I've put off really examining the events in this portion; it may sound funny. If I saw it in a movie I can see how it could be, but having lived it—illogical, easily prevented, but there it was; it was horrible.
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I was terrified to open the refrigerator door.
Earlier in the year, a good friend had come out for a visit, and I'd booked us on a tour boat to visit an environmentally protected island. Not to hike but to watch from a distance.
We'd packed fruit and cheese and good rustic bread with bottled water, but the seas were rough and the tour cancelled. Disappointed, we took a tour boat out to another island, this one well-trod, visited by tour boats at least hourly, the resident animals there accustomed to visitors and their food scraps.
At the end of a nice day, one with no heavy anxiety or panic, I wrapped the leftover chevre (a goat-milk cheese) loosely and put it into the refrigerator door. My friend headed back home the next day, and I forgot about the cheese.
Left optimistic and hoping for an upswing, I tried to extend the routine of the previous week, getting out of the apartment for hours at a time, going to the various parks, contemplating the Japanese Garden, the art museum, visiting my favorite lunch and dinner places and out to the various neighborhoods to find new ones. Took the bus back out to the ocean, chuckling to myself as I remembered the day we'd walked the same beach, my friend exclaiming, as he bent down to retrieve it, "look, a little bird skull," flinging it in disgust as he saw its giant rat teeth.
Compared to the several months prior, I was doing OK and looking to continue.
I'd been able to straighten up the apartment, at least superficially, for the visit, and slowly began to accumulate newspapers, more mail—the previous batch had been put into envelopes, except for the bills, which I'd been a little late on, as usual. Amazingly, in retrospect I didn't think twice about the late fees.
Before long the apartment was a back in its usual mess.
Most days lately I'd sit at my desk, working on projects that previously I'd done relatively effortlessly, usually delivering them the next morning. It was good to have something I could focus on entirely, keeping my brain occupied with a relatively mundane but important task. This had become my niche; no one else I nor my client knew could produce so fast with few if any errors. I even threw in proofreading and rewrote sentences for clarity when needed, no extra charge.
My "real" work had been in coming up with ideas, apparently good ones as they'd consistently rung the cash registers for clients and received accolades from peers; with the economy in a downer (which I'd laugh at now), over time it became more difficult to retain my old clients. Most had shut down in the previous couple of years. The work I was doing now was lower stress, lower pay, but still gave me lots of time off, usually. I'd considered delivering the work later, still quicker than most could achieve, and padding the hours, but I'd determined years before I'd never lie on time or steal from a client.
Unfortunately by this time my head was so clouded, thinking so difficult, that it really did take longer than it should have to do my work. I lied about the time, but in the client's favor, and was in danger of losing my "quick" niche.
Meanwhile, the cheese sat, loosely wrapped, in its little door compartment.
Weeks went by. I felt like cooking again.
Upon opening the refrigerator I was overwhelmed by a tremendous stench. The chevre. I vomited as I closed the door, fast as I could. In following weeks I picked up frozen "healthy" dinners on sale and was glad I could still use the freezer, microwaving something on the few days I felt hungry.
One day, while picking at the microwaved dinner in its plastic tray, I could taste what I'd smelled earlier. My keyboard was ruined with an involuntary reaction.
Another month or two went by. I would go days without eating, or get by on peanut butter and crackers from the kitchen shelves.
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