More Style

Deadlines are something I’m not used to anymore. No one cares if anything gets done. No one. Except me. I care. But do I? Because here was a grant deadline I’d known about for months, their reminder email saying ‘Today’s the day!’ came as no shock. No, the shock came when another to-do-list item--“Defrost freezer”--started happening, too.

It reminded me of years and years ago, back when I was drinking and manic and at loose ends; my ex and I were in Penn Station and I’d just been a dick to her friend and she was mad at me and decided to buy me sunglasses. We fixated on a pair that weren’t sunglasses, more like venetian blinds. You may know the kind. Horizontal slats of plastic, blocking half your vision--not the sun.

We were like, to the saleswoman, “Why?” Like why get these and not real sunglasses.

“More style,” she said instantly.

So that’s what I was doing. Defrosting the freezer while hitting the grant deadline. It might be okay to do them one at a time, but together? More style.

My freezer was a veritable snowglobe; the villagers dead and buried; the only thing missing was falling snow. Thick, white clown hair frost on all sides but the bottom, which held a crest of ice, like a giant, glacial cowlick.

(And if you’re thinking, like my uncle did, who the hell has a freezer that needs defrosting? What is this, the fifties? No, these are modern times. But in this cruel, modern world, most freezers have some anti-this-happening mechanism. I get that.)

But this red three-foot fridge--cute, right?--came with my tiny apartment; all of which was a godsend. I’d been living on the other side of Queens with two roommates who shared a passion for rescuing stray dogs. Which is nice and altruistic--although what is truly altruistic?--but these strays were mean! Little white fluffy biters and barkers and floor-shitters, and I had to leave. But I couldn’t. I was broke. And the miraculous events that led to my little studio are too long and involved to get into (actually, they’re not; it was a royalty check). All to say, most days, I’m incredibly grateful to be here. So what if the freezer’s a snowscape? But the walls were closing in. With each wobbling ice tray I inserted, I worried if it would ever come out again.

I worked on the grant in ‘short, controlled bursts,’ as they say in Aliens when they’re low on ammunition. I was low on time. I had to get the grant app in before work. I’d already unplugged the fridge and put my vegetables out in the cold--if that sounds like a euphemism, it’s accurate; my vegetables are out in the cold these days. While the freezer was unfreezing, I could write. But not much. Because to accentuate, or rather, speed up the process, I was boiling water and pouring mug after mug onto the ice mountain, which was doing nothing, seemingly, except make puddles on the floor that I’d mop up with paper towels, then get back to writing.

The frost was easier to remove. It came out in large, satisfying chunks that I transported to my toilet. And then, with great pleasure, I’d pee on them. But the toilet was filling up too quickly--my pee, though prolific thanks to the lithium, couldn’t keep up--so I started taking newer chunks to the sink.

The ice mountain wasn’t budging. Even with all that boiling water. Glaciers move slow. Well, not these days. And I wasn’t helping the environment with my excessive use of paper towels, which had run out, and with that came the realization, looking at the expanding puddle on the floor, I have to go to the supermarket.

I bought tea. I felt wild. Irresponsible. Like the old days. Like being hungover when everything felt loud and tilted. (I loved my hangovers.) Or fucking off in college. Any piece of writing was done the morning of, with my girlfriend trying to sleep while I typed out my play or whatever. And the results were always poor. Same with this grant. There was no miracle. I didn’t pull a rabbit out of a hat. I hit the deadline, sure, but at what cost? A freezer sans suspense? But I like suspense. So what was this? Shooting myself in the foot? Years ago, I wrote a book where the me character shoots himself in the foot. One person read it: the same ex who bought me the striped sunglasses. I threw that book out. Just like the one before it. Now, at least, I write books and don’t throw them out. I finish them, without deadlines. And maybe five people read them. So that’s a miracle.

And one more. I did move a mountain that day; the ice on the freezer floor finally came out in one hulking piece; I carried it to the sink and, when it was too big to fit, poured boiling water through its center, splitting it in two.

My freezer looks amazing.