Auld Lang Syne
Celia Chung
It was completely dark along the street, except for the streetlights, and in her room,
where she was finishing up the last of her Marlboros. It seemed as if everyone around
was out at someone else's party.
She opened the window, and pushed the screen so that it fell and bounced amblingly
onto the lawn. The wind felt fierce to her face and harsh to her ears.
She looked around her room. What should be first?
The phone. She unplugged it and threw it out the window. It met the driveway with
a crash and a dozen clangs. She then ripped off all her Ansel Adams and Nagel posters
from the wall, and scrunched them up into tight balls. A flick of the lighter for
each, and she tossed them out the window. Partially charred, they fell scattered on the
lawn.
Next to go out was the cork bulletin board. Clunk, then a protest from the phone.
The pictures and notes waltzed off by the gutter.
She took out her desk drawers and turned them upside down right outside of the window.
Drifts of report cards and money snowed on over the phone's corpse, and then drifted
to join the pictures.
The room looked decidedly cleaner. But wait....
By the window was the china and glass minatures collection. With one sweep of the
furled umbrella, they were knocked out, and shattered on the cement, a thousand bells
of liberty ringing.
All that remained now was the book case, the bureau and the bed. She threw the books
out, one by one, trying to see how many she could make onto the driveway across the
street.
Hamlet
. The Tale of Two Cities
. The Cat in the Hat
. Encyclopedia Britannica Volume II
. Then the bookcase toppled; the garbage can fell out.
Presently, the front of the house looked as if it were a garage sale used as a practice
obstacle course for visiting bulls from Pomplona.
* * * * *
Her mattress, and those sickening, cute, plush, cuddly, ignorant, empty stuffed toys.
She was looking at them, feeling like the bully who was about to drown the hurt puppy
who was pleading with its eyes. The mattress, squeezed into the cavity of the window, was given a good strong kick; it brushed against the tree, and landed on top of
the neighbour's wheelless '56 Mustang. The stuffed toys she threw into the tree.
Who said stuffed toys didn't grow on trees? In fact they now had the best decorated
Christmas tree on the street, in the town, state, country, continent, hemisphere, world,
universe......verse.....verse....ers...ers..ers.
The bed frame was a problem. Summoning strength which only her present frame of mind
could have given her, she pushed it through the wall, leaving a jagged hole of clapboard
and plaster behind. She sent the bureau on its way, in the same manner.
All that was left now were her clothes in the closet. She carefully took out the hangers
and threw them on the roof. Those that didn't make it joined the furniture on the
ground.
It was now her and her clothes. She tenderly examined each one. Their seams. Oh how
neatly they were sewn together, one stitch after another , of cloned length, and
confident direction. She tore off the white drapes and added them to her clothes.
Grabbing the whole pile with two arms, she released it just outside the window. Humph!
She giggled in delight, and then remembered.
Slowly she turned and looked at the room. It was absolutely bare, except for the pure
white walls and carpet. With a violent tug, she tore out a shock of her black hair
and laid it in the center of the carpet. She then climbed onto the window ledge.
"I've always wanted to jump into a big, fluffy pile of clothes."
Whee.
Up in the sky fireworks shot up. The knelling of bells joined them. In houses scattered
around the town, bottles popped. It was New Year's Day.
Copyright 1988 by Celia Chung. Unauthorized duplication,
posting, or publication is strictly prohibited.
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