No Space is Too Small When Your Head is Detachable
by Janelle Bassett
I look out my window more than I should, but that’s only because I believe that most people are up to something. I think aha even before I part the blinds. Aha, I caught you picking your wedgie or your nose while failing to pick up after your dog. Or Aha, you’re busted, I see the way you’re leering at those porch packages. You want to nab them, your stupid heart hopes they contain small electronics even though we both know you’re going to end up with a month's supply of pet kibble.
I work from home. I live alone.
It’s possible that I’m lonely, but not for anyone I’ve met so far.
I really shouldn’t have my desk right by the window, but I moved it to the far wall once before and wore myself out walking back and forth every time I heard a horn or a footstep or a prolonged silence.
I’m actually a wonderful neighbor. Thoughtful. Attentive. When the guy across the street had his third wife leave him and his second heart attack in the same week, I set a bag of sweet potatoes at his door with a note that said, “If you want me to mow your lawn, let me know by Thursday afternoon because I’ll have to rearrange my weekend plans.” And on Halloween I give out those Tootsie Roll tubes that can be used as piggy banks once they’re empty. So I’m giving the kids immediate happiness with the twisted-up sugar but also future happiness as their nickels clink up up up.
This morning I can’t get the daily cash flow spreadsheet to come out right. I’m off by a factor of nine—so I know I’ve transposed two numbers—but spending forty minutes looking for a split-second slip-up of my index finger makes me wonder if the life I’m living was worth all that diaper-changing my parents put in.
I finally find the mixed-up digits. Seven and nine, odd fucks. And then I hear the bike crew. Always so shouty, the bike crew—something about pedaling their legs makes these neighborhood kids feel the need to go full volume. There are typically only five or six of them, but at any given moment two of them are yelling “Wait for me!” The group tends to roam unsupervised, but when there’s a wreck or a shoving match, parents materialize with antibiotic ointments and long straight arms to break up tussles. I’m happy to see any sort of parental responsibility in this neighborhood, even if it comes post-blood, too late.
I look down at the sidewalk, but no, the children still aren’t cute. Too old, too determined to be active. But they all wear cartoon animal t-shirts, so maybe they know they need the boost in cuteness.
They ride past twelve times (according to the tally on this Post-it) and right when I’ve learned to incorporate their twice-a-minute noise parade into my work mindset, they stop. I peek out right away, but not—I can assure you—out of concern. Anyone who’d made double-digit tally marks about something couldn’t help becoming invested in an outcome.
They’ve stopped next door at Laurabeth’s house. Looks like today is shaping up to be her yard junk day, based on the motorcycle helmet and (what is that, a meat grinder?) on her lawn. I don’t know if Laurabeth is a hoarder but she clearly likes to hold onto things. Her house is packed wall-to-wall with stuff she can’t even sit on or screw light bulbs into. Her adult children made her promise she’d get rid of eight items a month, so they’d be left with that-much-less mess when she’s gone. And once she hits seventy-five she has to up it to twelve items a week. Speed round. So every so often she has a casual yard sale—one without a sign or price stickers, one where she has to grasp her porch railing with both hands to keep from grabbing her belongings back from the looky-loos.
The bike crew loves Laurabeth’s giveaways, even though I’m certain they don’t know what most of the items are. Last month I watched a six-year-old in a tankini drag a leaf blower home. It reminded me of a lion dragging large prey to a cave.
One of the kids is cranking the meat grinder while the others cheer. How obscene. Laurabeth comes back out with a fireplace poker, a throw pillow, three rulers and a box of tampons. I wonder what her offspring would say about her counting the rulers as three separate items instead of bundling them into one. Smells like a workaround to me, Laurabeth.
Right away the blond twins go for the tampons. I am sure they’ll scratch each other’s eyes out, but instead they work together to open the box and pass tampons out to the crowd, like celebratory cigars. A ruler sword fight breaks out but the kid with the fireplace poker ends it. Laurabeth goes inside, maybe because she doesn’t want to be responsible for any of the eye damage that feels increasingly likely.
The children’s pockets are full of tampons so they look pretty stupid but also pretty rich. Someone grinds a tampon through the meat grinder. Someone is comically pregnant with a throw pillow. The littlest one (in skinny jeans despite still being baby-shaped) sits down in the motorcycle helmet and turns it into a fun seat by spinning it around.
Too many free thrills going on down there. Too much mess. And now they, as a group, are knocking on Laurabeth’s door. When she opens up, one asks, “Can we have more?” and I don’t hear her answer because I am already heading downstairs to tell them about propriety. By the time I get there, Laurabeth is hauling out a tall metal cabinet with some difficulty. I yell at the two biggest children to stop standing there, to grab the bottom. As the three of them maneuver down the porch steps, I pick decimated tampon out of the grass and tell the kid in skinny jeans that they better not potty in that helmet.
There’s an argument about who will take the cabinet home. Someone wants to store their Legos in it. Someone wants to fill it with potatoes and water them until they sprout long eyes. Someone’s thinking of Mother’s Day, of painting it yellow for her. I tell Laurabeth to go rest, that I’ll clean up the mess. I tell the children that whoever takes the cabinet will need an adult and maybe a truck, and they scatter to find the closest adult and the quickest truck.
The rulers are gone, but I lay the fire poker onto the pillow and turn the helmet over, respectfully. A real person could use these, the kind of person who’s done growing. I start to go back home, but then I get curious about whether I’d fit into the metal cabinet. I have a small frame, my hips are bendy, my head is practically detachable. I try and I fit. It’s tight, but I can close the door. I wonder how long until a kid comes to claim this. I wonder why I’m in here. I wonder if I want to scare someone—say boo, say stop, say this isn’t yours, not everything is for you—or if what I really want is to join the crew who move their legs fast and take what they want and aren’t very cute at all.
Janelle Bassett's writing appears in The Offing, American Literary Review, The Rumpus, Smokelong Quarterly, VIDA Review, and Slice Magazine. She lives in St. Louis and is an Assistant Fiction Editor at Split Lip Magazine.
