FFM 2014, July 5 - Boxes

The answering machine was blinking red. Elaine stared at it. Aside from the streetlight through the blinds, it was the only thing with a light on in the apartment. There was nothing to turn on. Everything was in boxes. Her sofa, her bed, all covered in boxes. She’d tried to unpack, after her brother had left with the rental van, but somehow every thing she pulled out of the damned boxes reminded her of him. Of them. The worst was the box with all the framed pictures – why had she even packed them? Elaine felt the tears well up again. For the last week all she’d done was cry, until her migraines became pre-emptive.

No. No. This was not how she’d spend her first night away from that cheating, no good piece of shit. She’d broken free now, and even though she had no job or prospects, and a family two states away (her brother, bless his soul, was probably halfway through Washington by now), she wasn’t going to just lie around and cry. Elaine got up from the only spot on her bed that was clear of boxes, fingers balled in determined fists. Maybe she could go for a movie? They were still showing that third Indiana Jones movie, the one with Sean Connery, at her local cinema. Some mindless action would be just the thing. But then she remembered the disappointment of the second one, and, dejected, slumped down again. 

Looming in the dark, barely visible, was her TV. Again the dark. Did she leave him just to sit in the dark, looking at the blinking red light of missed calls? Behind the ‘play’ button would be friends, co-workers, her mother, all offering their condolences, their help. A minute of light. Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, they’d have forgotten her. What was the point of even listening? Especially if one of the calls was from him.

She had to dig through several boxes before she finally found the remote. She turned on the TV, and the room was flooded in the white light of the ant-war. The antenna. Right. Another few minutes of searching. Elaine had been in such a hurry to get out, to get out before he came back. Before she changed her mind, chickened out, pretended (like he did) that nothing was wrong. Everything was jumbled up. Assembling the TV had a strangely calming effect on her though, and as soon as the image and sound came through, she felt she’d accomplished something. 

It was commercials. Toyota had a new Corolla out, and Elaine immediately hated the preppie blonde they used in the ad. McDonalds had some new Happy Meal toy, which mostly made Elaine happy she never had kids – at least not with that bastard. She settled down on the bed, her mind churning slower, as if to compensate for the rapidly changing pictures, the happy faces and overbearing slogans that poured out of the box. Bill Cosby was doing a thing with some kind of ice cream.

She channel surfed for a bit, until she came across a show she hadn’t seen before. It had a laugh track. Two guys were talking in a Laundromat about something and nothing. A girl. Elaine found herself smiling, and then, involuntarily, laughing, for the first time in what felt like months. You can’t overdie, you can’t overdry! Binary states. 

Slowly, as the show went on, Elaine started unpacking her boxes. You can’t over-cry either, she mused. And you won’t die from one break-up. She pressed the play button on her answering machine, and did not stop her tears when his voice was the first one out.