I love fantasy.  I love to read it, watch it in movies, see the art that comes out of it.  It’s pretty neat stuff.

But it’s not real.  And it’s important to know that.

In Happy Fantasy Land, 84-year-old grandpa’s don’t die.  I’d love to live there!  Then my grandpa, who has less than 10% kidney function, fluid around his heart, low blood pressure, pre-diabetes, numb & swollen feet and knees that are constantly painful, wouldn’t have to die.  He’d get all better, and everyone would have a party and it’d be swell.

But in Real Life, the one we have to live it, it just isn’t going to happen.  You can say it all you want, but this  isn’t one of those “believe it and it’ll come true” type things.  He’s dying.  It’s not a fun truth, but at least I’ll be prepared when it happens.  It won’t be a shock, it won’t be surprising; in fact, because I can see the way things are, it very well may come as a blessing.  The man needs to rest.  To not be in pain.  To not sit there in his nearly useless body and think about all of the things he would be doing if he could, but can’t.  Can’t.

If this were an animal, we would have had him euthanized ages ago, because it would be kinder. But for some reason, when it’s a human, we have to make sure they lose all dignity first.  We have to make sure that their nearest and dearest suffer as much as possible, until they have such guilt over wanting it to be over that they can hardly function.

I just don’t get how, or why, people do this. Why do we want to make people live so long, when they are so obviously in pain and making everyone around them so miserable?  Isn’t there a point where we can say, “No More!” ?

Excuse me while I go wash my hands again…

Sorry.  I realized today how things can sneak up on you, when you didn’t even realize that it was sneakable.   And it would keep sneaking up if I didn’t wash my hands.  Again.

It has to do with old memories, you know?  Things that were there this whole time, but it took something concrete to bring to the surface.

Today, it was Huberd’s Shoe Grease.  Somehow, I knew it was good stuff.  Couldn’t remember why or where I knew this from, but I decided that I needed to waterproof my boots with some Huberd’s.

The problem is, when I opened the container and saw the grease.  Dabbed some on the cloth.  Caught a whiff of it.  Had a horrible flashback.

See, my step-dad used Huberd’s.  It’s a great product – that’s why he used it.  To grease his work boots.  He used to pay a penny a boot for unlacing them when he came home.  The smell of dust and asphalt and Huberd’s is so clear in my mind now, when a few hours ago it was so sublimated that I didn’t even know how I knew about the shoe grease in the first place.

My first thought was to text my sister.  ”Using Huberd shoe grease.  Trying not to get icked out.”

She replied, “Oh man, haven’t thought of that for years.  Weird gagging in my throat and instant nausea.”

So it’s not just me – I’m not crazy.  I feel sort of bad for bringing this up to my sister, who has enough stuff going on in her life, but who else can you talk to, if not the person who was there with you, sharing the experience?

I tried to mention it to my roommate.  I’ve known him for…6 years?   More, I think.  8, maybe.  In any case, we’ve been friends a long time.  And I said, I’m going to have to have my daughter finish waterproofing my boots.  The smell gave me horrible flashbacks.

He replied, “My knee sure got stiff at work today, but I still wish I could have worked a full shift.”

I guess there are some things that you just can’t talk to a guy-friend about, huh?

Like how strawberry jam and shoe grease can take you back to being an 8-year old being abused by your step-dad.  Or how you feel weird taking money from people, because that’s what he did to try to make us stay quiet about it.  Or a hundred other stupid little things.

But that’s what blogs are for, right?  To let us prattle on about our hidden rotten insides without having to actually see people looking away, desperately trying to think of a new topic.

Someone suggested that I write about work. Tell all the funny stuff that happens. Ok.

Thing is, the thing that keeps popping into my head to write about is not a funny thing. It’s actually pretty damned tragic.

Last week, I guess it would have been March 29, we all showed up for work at 8:30, as usual. We all set about our normal morning stuff, cleaning or straightening or whatever. The phone rang, like phones have a tendency to do. A few minutes later, we were all called up to the front.

Seems that someone hadn’t gotten my memo about Monday having been Happy Little Elf Day, and had committed suicide. Is that the right phrase? Killed himself, bought himself a one-way ticket south…whatever.

Of course we were all pretty shocked. TJ had only worked with us for a few months, but it had seemed like he was starting to warm up finally. He’d made it a point to stop and talk to me during my Sunday morning over-priced coffee stop the day before, and we’d chatted for about 15 minutes before we had to head to work. Seems like we’d talked again that night, as we were getting ready to go. Several co-workers said something similar – that TJ had seemed to be opening up a bit, talking and joking more. But then I had a thought…

When he talked to us, did he talk about himself at all? When he talked to me, he asked questions, commented on my replies, but I don’t recall him volunteering any information about himself. I say he seemed fine, seemed happy enough, but he hadn’t actually said anything to me one way or the other. Some co-workers knew his basics, but no one had any real insight into his mental state or mood.

TJ, We hardly knew ye. I don’t know about anyone else, but that not knowing makes it worse for me. If I’d tried harder to get to know him, if I’d veered from my self-serving chit-chat long enough to say, “But what about you? How do you like things? How’s your life going?”…maybe things would have gone differently.

Or not. The problem is, as it is with so many things, only the Universe knows the answer, and it ain’t sharing. So all we are left with is a hole in the shape of TJ, and probably some guilt and self-doubt.

For starters, Update to last week’s post. The very day I posted that, later that night, we took Lola-dog in to the vet, which led to her being put to sleep. Pervasive cancer. Poor girl, I’m glad now that I was sneaking her pain pills.

Spike-kitten and Lola-dog, about a year ago.

Well, the result of that day is that I did get the job. I started on Tuesday. I almost wish I hadn’t.

It’s boring. It’s mind-numbing. It’s frustrating. It’s…temporary? God, I hope so.

Shelving books. Discarding books. Shelving more books. Discarding more books. Working with people who have no respect for books whatsoever. They keep telling me that in a few weeks, I won’t care about the books either. I dearly hope not. If I ever get to the point where a book is as of little importance as an apple core or stale cracker, I don’t know if I’ll even be me anymore.

Disorganized, messy, crowded…the whole store is that way, and the book section is no exception. Sorting 3-4 carts of books right out on the floor, piles of books stacked on every available surface. And they don’t know what they have. Their logic for why they keep one book and discard another, it makes no sense at all to me. What makes one book “antique” and one book “old” is a mystery. And the woman who runs that department has been there for 8 years, so I don’t think anything will change.

I am telling myself now – it’s a temporary thing. It’s just until I can figure something else out. If nothing else, I’m going to try for a transfer to the newer store that’s close by – they haven’t even put their library up yet, so if I can get in to it early enough, maybe it won’t be so bad. I hope. Maybe I can go back to Borders and beg the manager to give me a chance – now that I have a job, maybe I’ll be more attractive

Anyway. It is a job, and that was desperately needed. I only wish I’d gotten a job where I could think and learn and do.