Sion Dayson

     Something sounded like it was rustling in the kitchen.  My eyes darted over all the room’s dirty surfaces, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual sauce stains splattered on an ill-functioning stove, the metal bottom of the refrigerator hanging precariously on hinges.  The pasta was getting cold, but sourcing the sound was taking precedence.  Something was definitely moving in here. 

     I glanced in the corner where several glue traps are laid (I’ll spare you a description of things found stuck to them over the years).  I didn’t notice anything at first, just the same black plastic glistening with its toxic mixture.  Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed one of them moving, almost imperceptibly.  As I continued to look, the meaning of an image before me suddenly became clear.  A tail sat immobile in goo.

     Whatever was attached to the trapped tail was unhurried in its attempts to escape.  It leisurely banged against the stove under which the rest of its body lay hidden.  With each movement of said tail, the glue trap inched under the stove a little further.

     Now, I am a girl.  But when it comes to issues of small animals or scurrying bugs, I can really be a girl.  My mother and father had both just left that afternoon for Cairo.  Besides the intangibles they provide such as unconditional love and support, they have also in the past served as the people I can get to kill things for me—a very tangible act I can point to as proof of their love.

     After a few moments lamenting the fact that I could not call them to my aid, I began to go through a list of possible other rescuers.  The police officer across the hall who always yells at his kids?  Trying to pull from memory the Spanish word for “mouse” or “rat,” could I call the landlord and insist he come pull the rodent’s body from underneath the stove? I ran through my phone book and realized I had very few male friends, none who would even consider coming up 45 minutes on a train to handle a trapped tail.  My female friends would be more sympathetic, but I didn’t think they’d come, either.

     I tried to remember when the last time our exterminator had visited.  He makes a monthly Saturday trip to our apartment complex.  When I first moved in, I didn’t know this was a service.  The first time he came, I was awoken from a deep sleep by a hard knock on the door.  

     “Who is it?” I asked drowsily. 

     “The exterminator” came back the reply in a harsh Eastern European accent. 

     In semi-consciousness, this response scared me.  If only the Polish exterminator were coming tomorrow, I thought desperately. But I knew it was not time for him to come back.

     Okay.  Stop being such a scaredy-cat.  Just go get the stupid thing yourself.  I put on my new black boots that make me six feet tall.  They made me feel safer, stronger.  This thing could easily be squashed by the heel of my boot.  When I started thinking about the actuality of pulling something out by the tail, with the rest of its body free and squirming, I began to feel queasy.  Even more so when I imagined using my powerful boots to step on it.  But that’s the thing to do, right? 

     I headed back down the long hallway to the kitchen, the boots clicking authoritatively.  When I came back into the kitchen, however, there was no more noise.  I peered down at the glue trap now angled under the stove and saw a distinct impression of a tail now gone.  I sighed with relief.  While the fact that it had escaped meant it was still alive and I would most probably have to deal with it in the future, I was very glad not to have to deal with it then.  I am a very “in the moment” kind of person, you see.  With all the time deliberating and zipping up my big boots, I had let it slip away and the moment for dealing with it had passed.

     This little scenario happened a week ago.  I have not heard a peep from the kitchen since.  I am not advocating ignoring something unpleasant because you don’t want to deal with it, but I have to say, sometimes things work themselves out that way.  I instead focused my attention on a self-appointed large project that I knew would take me the whole weekend to finish—a weekend where I would not step one booted foot outside my apartment.

     There are important issues to be considered in my reaction.  Perhaps I could explore my desire to search for an outside savior, my tendency to avoid confrontation, energy spent wishing things were otherwise.  Yeah, those are all things to think about more deeply.  But that’s not what I took away from it.   Besides, I am much stronger in situations where there are not tiny creatures on four feet involved, I promise. 

     No, what the scenario made me appreciate was how much I love living alone, how accustomed I’ve become to it.  Sure, I wanted someone else there to deal with the floating tail, but incidents of floating tails are rare.  I was glad there was no one around to witness my handling of the situation.  In beat-up sweat pants, a beautiful kimono my friend had sent me from Japan, and knee-high black boots, I strolled around the apartment the rest of the night.  This ensemble seemed perfectly reasonable to me.  Sweat pants because it’s cold and I’m not leaving the apartment, the kimono because I don’t have a bathrobe, boots because I don’t want to step on anything underfoot without protection.  I imagined another person looking at me, though, and how strange I might appear.

     I ate my cold pasta after the noise of the unidentified rodent had died down and returned to the computer to continue work on self-appointed writing task.  Writing to me is never just one act.  It involves numerous steps including frequent snack breaks, a playing of piano scales, a perusal of The New Yorker and a possible Pilates workout if feeling particularly ambitious.  The point is, I’m a restless gal.  I have a hard time sitting down to work on things.  The fact that I have all of this space to myself allows me to putz around in odd configurations and prance around in odd clothing choices without anyone commenting.  I really don’t think I’d ever write anything again if I suddenly had a roommate.  Would they understand that yes, I am using the computer even though I am currently eating cheese doodles in front of the TV? 

     So I am feeling really thankful for this new year, empowered by my self-sufficient (if inefficient) set-up.  I may be ineffective in my handling of domestic crises, but it is me handling it.  And that feels good. I like the solitude of my apartment.  Snow is falling outside.  I will not venture past the living room today.  This past week, temperatures have dipped to a windchill of twenty below, but I have been going to performances and parties every night of the week, perhaps in compensation for my weeks of self-exile.  But today, I am again wandering the hall in bizarre fashion statements, eating rice and beans and feeling like, wow, it can’t get any better than this.

Sion Dayson resides in the border between Morningside Heights and Harlem and finds this an apt metaphor for her path of crossing boundaries.  Her work has been published in Inkburns, The Citizen, and the Village Voice’s “Best of New York” issue.