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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 02, 2016

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Submitted: May 02, 2016

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Ronald’s sleeping pattern has progressively gotten more in line with that of an insomniac’s since he decided to be an artist.  His nightly routine has him making pancakes at 3am, because pancakes are the easiest things to make at this hour.  But with such a ritual, the essentials; a 3 pound box of pancake mix, gallon of milk, a dozen of eggs, a pint of canola oil, a jar of peanut butter, and a thing of syrup; they run out quickly. 

 

Ronald’s occupation allows him to work just enough to support his habit and be up at unbelievable hours.  Living alone in a one-bedroom apartment is usually the case with these sorts.  There was a girl but of course there was.  This is not to say Ronald is an abuser or intolerable but that people don’t always work well together, not even when it starts promising.  That’s when Ronald stopped believing in certainties except for few because that’s always the case with these sorts.

 

Ronald was certain that his trash bin would be filled at least twice a week.  Paint tubes, paintbrushes, pancake mix, toenail clippings, chocolate wrappers, banana peels, plum pits, decaffeinated coffee grinds, rolls of film, entire notebooks filled with ideas, and condom wrappers; this all filled his garbage can.  After a certain point (though against Ronald’s beliefs) he’d be able to tell exactly when to take out the trash.  He learned that when you do something enough times you could become Nostradamus.

 

After this evening’s ritual peanut butter pancakes, Ronald placed his plate and pan in the sink and let the water run.  The water was hot as to get the thick sticky syrup to let loose.  With the water running, Ronald went to his trashcan and started to lift the plastic bag upwards until it started to slowly wiggle its way out, like a kind of fat smelly snake.  He tied the bag, put on his chancletas, and opened the apartment door to the hallway.

 

Ronald feels he has been in this hallway many times, too…many times.  He thinks:

“Here it is.  The hallway that has a green hue like in the Matrix.  With its black borders lining the bottom of the walls, olive toned tiles that reflect the ceiling lights (which explains the green tint), bright yet dim fluorescent light tubes with no covers.  Eight apartment doors (not including my own), two doors to a stairwell, two doors for the elevators with one being out of service, and one, one single door leading to the decrepit room that is intoxicated with a rancid odor of other people’s recycling or the passing garbage they throw.  How I know this hallway well.”

 

Ronald’s apartment is about 20 feet from the garbage room, being that he lies somewhere on one side of the middle of the hallway like the garbage room.  In this small distance countless memories can be remembered.  Like the time a past girlfriend had to wait in the stairwell as he checked to make sure no one was home.  This was at a time when the girl who was there was there.  This is not to say Ronald was unfaithful but rather their relationship was contemporary.  There’s also the memory Ronald had when he and his friends made a film using the elevator.  Tremaine and Kevin both starred in it with Tremaine being the one to die.  Living on the 9th floor, Ronald and Tremaine went downstairs to shoot the makeshift pillow dummy being tossed from the balcony.  Ronald still can feel the excitement from that night. 

 

Now coming up to the garbage room, Ronald looks at the door.  He reads the caution signs, the illustration of the stick man taking out his trash is very reminiscent of right now.  He reads “GARBAGE ROOM OPEN FROM 7AM TO 10PM” knowing that the consequence would be a charge to everyone on the floor but he’s not certain.  Ronald opens the chute placing the bag gently then pulling it up so that the knot is sticking out past the handle then closing it to hang there.  This leaves the next person to come in the garbage room the burden of letting go of Ronald’s trash.  Feeling some small relief in his clever thinking, Ronald takes a moment to take in his creation.  As he stares he beings to feel.  He begins to feel a kind sadness that only happens when the significance of small details become so apparent that they become the broad strokes.  Like when she left or when no one would buy my paintings anymore.  I’m getting stuck in the garbage room at 4am.


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