Just about everything imaginable is done to paper. A lighter singes paper’s extremities. Scissors dissect it. Frustrated hands wring and fold and compress paper, tears make paper bleed ink. Paper is forcibly tattooed.
Ann says, what’s with you and paper? Why do you hold it so soft like that? It doesn’t even remember being trees, I say. Don’t get me started on trees. That law in the U.K. against beating rugs outside is a good one. Inanimate objects take
the brunt of the punishment around here. They tend not to fight back. Except sometimes rakes and skateboards and other leverish things. Refusal to retaliate says nothing about their feelings towards the abuse. They hate it as we would.
I have always been kind. You know how people say, he wouldn’t hurt a fly? It wasn’t until that kid in first grade popped the dodgeball with a pencil that I realized I was cut from softer cloth. Flies are my little buddies. In recent months my cloth has become softer and Ann’s rougher. Living together is not easy and we have different ways of coping.
In the early stage I had been more than enough for Ann. Things developed and we, getting up there, moved in together. Now, she’s on a big project for work. It hurts me to admit it, but I’m jealous of the computer. It’s a sly and calculating little bugger. Hard to look away from. I’ve felt this way about many of her belongings, the things she tends to with such care. Her clothes, ironed every night, await her touch in the morning. She dresses and fusses over the house, rearranging furniture and giving paintings new perspectives. She gives her things so much time and they have much to offer her.
It’s never been a huge issue, Ann liked my tenderness. And then there was the argument about the blender. I mean, a smoothie every day? All I did was mention that the sound struck me as rather barbaric. She wanted to know what I meant by that, said some mean things about me needing to toughen up. Mentioned how when I say grace I tend to thank the food for its sacrifice more than God for providing it. Who’s sacrificing more? I had a hard time explaining it all. I just try to be kind. The argument ended when I agreed to see a doctor.
The doctor was intrigued. He said something about anthropomorphism. About ascribing expressive behavior to objects that could not express or behave. About how a table missing a leg can’t keep itself from tipping over or say that falling feels bad, so why should we assume that it prefers anything? But don’t we, knowing a table is meant to stand on all fours and having the ability to fix problems like its missing leg, carry the burden of keeping the table safe? It is common decency to protect things that can’t protect themselves.
Ann and I dress for church. The sides of our bedroom are different. Ann’s things are all stuffed together in rows. My side looks messier but I assure her that everything has its comfortable place. We walk to the old car that is of course in pristine condition. Before getting in, the face of the house smiles at me. You know how people say, the eyes are the windows to the soul? The windows are the eyes of our home.
On the drive there is talk about how nice it is to be settled. I mention all my love for our little home, the way it looks. Ann says, we do need to try to keep it cleaner though as you’ve been leaving out a lot of trash.
Landfills are horrid places, I say.
I agree, but I don’t want to live in one.
Exactly, I say, before easing the door shut and patting the top of the car. We settle into our seats. I reach for Ann’s hand.
The preacher begins, today I’d like to talk about adherence to God’s will. In Numbers 20, Moses and Aaron lead the thirsty Israelites through the wilderness of Zin. God instructs them to speak to the rock in their presence so it may yield water. Instead of doing as God commands, Moses takes up the staff and strikes the rock twice. Water gushes and the congregation drinks, but God is displeased and as consequence Moses may not lead his people into the Promised Land. Does anyone know why the Israelites are punished so?
I raise my hand and say, Moses only needs to speak kindly to the rock but instead he hurts it.
The preacher nods and asks, why might God not like that?
Because Moses and the rock are both beings under God, made of the same stuff. Well yes, all made by God, the preacher says, but not beings. The rock can’t feel the pain of being struck, we’re talking about God’s will.
Why be violent when politeness works? The light and the land listen to God’s command in Genesis, I plead. Just like when the ground cries up with Abel’s blood.
Chuckling and shaking his head, the preacher says, I like the sentiment, but let’s be honest. A rock is not a being. Can anyone really imagine being polite to a rock? Someone behind me laughs.
Before I can speak again, Ann lets go of my hand and raises hers. She announces, the stone doesn’t care one way or another if it’s struck, but God does.
The preacher spanks the podium with both hands and exalts, exactly. We must have faith in God’s command. And while we don’t always need to be polite to rocks, if God commands, we must obey.
The church is built with stones of varying size and color, stacked in spiraling columns and arches. Thousands of them, stolen from homes and families. Put on trucks and sliced and hammered into shape. Nailed and caulked among the corpses of friends. Martyrs beneath my feet. Is this all for God? I stand and lurk out, careful not to stomp.
Ann’s voice follows, what could be wrong?
She doesn’t get it. Nothing, I say. I just don’t want to stay for communion. We stop for gas. When the car is almost full I whisper, you were thirsty, weren’t you? When we get home I hurry to my study, filled with books from garage sales and
dumpsters around town. I have saved many books. They lounge, each comfy on their own pillow. Eric, I heard you the other night asking the computer what it has that you don’t. I’m sorry, I just don’t–
This is only getting worse. Things are not people, they do not care what you do to them. Look. She kicks a book across the room. It’s fine. I dive after it. Ann is holding another, tears a page out and stares.
Please, I beg. Be nice.
Like this? She shreds another page, rips the book in half.
I sprint over and try to save it from her. She holds it away and I fall to her feet. Please, Ann, why are you doing this? Why are you being like this?
If I was really being so violent, why not stop me? Why not strike me down to keep me from causing more pain?
I love people, I muster. I love you. But I also love things. I just try to be kind. They can’t protect themselves so we should try…I don’t know…it seems like the decent thing to do. I promise you have nothing to worry –
Worry about? I know you love me. I worry that you care for things as much as people, Eric. If you really do think any stupid object has feelings, I wonder what that actually means. Do you constantly ignore genocide? Or do you just walk around holding in tears? I feel like I might not really know you. This is paralyzing you.
And just like that I am untethered, storming past her. Into the car, driving to think. What hurts is that Ann is right. I’m not sure I know what I'm spending so much time holding in. What other choice is there? I need to eat. She doesn’t even know about the hoard of trash I started last month in the basement, how hard I work not to tear the bags while removing each piece to
separate them and keep them comfortable. She will not be happy when she sees that, will not be nice about it.
I pull into the bar and quietly thank the car for being so faithful. A man in the parking lot throws a look. Inside is death all around. A drunk idiot smashes a glass and its innards cover the floor. The bartender slides me a bottle and it furrows its brow and says, you poor baby. I decapitate it and drink its blood. That shuts it up.
I bum a cigarette and inhale its flesh and grind the carcass under my boot. I belittle a lime looking at me the wrong way and stomp the pedal on the garbage can in the bathroom so hard it whimpers. I ask the bartender for another beer. He says, everything alright, buddy? How can I explain that I am steeped in death? I nod and flay the bottle alive, separating sinewy label from glass.
Men play darts. The dartboard is riddled with holes and begging for mercy. It says, please take me down from here and to somewhere safe. I ask for a turn and hurl the dart with ill intent. It hits the wall, no difference. The floor creaks under foot, says please, Eric, please stop. I stomp and hurt my heel. The pain is quite emboldening. I tell the dartboard its mother is a whore. The sleazy check is stealing so I take its twin hostage and suffocate it with the wallet. I make sure the bottle shatters on my way out.
The world is violence. If only Ann really knew. What is left of me leaves little to conjure anything good or godly. Inanimate objects take the brunt of the punishment around here. But nobody seems to care about being nice and I will not be paralyzed by fear. Moses turned out alright. So spit in the face of the sidewalk. Throttle the steering wheel, turn the music up until the speakers blow. Slam the faithful car door with a hankering to rub the boot’s nose in something.
Ann comes outside to the unfamiliar sounds. Eric, please calm down, she says. I’m sorry for what I said.
You’re right, you know, I snarl. Life is war and nobody is innocent.
As I lurch forward her eyes are all fear. She closes the door and locks me out. I scream at her, at the house, at the trees. Kicking and punching the door. I am a merciless thing with no God to answer to, looking for a stone that deserves to be thrown. There you are. The house says, we can talk this out. Without pause I launch the stone at its eye.