It Is What It Is

I pretend I don’t see Jim hurling my National Geographic collection, issue by issue, at the entertainment center. I adjust the faux Japanese screen and clear my throat. The magazines whizz by.

I hope issue 39, the one with the tiger cubs snuggling on the cover, survives. My art project involves framing photographs of baby animals to cover the holes Jim punched in the wall above the foldout sofa. The project stalled last month, because I’m stumped on the art of hanging art. Jim says we can’t drill screws into the wall or we’ll lose the security deposit, so my list of nice-to-haves includes gentle mounting solutions. Plus, since picture frames are high-ticket items, I’m waiting on Groupon. Pinterest estimates forty dollars near the low end of the budget range, which commenters call a bargain, and a steal, and practically free. I call it groceries for the week.

I’m hunkered down in the kitchenette, brewing coffee. Confined to the peeling strip of linoleum carved into the wall-to-wall carpet, just trying to mind my own fucking beeswax.

Jim must be ripping out the dresser drawers again. Bombs of socks, underwear, and t-shirts detonate in my peripheral vision. Joanne, I tell myself, eyes forward.

I slide my hand into a box of filters. Empty. I fan and tuck a paper towel to fit the brew basket, shake a grande peak of grinds from the Maxwell House tin. I pour the water, flip the switch, inhale the gurgle of steam.

“Where the fuck is it?” Jim screams from under the bed.

My folding chair and collapsible TV tray practically assemble themselves. The white table cloth unfurls with a single snap, floats and settles. Om.

The wilted centerpiece is my only problem. If I call Linda and ask for a fresh rose, she’ll smile and seethe into the phone. She’ll ask Alison if she thinks it’s interesting that I couldn’t make it to Vision Board Sunday or the neighborhood yard sale, but yet I certainly find the time to call when I need something from her garden? Linda always phrases her backstabbing in the form of a question. I’ve never seen a high horse more watered and lapped than Linda’s.

I skip the centerpiece, pour the coffee.

“Dump, dump, dump, fucking shithole,” Jim says.

I’m halfway through my first cup. It’s doing its job, but the coffee hasn’t been truly great since Monroe Street. All the roommates agreed on Brita, never tap. Plus, we paid a little extra for Seattle’s Best. Jim swears Brita sells a sham, and he hates anyone weak enough to become indoctrinated by the filtered water industrial complex. Besides, Seattle’s Best does not come in bargain bulk.

I wonder if Linda and Alison miss Monroe. The back door stuck, showers ran cold after three minutes. We wanted out, willed our future husbands to climb the creaky steps, carry us off the rotting porch.

But that yard? Those parties? All that natural light?

“There are only so many places!” Jim screams. The bookcase crashes.

Halfway through my second cup I’m ready. I sail past Jim into the bathroom, hardly notice the end table’s two missing legs. In the old days, I would have ranted about how much that table cost. Linda thinks I should have left him a.s.a.p., year one. That’s what Linda thinks. Linda has enough money to afford a wide array of opinions.

The shower doesn’t fully drown out the clunking of table legs against the floor. I pretend it’s music and add vocals, because the caffeine needs somewhere to go. Shampoo’s empty, so it’s a conditioner-only kind of day. The sliver of green and white marbled soap barely lathers. I add Irish Spring to the must-have list. Linda would be mortified if she knew I used man soap, but two soaps equal two price tags.

Soap is not a battle I choose, I say to Linda and Alison in my mind. I say it a few more times, out loud, into the conditioner bottle microphone. The first few times it comes out defensive, the next few times it comes out desperate. Finally, I achieve a breezy tone, hear myself sounding like Joy from The View, full of humor and carefree jesting.

I towel off and suck down the dregs of my second cup, residual grinds and all. I pat-dry my hair and contemplate blow drying versus wet ponytail. Jim likes it down. The first six months we dated I alternated flat ironed shine with Shirley Temple curls and intricate braids.

“It was right the fuck here last night!” Jim screams.

Up goes the ponytail. I step into the main room and now I see, can’t help but. Nothing is whole, it’s all in pieces and piles. Jim is sitting in the middle of the wreckage. I pull on a dress, dig through the closet, slip on mules, pluck the key from the second shelf and hand it to him.

“I checked there five times,” he says.

“I need bus fare,” I say.

“In the pocket of my tan pants,” he says.

I pull the tan pants down from the ceiling fan. It’s there, all the loose change I need.

It isn’t totally perfect, this thing with Jim, but it works. It works just fine, Linda, I make it work for me. Okay? Is that okay with you, Linda?

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