funny.  You know we only have the one."

She ignored me.  "And the rest of the week is mine."

"Are you drinking the bong water again?  How the hell am I supposed to get any work done in twenty-three minutes a day?"

"Well, you've pleasured me our entire marriage in just twenty-three seconds, so I'd say you have a real knack for operating within time crunches."

"You just never give up, do you?  Always gotta have that last word."

"Do not," she said.

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too," I said.

"Do not."

"Do too, stupid head."

"Do not, Rainman, now let's drop it."

"Hah.  Fat chance.  And let you have the last word?  Never."   I was not about to let this swamp insect in an ugly shirt get the upper hand.  She did that automatically on the day she vowed, "I do."  Did I already mention how ugly that shirt was?

"Do not."

"Oh would you just shut the hell up, hell?"

Well, I don't need to tell you that this inane exchange continued well into the evening, and the only reason it stopped then, was because I went to the store.  I had to get out of that apartment slash walk-in closet, and look at something other than her face slash rear end, and that god-awful ugly shirt.  Why was it ugly?  Maybe because it was orange, with horizontal stripes of brown and pink, with tiny alligators all over it.  I used to have one just like it, but I gave it away to the Salvation Army. . . .

When I returned some hours later, I carried in my hands the answer to all of my problems.  I didn't dare tell her what I was doing, and worked well into the wee hours of the morning, opening boxes, making arrangements, rearranging, reading instructions, giggling like a school girl, opening more boxes, placing candles, until at last I was finished.  Yes, I was excited, for I knew that very soon, my tiny corner of the world would summon my Muse, Sid, and together we would write some of the most brilliant prose that ever lived between two covers.

At three thirty a.m. exactly, I stood back and took one last look, surveying the fruits of my labour.

In the bathroom, behind the shower curtain...well, okay, it was in the tub.  It was the bathtub!  Are ya happy now?  Sheesh, there is just no pleasing you people.

And of course she took the news with the same oil of vitriol that you just did.  

"So let me get this straight.  When the shower curtain is pulled, I'm to assume that either means you're working, or giving your rubby ducky a workout.  Got it," she said.

"Are you a stroke victim?  Why do you have to make my life a living hell?  Just tell me why."

She looked at me with a gleam in her eye.  "It's relaxing."

"That's the last time I share something with you."

"Hmmmn.  Kind of like our marriage bed, dontcha think?"

"Knock it off!  You're fucking up my Chi!"

I stormed out of the living room slash pantry, and took a brisk two and a half steps into the bathroom, where I yelled back over my shoulder,  "I am officially writing now!  Don't bother me anymore, woman.  I have serious work to do."  All I heard from the other room was a snort.

I made a grand gesture of swishing the shower curtain shut in anger, but it just didn't have the same effect of slamming a door.  Kind of the same let down you get when hanging up on someone with a push button phone.  It's just wimpy.

I had my candles lit, all situated meticulously around the edge of the tub just like the Feng Sui book directed, my Japanese Tranquility water garden trickling so as to create kinetic energy, and my Zen garden, full of sand and pebbles ready to receive any cares or doubts that I felt like dumping.  And speaking of dumping.  Apparently, to one of the feline persuasion, it looked more like a litter box. . . .

It was THE most perfect atmosphere to write that anyone would ever find.  Well, as far as bathrooms slash tranquility rooms go.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and surrendered to whatever creativity Sid would graciously bestow on me.  After thirty minutes of trying to reach Sid telepathically, I opened my eyes and stared at my blank screen for another thirty minutes, my fingers never touching the keys.

"Dammit."

"Now what's the matter?" she screeched from the other room.

"I'm blocked."

Copyright © 2001, Carla René
Do not reproduce or use without express written permission.
All rights reserved.
This story was bought for publication in January, 2003.