The previous evening we had a fight of epic proportions. Neighbors probably expected to see the crime lab pull up in front the house at any moment. We went to bed angry.
The next morning I was up early ['coz that's what I do] and got to thinking that our fight was nothing more than a simple power struggle. We weren’t hot on any particular topic – JUST LET ME WIN. Well, no one wins when you play by those rules we quickly learned.
Knowing that I was probably most responsible as I always am when it comes to the crazy, I decided to do something nice for my Michael. Hmm, what can you buy when you have no money? What chore could you handle when you had no car?
When the light bulb went off over my head, I slapped my forehead with a firm, “duhh.” Men like two things. One of them is food.
I’ll serve him breakfast in bed! That’s what a good wife does, they make their man breakfast in bed. He is going to wake up and have the PERFECT morning!! I’m a genius!
So I tiptoed into the kitchen and got the microwave working on the bacon, got the coffee pot working on the chicory, got the toaster oven working on the, well, toast and got the stove top warming for some eggs, sunny-side up please.
As you may imagine, a moment later the house became dark and silent. I tripped the breaker.
As my brows started to crinkle with frustration, I calmed myself with the usual, “no worries girl, you got this.”
I was soon to find out that I did not in fact “got” anything. Much less “this”.
Again on tiptoe and I rush from room to room looking for the metal box in the wall with the little black switches. Alas, I couldn’t find the damned thing. I looked in all the rooms, in all the closets, behind pictures, even in the bathroom.
Where the hell was it? I stood in our tiny hallway with both hands on hips for a long moment trying to imagine where I had not looked.
The attic? Nope, tried there too.
Maybe it’s outside? I had lived in two dozens homes, a dozen cities and half a dozen states but had never seen the electricity makes me happy box on the outside before. Well, this is New Orleans, I reasoned, people here don’t do ANYTHING like the rest of the world. I walked around and around the house and only found one box. It was too large though, the metal seemed rusty and it was, honestly, scary looking. I didn’t wanna open that nasty thing.
Always listen to your gut kids, it is smarter than you.
After another trek through the house and another two laps around the perimeter I figured if you only have one option, one box, sooner or later you gotta explore it.
Under the box was the air conditioning fan. Ginormous this fan. I mean, it cooled a three bedroom home with no shade trees in New Orleans (which makes the 7th layer of hell seem like Ant-fucking-arctica) so size is important here.
I crawl on top of the big metal box with the air blowing straight up into my face and eyes, brace myself with one hand and lean over to open the box. The rusty cover lifted straight up with a chill-down-your-spine screech.
There stood one, lone fuse. And it was as big as a soda can. Only one? Now that can’t be right.
Well, if one is all I have, then one is all I have. Maybe it’s loose or something? I reach forward and …
That is the last thing I remember.
I wake up what must be many moments later in the middle of the back yard, a good fifteen feet from the air conditioner exhaust and fuse box which remained open.
How did I get here? What happened? Why does my arm hurt? I can’t feel my fingers. OMG, I’m breathing too fast! My heart is beating too fast! I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!!!
I limp, yes limp, into the house and throw myself across a peacefully slumbering Michael.
“HONEY, WAKE UP – WAKE UP – WAKE UP!! I KILLED MYSELF. WAKE UP AND HELP ME, I KILLED MYSELF. I DIED!!”
What I had planned to deliver to Michael that morning were some eggs, toast and coffee.
Instead I served up a heaping helping of schizophrenia.
You want orange juice with that?
