BECOMING INVISIBLE
(Revision)
By
Roger C. Simmons
rcsesq.att.net
BECOMING INVISIBLE
I can recall a time when light did not shine through me. A time I was a whole person. A time I was not afraid of becoming invisible. Let me explain while there is still time. My mother feared leaving her house. Being in the company of others stressed her out. They were either too unfriendly, too nosy, or too obnoxious. Excuses she used to justify her behavior. Years ago, her psychiatrist diagnosed her as agoraphobic. Following that diagnosis, she stopped going to her appointments.
Divorcing herself from the world, she acquired a distinct fondness for collecting things. Her knickknacks as she referred to them. She purchased those knickknacks online from QVC or Amazon.com. Occasionally, she visited the nearby Target, CVS, or Dollar Store, depending upon where her feet took her. Mother visited those stores often enough throughout the years that the cashiers greeted her by name. She did not bother to learn theirs.
The packages continued to arrive. They multiplied faster than rats on steroids. The majority remained unopened. Over time, the large, overstuffed couch in the living room became my surrogate bed. Falling back onto it, I sank so deeply into its well-worn foam and woolen cloth recesses that it felt like a welcome hug. One day, to my horror, my mother turned my bed into another knickknack storage area. Defiantly, I continued to sleep on the sofa until it became too uncomfortable. Pillows and a blanket on the bare floor became its replacement.
Eventually, the living room became impassable. The kitchen became a room filled with those knickknacks, a stove, and a refrigerator. The two bathrooms, mom's knickknacks, a toilet, and a sink. Good luck finding the shit paper. On a Friday morning, two and a half years ago, father left for his job as an insurance salesman and never returned. He decided it would be better for him if he became invisible. If she missed her husband, mother never mentioned it.
Following my sperm donor's chickenshit abandonment of his wife and son, as grandfather referred to it, grandfather became responsible for paying most of our bills. He realized his daughter was incapable of working and that she would never find another man to replace her scumbag husband. To help stem the output of money, grandfather applied for Supplemental Security Income and Food Stamp benefits on his daughter's behalf. Because my mother was the first family member to go on welfare, he cautioned me to keep it on the QT. I had no idea what he meant by QT, but I got the drift.
When he tried to convince his daughter to sell her shit since she never used it, she became angry, stuck her fingers in her ears, and refused to listen. Grandfather shook his head, mumbled under his breath, then looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, Johnny-boy, your mother is going to be the death of me yet”. As if! Grandfather is too damned mean to die, barring an accident.
Approximately a year ago, grandfather made his weekly visit to his daughter's house to check on her. Upon opening the door, he found her body lying on the knickknack covered couch. A plastic bag covered her head, securely attached by black electrical tape. Inside the plastic bag, her features looked distorted, and her face was purple. He told me he did not know whether to cry or feel relieved. If he ever wondered what prompted her to do it or why she did not leave a suicide note, grandfather never mentioned it. The coroner ruled her death a suicide.
After mother passed away, my grandmother asked me to move into their house, an uncluttered, dust-free paradise. “You could eat off the floor, Johnny-boy, it's so goddamned clean,” grandfather bragged. Retreating to my new bedroom, my mother's old room, I buried my face in my pillow and cried until my chest ached, not sure of why or for whom.
The attendees at her funeral included my grandparents, myself, their minister, and two of the cashiers who sold mother knickknacks over the years. We buried her along with a few of her favorite things grandfather told me to pick out. That assignment stumped me at first since she rarely opened any of the packages she purchased. I ended up just randomly picking them out, making sure to avoid any still lying on the couch where mother died.
Father's failure to show up at his ex-wife’s funeral came as no surprise. Grandfather cursed his ex-son in law for at least the thousandth time, saying he should burn in hell for all eternity. Grandmother cried. Looking back, I wish I had comforted her. Father sent carnations. They weren't delivered until after the service ended. According to the attached card, carnations were his ex-wife's favorite flowers. Grandfather ripped up his card and threw it into the nearby wastebasket.
Although carnations are known as God's flowers, grandfather said he never knew his daughter to like them or any other flowers for that matter. I had to agree.
Rather than a funeral service, I believe it would have been more fitting to place mother's body on the knickknacks covered couch, soak it in gasoline, and set it on fire. That way, she could have gone up in smoke along with some of her knickknacks. As the minister preached, I focused on the overwhelming task of cleaning out her house. I presumed grandfather would insist upon my active participation in this process. The mere thought made my stomach churn.
A few days after the service, much to my relief, grandfather hired a professional cleaning company to do the dirty work. They reminded me of astronauts in their white uniforms, masks, caps, and slip-on shoe covers. It took three large trucks to clear out the house. I presume they dumped her shit, as they referred to it, at the local landfill along with the other garbage.
A year to the day following her passing, I became invisible to my grandparents when I headed off to Gainesville to attend Santa Fe Community College. I drove the used Honda Civic grandfather bought for me as a going-away gift. Unfortunately, my high school grades were not good enough to get me accepted by the University of Florida. I, therefore, planned to attend Santa Fe College for two years, during which time I planned to work my ass off to get good grades. I then planned to reapply at the University of Florida. Father was a Gator. In retrospect, I suppose that is what motivated me to apply there, even though he was never much of a role model. I do not know why they were called parents. I would have been much better off raised by wolves.
Leaving the sanctuary of my grandparents' home scared the shit out of me. I never had any real friends growing up. I was shy and ashamed of where I lived. To overcome my shyness, I drank too much. Be it vodka, rum, tequila, or beer. The form did not matter since it was the effect I was after. The positive result was that I made some friends. They turned out to be the wrong kind. My grades slipped, and I got cited for a DUI. A major fuck up since my grandparents were the primary source of my income other than my small scholarship.
When grandfather learned about my DUI, he threatened to cut me off completely. That sobered me up. My grandparents died a few months later, ironically, at the hands of a drunk driver. They died instantly, or so I was told, which was a blessing. My grandparents left me all of their assets. Including their life insurance, investments, and savings, it came to a little over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I also inherited their home, which I immediately placed on the market. I was shocked at the amount of money grandfather managed to stash away. I should not have been. He was quite frugal.
A short time following their deaths, father left a voice mail message. Not recognizing his telephone number, I did not answer. Not that I would have even if I knew it was him. He apologized for abandoning me, although he added that he had good reasons for doing so. He missed me and would like the opportunity to catch up and makeup. What a frigging joke! He must have somehow gotten wind of my inheritance. I deleted the message along with his phone number. It was better for me if he remained invisible.
I am not sure whether it is my lack of discipline or my short attention span, but I find school ponderous. My inheritance made matters worse. Why waste my time in school? I contemplated taking a year or so off to do some traveling and reflect upon my life. I needed to decide what it is I want to do with the rest of my life. But I also had to keep in mind that my inheritance will not last forever.
The American History course I took as part of my college prerequisites changed my mind. I met someone or, more accurately, she met me. I sat in the back row of the class, not paying much attention to Professor Smith’s lecture regarding the Reconstruction. I looked around the room. It appeared that the pretty brunette who was the object of multiple fantasies appeared to be staring at me. I convinced myself, however, I was wrong and that, to her, I was invisible.
I focused on the teacher. A few minutes later, my head bobbed up and down. I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes left to go...then ten...then five. Professor Jones handed out the assignments for the next class and then dismissed us. Slipping my textbook, notebook, and pen into my backpack, I buckled it and stood. Upon leaving the classroom, I felt a finger tapping against my right shoulder. It belonged to the brunette with dark brown eyes. My immediate impulse was to turn and run. Standing my ground, I faced up to my fears, feeling emboldened.
I escorted her to her car. She agreed to accompany me to a movie. I walked on clouds, pinching myself to make sure I was awake. At first, everything proceeded smoothly. But my fears and insecurities continued to shadow me. I questioned whether I am capable of being in a long-term relationship. Although Angelica says she loves me, a phrase I cannot hear often enough, she is pressuring me to change. She said I needed to be more self-confident. When I protested, she said she did not believe in comfort zones.
She questioned me about my mother, my father, and my grandparents. How could I explain my mother or tell Angelica how she died? What was there to say about my deadbeat father or my grandparents? But I love her! I think that is what I feel. Still, I am confused as to how someone who makes me feel so happy can at the same time make me so goddamned miserable. She wants answers to her questions when I do not have answers to my own.
I stared into the bathroom mirror in the one-bedroom apartment we share. The bathroom door was closed and locked with Angelica standing outside, calling my name. My heart pounded and sweat-soaked my shirt. My skin was translucent. My image in the mirror started to dissolve. My right fist smashed against it, shattering the glass. Shards fell into the sink, and blood dripped down my knuckles.
Angelica screamed my name. Her voice sounded so distant. Staring at the shards of glass in the sink, I held my breath. I thought of my mother and how she died. I thought of my grandparents, then slammed my head against the sink until I could not see any more.
I was in a hospital bed, with my right hand heavily bandaged. It throbbed. My wrists restrained. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and held it. What did I do? My greatest fears came true . Angelica now knows me for what I really am. To her, I have become invisible.
