scents.

I woke the other evening to the stench of gas in my apartment. And, it was freezing. My landlords, those people that own the backyard I am living in, have been having inner alterations done to their house. There is a chute coming out of at upstairs window that I have been tempted to climb upon, and then slide down, for the past two weeks. That is the fun part of the construction. The other part is when the men that have the licenses and certifications and stuff like that shut the water and gas off, with no thought given to the poor girl living in the backyard.

I had come home from a depressingly delightful evening with two beautiful ladies. There was wine with the smell of garlic and roasted vegetables, brownies and conversation; talk of drugs and God and the things in life we lack, but wish we didn’t. I came home with the feeling of empty weighing heavy on my esophagus, and the above mentioned smell of gas greeting me at the door. When the licensed men shut off the gas, it also shut off my pilot lights. The emitting gas had no flame to burn. I had no matches to make a flame. I went to a sketchy convenience store at eleven, bought a lighter, a book of matches, and a wrench. The clerk looked at me quizzically. I smiled, went home, and lit the pilot lights on my stove. I hoped this would fix the smell, and also that I would wake in the morning. I did, to the same above mentioned stench of gas in my apartment. I neglected the pilot light on my gas heater, which meant it neglected to make heat.

I tried. I really did. I removed the metal panel and read the instructions. I identified all of the parts. I read it again. I got frustrated because I couldn’t find the pilot to light. I turned the switch to off, opened the window to let the gas out, and the thirty degree air in. Then I rearranged my living room, put my TV back in the closet, hung up my clean clothes, put my dishes away, and went back to sleep, waking every once in a while to fresh, frigid gas free air.

The TV was out of my closet because of the impromptu Japanese martial arts movie I had watched the previous week. While crouched behind the TV in a dress and hoodie, plugging the red cord into the red socket, I commented on how I felt sorry for all of my friends who are married with babies. (No offense married friends with babies. I don’t really feel sorry for you. I am deeply happy for you. And some days I want to be you. I was just making light of the fact that it would be difficult for you to watch a japanese martial arts movie late in the evening with two young men at the apartment you live in alone, and trying to remind myself of the aspects of my reality that I have to be thankful for). Anyway, the ironic aspect of my comment is that, reading this story, my married friends would likely feel sorry for me. They may not have the same strange late evening movie experiences as me, but they would have someone in the house to help with the heater and the pilot light.

Post pilot light episode, and extra thought, I decided that the feeling of sorry isn’t really necessary. There is goodness in it all. My married friends have a lifetime companion. Mothers and fathers are blessed with the astounding responsibility of caring for another human life. And I have much too. Freedom is not something to cast aside and lament. It can be a beautiful thing. I also receive help from unlikely places. A random neighbor that knows my father came and lit it for me the following day. He didn’t know me, but he traipsed through the snow anyway. I watched him, asked him questions, and can do it myself next time. I was reminded that sometimes I just have to ask for help.

I closed my windows with gratitude and fell asleep alone, breathing in cozy and warm gas free air.