It started with her remote control. Well, no, that wasn’t the start. That was just the first time she said something. In fact, she had noticed immediately how he just made himself at home in her apartment. How could she not? He left a wake of debris everywhere he went – toothpicks, paperclips, business cards, receipts, spare change, his mail, beer cans, bottle caps, wine corks, bar towels, tissues, paper napkins, straws, plastic utensils, socks, neckties (which were never untied) coat hangers, water bottles, gum wrappers, disposable razors, prescription bottles…it was endless.
He also helped himself to her things, and her space–moved her clothes off a hook in her own bedroom to hang his suits there. Adopted her tweezers and her nail-clippers; left them in his car. Or her car. Or at his place. He insisted on borrowing her car-phone-charger, despite the fact that it didn’t fit his flip phone (circa 2008). It was never seen again.
But the first time she asked for a little bit of respect for her home, her things, and herself, was about the remote control.
They were getting up from an afternoon of lounging in front of Netflix at her place, about to head out to dinner, and she asked him to please retrieve the TV remote from the tangled mess of blankets and pillows and put it on the table (so it could easily be found later).
“No.”
Huh? She thought, and so said again, “Please?”
“You need to chill out,” he rolled his eyes and waived his hand in that dismissive way he had. Just brushing things off as utterly and simply as one can dismiss the concept of airborn swine. She’d, by now, heard him use this on many occasions – like a blunt instrument, to bat away anything he didn’t care to hear, see, deal with, or believe. Mostly small things, but sometimes shockingly important things.
This particular small thing, putting her remote control back on the table where it belonged, struck her as a reasonable request. So, she tried again, “I like to keep it on the table so I can find it whe–”
“WELL I LIKE IT IN THE BED!” He yelled, slapping both his arms down at his sides; he looked to her like a giant child throwing a temper tantrum – right down to the exaggerated pout and strategically-drawn brow.
Well. She had zero idea how to handle that. Again, she decided to drop it, and approach it later, after some thought. Meanwhile, he continued to live sloppily and carelessly in her space. It didn’t add up; he was also constantly bemoaning the demise of manners in society. He griped when he didn’t get things exactly as he preferred them, and he was as unforgiving as a concrete slab.
She thought on it, to isolate what was really bugging her – these things, and so many others that had given her pause, were symptoms; there was a common theme among them, and therefore probably a common cause.
Some days later, sitting in her car, in his driveway before parting ways for some time, she would tell him that she thought he didn’t extend to others the same rights and respect that he demanded for himself. He would be unable to grasp the concept. She would ask him how he defined “respect.” He would dodge the question, and she would go home thinking some more.
The Buttony Tundra 