In the third week of quarantine, I stream The Minimalists on Netflix. Both of these white guys sound like pastors preaching sermons. Our apartment is 900 square feet. I share a bathroom with my two children and my son is entering puberty. He routinely misses the toilet bowl and I have to sweep a chunk of toilet paper along the seat to ensure that I don\u2019t sit in his piss. My daughter spends most of her time laying on my bed upstairs to escape from her brother and me. She closes the door and I don\u2019t see her except at mealtimes.<\/p>\n
We\u2019ve lived in Berkeley in this apartment for 18 months. It isn\u2019t that I don\u2019t like Berkeley; it\u2019s that there is nowhere private enough to escape to in an apartment this small.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s halfway through The Minimalists that I decide we need to purge. I know that when the moratorium on evictions is up, I will have to leave this shitty apartment and move somewhere. I lost all my tutoring hours because the schools have all closed. I pay for groceries and gas and take out with my credit cards, which are close to maxed now. The kids ask me how many toppings they can choose on their pizzas because they know that each pick costs another dollar seventy-five and I think they know that I can\u2019t afford pizza or toppings anymore. Unemployment is shit, but once it finally kicks in, I\u2019ll have cash for food.<\/p>\n
According to the unemployment office, I have to look for a job everyday of every week in order to receive benefits. I call the line for questions because I want to know what happens if I lie on the form and they find out. It isn\u2019t that I don\u2019t want to look for a job or don\u2019t want to find one, but I worry about what will happen to my children if I leave them in the house alone for 8 hours a day. I wait for 2 hours listening to the elevator music and the voice repeating: Your call is important to us. We are currently experiencing a high call volume. You may be able to find the answer to your question on our website. Would you like us to call you back? Your call is important to us.<\/p>\n
I think we need to purge because I know this won\u2019t last forever and I know it\u2019ll be easier for them if we have fewer things to leave behind. But I don\u2019t know where to start. Toward the end of The Minimalists, the guy with the blonde hair talks about investing in quality essentials: well made wardrobe items that never go out of style. T-shirts for kids are on sale right now for 6 dollars at target.com. I wonder if I could fit into a children\u2019s L. Maybe XL? I could go with the always in style plain black. I order four in neutral colors.<\/p>\n
Netflix suggests Tidying Up with Marie Kondo. I start the first episode while I boil water for pasta for dinner again. This is the third night in a row that I\u2019ve fed them pasta. After dinner, my children cloister in their shared bedroom and whisper about my weakening mental state. I keep watching Marie.<\/p>\n
She says to begin with clothing. I empty my closet onto my bed, the bed I used to share with their father. He moved 2 states away to work. We were supposed to follow shortly. But there is not enough money for moving so I stay stuck Berkeley with the kids. We are beginning to realize that we like our lives better this way. He stopped sending money when I stopped saying I love you. He calls the kids every other night which feels like enough for now.<\/p>\n
Once all the clothing is on the bed, I am supposed to hold each piece and decide if it sparks joy. I think about the way Marie describes this spark of joy. I run through ten t-shirts and 3 pairs of jeans before I find something that sparks joy. A cashmere sweater in camel that my father purchased as a Christmas gift last year. I felt special wearing it on Christmas Day, but I think I am allergic to cashmere because my skin lifts into red welts wherever it touches. I haven\u2019t worn it since New Year\u2019s Eve when I layered it over a silk tank that doesn\u2019t fit anymore. I place it in the joy pile anyway and pull a long sleeve black t-shirt from the no joy pile to wear underneath.<\/p>\n
After an hour, I have a heaping no joy pile and 10 items to keep. Impractical as it may be to keep only 10, I wrap the no joy pile in plastic trash bags and set them on the street. The bags are gone the next morning.<\/p>\n
The kids\u2019 father calls in the afternoon. He tells me he has $100 he can venmo if I need it. \u201cI don\u2019t,\u201d I say, even though I really do. He asks to talk to the kids. I call them down from their turrets, towers, cells. They take my phone and disappear.<\/p>\n
After clothes, Marie says books. I have three bookshelves. I pull every book off the shelves. The stacks cover the floor, the couch, the bottom stair. I survey the spines. I remember where I purchased most of these, which were gifted to me from people I care about, which were on syllabi from professors I admired enough to keep in my collection. I hold every book. Every book sparks joy. But I imagine how many boxes I\u2019ll need to take them anywhere. How much space to transport.<\/p>\n
The boy brings the phone back. \u201cDad\u2019s still on,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d I say. I juggle the phone, Tenth of December<\/em>, and Mrs. Dalloway<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cThey said you have books all over the living room. And you dumped 3 trash bags full of clothes on the street.\u201d<\/p>\n In the silence, I think about what to say. I want to tell him that I\u2019m preparing for the end of things. But this seems too dramatic and I remember when we watched Doomsday Preppers together, when we could still laugh with each other, that the people who are preparing for the end are always hoarding, not purging.<\/p>\n \u201cEverything ok?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d I say. \u201cHow\u2019s the job?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood. As good as I can expect, I guess. Given, ya know, the limitations because of quarantine.\u201d He waits for me to say something. In another time, I might have told him how great he\u2019s doing. How much I appreciate all his hard work. How much I miss him. Instead, I am quiet waiting for him to push the conversation forward.<\/p>\n \u201cSo when do you think, um\u2014\u201d I know what he\u2019s trying to get out, but I don\u2019t want to give him anything. I listen to the kids whispering upstairs while he hedges.<\/p>\n He clears his throat. \u201cAre you coming?\u201d he finally blurts. \u201cTo New Mexico?\u201d<\/p>\n I wait and listen to him breathe. I think, three weeks ago, I might have said yes without hesitation. But now?<\/p>\n I place Tenth of December<\/em> in the joy pile. Dalloway goes to no joy along with most of my other books.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d he says. \u201cI have to go soon. So?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t want to move to New Mexico.\u201d<\/p>\n There isn\u2019t anything. Just his breath, his sigh. He knew, I think. He must have known.<\/p>\n \u201cOk,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n After dinner (pasta again), I make the kids help me cart all the books to my car. I kept three. The rest go into the trunk.<\/p>\n I drive the books to the library. The library is closed because of quarantine and we are all at risk. Goodwill, closed. The elementary school, closed. The coffee shop I love that has walls of books, closed. I leave the books under a garbage bag in the park near the library. They look like a boxy snowman with no face. But it isn\u2019t winter and it doesn\u2019t snow here. I hope that someone will find them and know what to do with them.<\/p>\n In week six, I try to help my son log onto to his weekly meeting for school. The math teacher asks the students to give one word that describes how they are feeling right now. Scared. Angry. Tired. Lonely. Isolated. Annoyed. Hungry. Tired. Fine. I think about what one word I\u2019d give. Maybe we are all one word. Joy. I wish my word were joy.<\/p>\n In the one hour meeting, the math teacher only talks about feelings and neglects numbers. I think both the kids are missing things that are essential until I realize that no one knows anymore when or if things will return to normal. At least the math teacher is trying. All the others have given up. The science teacher, his favorite, sent an email:<\/p>\n Dear parents, students, and families,<\/p>\n I am so sorry I have not been in touch. I will post work on canvas. On a personal note, my wife has cancer. I don\u2019t know how many of you know. I will do my best to connect with every student this week.<\/p>\n Stay safe,<\/p>\n Mr. Grue.<\/p>\n I remind my son that we cannot know what Mr. Grue is dealing with. We cannot know what happens behind anyone\u2019s front door. Life is a mystery.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that why you threw away all the books?\u201d he asks. \u201cBecause of what we\u2019re going through?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cI didn\u2019t throw the books away. They just didn\u2019t bring me joy anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know what to say so I let the moment linger there. After too long, I find the answer he is looking for.<\/p>\n \u201cYou do,\u201d I say. \u201cYou bring me joy.\u201d I tuck my knuckle under his chin and tip his head up like when he was little.<\/p>\n He smiles, but doesn\u2019t laugh.<\/p>\n \u201cMarie says letting go is even more important than adding.\u201d He rolls his eyes.<\/p>\n Week seven, I tackle the paper. I stop watching Marie because the people on the show keep too much. They don\u2019t know how to purge, how to let go. I read somewhere that financially intelligent adults keep seven years of paper records including bank statements and tax documents and claimable receipts. I empty bin after bin into the recycling container outside my building. I complained last month about how no one but me pulls the blue can to the street anymore. The response from building management was that no other tenants use the recycling. And we all wonder why the world is ending.<\/p>\n I keep social security cards, birth certificates, marriage license. I tuck them all into a blue folder that used to house my critical theory notes, but has only recently been housing dust.<\/p>\n I list my car for sale in week nine. We\u2019ve been locked inside so long, even a walk to target is a treat. My son and daughter escape to the park across the street for hours at a time. I tell them to wear masks even when outdoors. They listen, I think. But at least they leave. They see the window paint. $6000 OBO. She asks, \u201cWhat does O-B-O stand for?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMoney, love,\u201d I say. \u201cIt stands for money.\u201d<\/p>\n I have my eyes on a mini RV I saw on sale in a lot in Richmond on one of my \u201cdrives.\u201d I tell them, \u201cMom\u2019s going out for a drive. Do not answer the door. Do not leave the house. Answer the phone when I call.\u201d<\/p>\n I drive. I wander and weave in my car. This is a luxury, I know. Unmasked, out of the house, free. I drive when I can\u2019t stand to be near them another second. I drive when I need fresh air. I drive when I can\u2019t breathe. I drive to breathe. I pass the dealership that has RV\u2019s. They are small, maybe too small. But I think I could live with them in an RV that size. And how much cheaper that RV would be than rent. How much could the loan be on an RV? Nowhere near $3000 a month.<\/p>\n After paper is Komono, says Marie. The kitchen, the garage, the everywhere else. Komono is easy. I need a pasta boiling pot. I need a skillet. I need 3 plates, 3 mugs (because mugs can hold any liquid), 3 bowls, 3 spoons, 3 knives, 3 forks, the chef\u2019s knife I begged for, a single cutting board, the electric tea kettle, and the Aeropress. We have no garage. The kids help me cart bag after bag to the garbage. We fill the bin. I know the other tenants will be furious, but I don\u2019t care.<\/p>\n Their father calls again in week ten.<\/p>\n \u201cOff the grid,\u201d he says. \u201cThat even possible?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cNew Mexico is nice,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHave you reconsidered? She texted that you are throwing everything away. Planning a move?\u201d<\/p>\n He sounds triumphant, like he\u2019s won a game to which he doesn\u2019t know the rules.<\/p>\n \u201cSure. Want to talk to them?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n I hear them chittering away to him upstairs while I bag more things. This picture of the beach. That picture of our vacation in the snow. The art I insisted would be great in the living room. The throw pillows, two table lamps, fourteen assorted knick knacks, six battery powered LED candles.<\/p>\n \u201cFor you,\u201d my daughter says, thrusting the phone toward me at the bottom of the stairs.<\/p>\n \u201cShe says you\u2019re talking about an RV? What the fuck?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t speak to you if you curse at me,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cFine. Fine,\u201d he says. \u201cBut what is going on? You can\u2019t just drive away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s not fair.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLife\u2019s not fair.\u201d<\/p>\n She looks at me from the middle of the staircase. I feel her disapproval in her downward glare. I know what she wants and I know what he wants, but I think I\u2019m past giving anything to anyone.<\/p>\n Week twelve I get an eviction notice I know the landlord can\u2019t serve. I haven\u2019t paid rent in 3 months. This won\u2019t last forever.<\/p>\n Marie says you save the sentimental items for the end.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve loaded all the KonMari essentials into the RV. It is cheaper, monthly, than our apartment. And it has a toilet, so I\u2019m not complaining, yet. The kids\u2019 room is last. There is so much in the closet and under the bed. We pull everything out. It all needs to see the light. They shout and rave about what they need and want to keep.<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t make you throw anything away.\u201d<\/p>\n I pause for great effect surveying the room, the heaps of things they haven\u2019t seen, haven\u2019t touched, haven\u2019t even remembered.<\/p>\n \u201cBut.\u201d I can\u2019t finish so I leave them with their room, their things.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat sparks joy?\u201d I hear him plead. \u201cJoy, sis. Only the joy pile.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEverything,\u201d her voice returns exasperated. \u201cEverything.\u201d<\/p>\n When we drive away, I know we\u2019ve left a mess and I feel bad. I know it will be my landlord\u2019s daughter, our neighbor, who cleans it all up. But I had no money for the dump, no money for extra boxes. I left it all for someone else.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n \u201cAt the moment, we are driving north.\u201d This is a dodge.<\/p>\n \u201cIsn\u2019t dad east?\u201d<\/p>\n I say, \u201cMarie says, \u2018The best way to find out what we really need is to get rid of what we don\u2019t.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n I turn the dial up on the radio and drive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Netflix suggests Tidying Up with Marie Kondo. I start the first episode while I boil water for pasta for dinner again. This is the third night in a row that I\u2019ve fed them pasta. After dinner, my children cloister in their shared bedroom and whisper about my weakening mental state. I keep watching Marie. She says to begin with clothing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":17837,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17780","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-kari-treese"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17780","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17780"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17780\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17838,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17780\/revisions\/17838"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17837"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17780"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17780"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17780"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}