Activism
Mary Swigg despised the smell of dogs.
In fact, Mrs. Swigg disliked most everything about dogs; they were dirty,
noisy, and got into the garbage can.
The only reason she tolerated this squeaky, little fur ball of disaster
was because her son was visiting home, and he insisted on bringing his new pet.
The thing was scratching at her leg, its giant tongue draping out of its
mouth as it panted heavily, and Mrs. Swigg stood there frozen—not knowing how to
deal with the situation.
After several minutes,
she moved her foot gently away from the creature, and it trotted into the other
room. She exhaled a sigh of relief,
and then went into the pantry, where she grabbed the Lemon Pledge and brought it
into the lounge. There, she wiped off the dust and dog fur on the piano that had
accumulated much quicker than usual over the last week of her son’s home stay.
In an attempt to mask the unbearable odor, she also decided to set out
scented candles on the mantle: Lavender, Cinnamon, and Rain scent.
They would also add some decoration to the room for tonight’s meeting,
she thought. The packaging claimed
the candles would eliminate odors, though she never knew if they would truly get
rid of the scent or just add a cinnamon aroma to the grotesque smell of dog.
Positioning the candles
equidistantly from each other, she glanced at Matthew’s photograph from high
school graduation. He had his
father’s stunning blue eyes and confident smile, and such a bright future.
She knew from the very beginning that he should have gone straight to
college instead of traveling first—she knew that taking time off before going to
school would make him lose his focus and ambition to become a doctor.
As a mother wanting to support her son, however, she let him pursue his
interests and permitted him to defer his application.
Now, just as she worried would happen, he was back home to inform her
that he had declined his admission to Yale to live with some people he had met
in Mexico or Spain or some other South American country.
She supposed this meant he would never go to college.
Aggressively, Mrs. Swigg sprayed Windex on the glass door leading out to
the porch, wiping the cloth carefully in parallel, vertical lines to be sure to
leave no streaks. She looked out
the window to her neighbor, Earl, who was looking at a package.
At Mrs. Swig’s third wipe, she stopped in mid-streak and glanced across
the street to a shingled, wooden house with unkempt vines strangling it;
spiraling and shooting up in every direction.
It was Cynthia’s house, Mrs. Swigg’s eccentric neighbor.
At this moment, Mrs. Swigg remembered that Cynthia had been the one to
introduce the study abroad program to Matthew in the first place. Mrs. Swigg’s
eyes remained fastened to the peculiar house for several more seconds before
progressing onto her fourth stroke.
***
Cynthia loved the way
onions sizzled and sputtered in the flying pan.
She took a whiff of the scent.
It made her eyes water a bit, and she laughed a sing-songy laugh at how
emotional she appeared to be getting over onions.
Cynthia tossed some red and yellow bell peppers into the pan to cook with
the onions. She admired the variety
of colors in the pan. Tying her
long, fluffy, orange hair into a ponytail, she began to slice the zucchini,
remembering she had a neighborhood Earthquake safety meeting that night.
She dug through her drawer to the right of the stove, trying to find the
flyer, which specified where and when the meeting was.
There it was, printed on a bright red piece of paper to get everyone’s
attention.
Mrs. Swigg’s house.
1471 Swinyard Street. Please
arrive promptly at 7:30.
Cynthia was a little nervous that the meeting would be held at Mrs. Swigg’s
house—she always found herself feeling uncomfortable in its cleanliness.
Also, Cynthia had felt tension with Mrs. Swigg ever since she had
encouraged her son, Matthew, to study abroad.
After high school, Cynthia had studied abroad in Costa Rica, which
encouraged her to become Wiccan and study their beliefs about the power of
herbs. Later, she opened a store in
El Cerrito, California where she sold these herbs.
Cynthia looked at the clock to see that
it was 7:25, and quickly added the most important ingredient—the garlic—which
would keep the evil spirits away.
She ate the meal hastily, then grabbed her coat, shut the door slowly behind her
to be sure not to harm a ghost, and briskly walked out onto her brick patio.
As Cynthia was about to place the pouch of figs on her doormat to ensure
that she arrived home safely, she felt the sense that she was being watched.
Looking to her right, she noticed her neighbor Earl crouching on the
sidewalk, tying his shoe and staring straight at her.
“Howdy, neighbor!”
shouted Cynthia.
Earl gave a kind grin and
waved to her, but didn’t say anything. Earl had always been quiet.
Cynthia remembered when she was in her twenties and first moved into the
neighborhood. She always jokingly
asked Earl, “Cat got your tongue?” and he would give her the same quiet, soft
smile he had just presented her with.
Earl still had his eyes fixed on Cynthia as she headed down her stairs
inattentively. She did not notice
that the box of herbs she requested for her Witchcraft store had arrived on her
porch, and she nearly tripped over it.
The small, cardboard box contained several thin envelopes of a potent
herb called Belladonna, which was poisonous to humans, but did wonders to keep
away ghosts and evil spirits. In a
rush to get to the meeting, Cynthia stuffed the cardboard box in her jacket
pocket and jogged over to Mrs. Swigg’s house.
Earl still watched her with a curious look.
***
Mrs. Swigg was arranging
the chips and dip in the living room when her first guest arrived.
She opened the front door; it was Earl.
Mrs. Swigg was always repulsed by Earl’s dreadlocks and bright, orange
beanie. On Earl’s left shoulder
hung a messenger bag, made of recycled juice boxes.
He had placed pins all along the straps; one pin had an image of the
world with a cartoon face, its eyes bulging and mouth looking like a balloon
about to pop. The phrase
Thomas Malthus Wasn’t All Wrong
circled the Earth.
Mrs. Swigg did not know what this meant, but did not particularly
care, either.
“Oh hello, Earl.
Please make yourself at home.”
Earl mumbled if Mrs. Swigg would sign some petition about enforcing a
one-child-per-family act, but Mrs. Swigg shook her head and said that she didn’t
sign petitions. Mrs. Swigg always found Earl to be an unexpectedly quiet man for
the gregarious house he had. His
house was painted a kiwi green with royal blue trimmings, and his windows were
made opaque by opinionated signs; the most prominent sign had an image of a
stick-figure family with X’s through the children.
As Earl silently walked
into the living room, Mrs. Swigg noticed that he hadn’t removed his brown hiking
boots. She was about to say
something, but decided in the spirit of neighborliness to remain silent and let
him feel more comfortable.
***
Cynthia forgot how tall and intimidating Mrs. Swigg’s front door looked.
The thick arch of wood swung open and Mrs. Swigg stood as a black
silhouette in the yellow lighting of the living room.
“Hi, Mrs. Swigg. It’s so
nice to see you.” Cynthia put her
hand on Mrs. Swigg’s shoulder and smiled.
“Hello, Cynthia.” Mrs. Swigg
could only manage a slight grin.
Cynthia walked into the living room she expected: the white pillows were
fluffed to their full potential, the glass coffee table had no clutter of
magazines or remotes, and another table had crackers, little baguette pieces and
a clearly thought-out arrangement of vegetables.
“So, how are you, Mrs. Swigg?
How are Jim and Matthew?”
Cynthia asked, as she hung her purse on the coat rack.
“Excuse me, Cynthia, would you mind putting your purse in the designated
area over there? I’d like the coat
rack to be used solely for coats.”
Cynthia looked to the right to notice a large chair with a sign stating “Area
for Purses.” Cynthia couldn’t stand
how Mrs. Swigg spoke to her in such a condescending way, with her chin a little
bit up, looking down at her through her round glasses that perfectly
circumscribed the shape of her eye.
“Oh, really?” Cynthia responded.
“It’s…it’s important that I put my coat over there?”
Cynthia laughed quietly, reacting to Mrs. Swigg’s request as if it were a
joke, although she knew it was not.
Her hand traced the corners of the small cardboard box in her pocket.
“I’m really sorry if that’s an inconvenience, Cynthia.
These are just the rules in my home, and I would really appreciate it if
you would be kind enough to follow them.”
Cynthia tossed her purse forcefully on the designated Purse Chair, and
headed to the table of food. As she
was munching on a peeled carrot stick, Mrs. Swigg mysteriously appeared by
Cynthia’s side, and responded five minutes too late, “My husband is doing fine.
He still has a stable job at the hospital.”
After recovering for a moment from the shock of Mrs. Swigg’s sneaky
appearance, Cynthia responded.
“Good for him, and how’s Matthew?”
Half of Cynthia knew what was coming, but asked Mrs. Swigg simply to
irritate her.
“Matthew is not so fine.
He dropped out of college, actually.”
Mrs. Swigg paused. Cynthia
noticed Mrs. Swigg biting her bottom lip, and wondered if she would cry.
“This would never have happened if Matthew didn’t study abroad; now he
wants to live in South America. He
should not have been encouraged.”
Mrs. Swigg looked straight at Cynthia.
“That was the mistake that cost him his future.”
Cynthia practically felt
chills from the glare of Mrs. Swigg’s gray eyes.
They seemed to paralyze her with their immense concentration.
She swore, those two eyes in themselves could kill a person.
Cynthia channeled the rage building up inside of her into squeezing the
cardboard box in her coat pocket.
***
Mrs. Swigg, finding it
extremely difficult not to have a nervous breakdown about Matthew,
half-heartedly smiled at the success of her party arrangement.
All of the purses were neatly stacked in the “Area for Purses.” All coats
were hung on the coat rack except for one man’s; he sat in the living room
wearing a long, black pea coat.
Mrs. Swigg’s eyes scanned over the coats on the rack, and noticed that one
coat’s pockets bulged out more than the others—a smooth corner of a box poking
out. Her eyes continued
across the room, observing that Earl had asked each neighbor for a signature on
his one-child-per-family petition, but no one agreed to sign.
He looked at his clipboard—frowning, and his face a bit pale.
“Please leave your tea
and coffee in the living room on the wooden coasters I provided,” Mrs. Swigg
announced. “Let’s all make our way
into the lounge for a presentation.”
She knew the megaphone she purchased from Sky Mall would be useful one
day. All of the neighbors followed
Mrs. Swigg, except for Earl, who hovered near the coat rack for a couple minutes
longer than the others.
The guest speaker was
named Harry Womboe, a man who must have been in his sixties with a gray, bushy
mustache and a potbelly. He brought
many posters of the damage that Earthquakes had caused.
Mrs. Swigg couldn’t stand how he spoke to the neighbors as if they were
children, talking slowly and putting emphasis on every word.
“Now you have
to remember: if you know how to
prepare, you’re half-way there.”
Harry Womboe pounded his fists in the air on saying “prepare” and
“there.”
Mrs. Swigg contemplated
the logical fallacies of this rhyme.
First of all, knowing how to
prepare doesn’t necessarily mean one will
prepare. Secondly, preparing will
lead to being halfway where?
While thinking of her third fallacy, she heard an angry sigh coming from
the back of the room. She looked
around, but could not identify who made the sound.
Mrs. Swigg kept eying
Cynthia, to her right. How could
Cynthia just sit there, listening attentively, like nothing was wrong?
She had destroyed her son’s future, for God’s sake.
Mrs. Swigg kicked Cynthia’s shin, then apologized for the “accident.”
Harry Womboe continued
his lesson.
“Now, every one of you
folks is gonna need an E.E.K., or Earthquake Emergency Kit. You’re gonna need
some water purification, alcohol swabs, some tanks of water—“
Mrs. Swigg heard the sigh
again, and then a “Jesus Christ,” whispered under someone’s breath.
Who was this extremely inconsiderate person?
They were just being downright rude to the presenter.
Harry Womboe continued.
“You’re also gonna want a
flashlight, some dried food, matches, money, blankets…”
Harry Womboe’s voice trailed off and got quieter at the end of his list.
He focused his eyes on something in the back of the room.
Mrs. Swigg turned around to see Earl standing on his seat, his hands
shaking and his face bright red.
“You in the back, is
there a problem?” Harry Womboe
asked playfully, but Mrs. Swigg could sense nervousness to his tone.
Earl stood
stationary—speechless—looking around at every person in the room.
“Um…sir?”
Harry Womboe asked again.
“This is—this is…wrong,”
Earl began. “We shouldn’t… be going
against the will of Mother Nature like this.”
Earl’s words got louder and louder as he continued.
“We shouldn’t try so hard to…to prevent our own deaths.” Earl was
becoming out of breath, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.
Mrs. Swigg had never seen Earl display this sort of aggressiveness
before. “Overpopulation is
what is forcing our society to have a capitalist government, and that is what is
manipulating our citizens to care only about money!”
Earl rushed out of the room, but no one heard a front door slam behind
him.
The room was silent.
Mrs. Swigg felt
embarrassed for Earl.
“Alright, well if that’s
all the spontaneous protests we have for tonight, I think I’ll continue…”
Harry Womboe began.
***
Cynthia was glad the
presentation was finally over. She
had noticed Mrs. Swigg kick her several times, and hypothesized that the kicks
were intentional. Cynthia had to
try hard to refrain herself from laughing during Earl’s little speech.
Eager to leave the meeting, she was the first to exit the lounge and
return to the living room. She
plopped herself on the couch and decided that after she was done with her tea,
she would leave. At her first sip,
she paused drinking, surprised by the flavor.
Other neighbors sat back down in the living room to sip and talk.
“Hey, Randy.
How’ve you been?” Cynthia
asked her neighbor who always wore a long, black, pea coat.
“Oh, I’ve been alright.
Same old, same old. What
about you, Cynthia?”
Cynthia formed her lips
to say ‘good,’ but no sound would come out.
Randy’s face started to get blurry and out-of-proportion.
Like a distorting mirror in a fun house at an amusement park.
The ceiling started spinning.
Randy made a worried comment about her overly dilated pupils. She felt
someone put his or her hand on her forehead, then on her wrist.
Cold sweat dripped down her forehead.
It was harder to see. She
tried to focus her eyes on the scented candles on the mantle.
One was red, one was purple, one was blue.
The three colors crossed into one until she could no longer see anything.
She could no longer hear or feel or smell, and let herself go.
***
Earl stepped outside of Mrs. Swigg’s bathroom only when he could hear no
more voices or movement. His hair
was stuck to his head with sweat as he walked into the living room.
He counted the lifeless bodies; all fourteen that had come to the meeting
were there.
Earl stood a couple yards away from a body, clutching Cynthia’s cardboard
box, and mixed with feelings of guilt and exhilaration.
A day ago the idea of poisoning all of his neighbors would have sounded
crazy to him, but when he saw Cynthia conveniently place her box of poisonous
herbs in her pocket, the idea seemed to speak for itself.
Having majored in Botany in college, Earl knew that Belladonna was one of
the most lethal herbs.
Earl had always felt that
overpopulation was ruining society, but knew that people were not going to take
action to prevent it. After all,
not one of his neighbors had signed his petition.
Earl had no choice but to take the matter into his own hands.
Earl reached over a body and grabbed a mug from the glass coffee table.
He clutched the ceramic handle in his fist and stared into the cup at the
dark yellow-colored tea. The
concept of death no longer made him nervous as he was overcome with a rush of
adrenaline. Earl was passionate
about many issues, but was often too shy to vocalize about these issues and to
take action. He lifted the rim of
the smooth, cold mug to his lip.
Now he could call himself an activist.