Clean
by Jon Davies
I decide to abolish certain parts of my wardrobe. It has, after all, been a long and lousy drive home, the first time in a while I've not come home to lie about working late.
At the door, my keys fidget in the lock, reminding me of the importance of accurate instruments. I remove my tie and open the door with both hands. Once inside, I drop the tie on the floor, let the jacket glide off my shoulders and arms. I do not pick them up.
As I walk to the bedroom, I unbutton my shirt, remove my belt and my shoes. I stand at the closet doors in my underpants and socks. I open the closet and begin to pull out my clothes. A suede jacket worn down at the elbows. I think of a college biology lab, of the emptied skin of rats and possums--veins, muscles, bones, memorized body parts, notes passed between her and I. And then I think about the brake system of her car, how I'd been warned about it. I throw the jacket on the floor, pull out a brown striped shirt with a corduroy collar. My mom bought it for me for my twenty-first birthday. I wore it once, and only at Louise's urging. There is also the tuxedo shirt from the wedding--ruffles, the fashion. Now they look sinister, like flesh congealed over bone. I see white and think broken vows, retribution. I come to the golf pants Esther gave me, at work, for my promotion, the ones I told Louise I bought at the Salvation Army. Perhaps, without these pants, none of this would have started. Without these pants, Louise wouldn't have taken the car.
I yank out all the clothes, gather the items from the floor, and place them in the center of the bed. I scoop the sheets together so that all the clothes are within them, and then I position the sheets over my shoulder like a bag. The clothes are heavy. I look at Louise's closet but do not open it. Another day, I tell myself. I enter the kitchen and drop the clothes in the garbage. They don't fit. They sit atop of the garbage pail like a brain spilling out of its skull. I grab hold of the sheets again and go to the dumpster outside. Not there, I think. I go next door, walk along the driveway and into my neighbor's back yard. I open his garbage can and swing my clothes off my shoulder and into it. I am standing in my neighbor's back yard in my underwear, and my trash can is clean. I look across at the house. It seems strange now. It is not our house anymore, I think. It is their house, that couple's, the couple that lived there.
At the door, my keys fidget in the lock, reminding me of the importance of accurate instruments. I remove my tie and open the door with both hands. Once inside, I drop the tie on the floor, let the jacket glide off my shoulders and arms. I do not pick them up.
As I walk to the bedroom, I unbutton my shirt, remove my belt and my shoes. I stand at the closet doors in my underpants and socks. I open the closet and begin to pull out my clothes. A suede jacket worn down at the elbows. I think of a college biology lab, of the emptied skin of rats and possums--veins, muscles, bones, memorized body parts, notes passed between her and I. And then I think about the brake system of her car, how I'd been warned about it. I throw the jacket on the floor, pull out a brown striped shirt with a corduroy collar. My mom bought it for me for my twenty-first birthday. I wore it once, and only at Louise's urging. There is also the tuxedo shirt from the wedding--ruffles, the fashion. Now they look sinister, like flesh congealed over bone. I see white and think broken vows, retribution. I come to the golf pants Esther gave me, at work, for my promotion, the ones I told Louise I bought at the Salvation Army. Perhaps, without these pants, none of this would have started. Without these pants, Louise wouldn't have taken the car.
I yank out all the clothes, gather the items from the floor, and place them in the center of the bed. I scoop the sheets together so that all the clothes are within them, and then I position the sheets over my shoulder like a bag. The clothes are heavy. I look at Louise's closet but do not open it. Another day, I tell myself. I enter the kitchen and drop the clothes in the garbage. They don't fit. They sit atop of the garbage pail like a brain spilling out of its skull. I grab hold of the sheets again and go to the dumpster outside. Not there, I think. I go next door, walk along the driveway and into my neighbor's back yard. I open his garbage can and swing my clothes off my shoulder and into it. I am standing in my neighbor's back yard in my underwear, and my trash can is clean. I look across at the house. It seems strange now. It is not our house anymore, I think. It is their house, that couple's, the couple that lived there.
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Author's Note
This started as a writing exercise that begged for bad, overly emotional fiction: a loved one dies--how do you react? Write it without mentioning the death. My attempt was to not go for the obvious--crying or whatever. Written twenty years ago, it was one of the few pieces of short- short fiction (under 1,000 words) I managed to complete until the last couple of years. (I am one for prosaic verbosity.)
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Excellent piece. Powerful.
"Clean" is very cleanly done and very sharply ended.
Yes, very clean! I like the unloading of the clothes, how that represents the loss. I like what you've done with the exercise. Great piece!
I read this without reading your explanation first, and I'm glad I did because as a reader I didn't come to the death until midway through the story. I like that in short works; it always invites me to go back, and read again.
I also like this very much:
Now they look sinister, like flesh congealed over bone.
I love this line " the importance of accurate instruments" and how it foreshadows the car, how the clothes are markers, a kind of proof.
The last five sentences I especially like, and of those the last sentence I especially especially like. Nice stuff. Lean, muscular writing.
I agree with the comment above that the ending is wonderfully clean. I also love the way you describe the clothes as flesh. A wonderful story.
This is wonderful, and that last sentence is golden. Heartbreaking.
Gorgeous work.
What everyone said, Jon. Just a searing ending. Those last five words will stay with me for a long time.
love how the details tell the unspoken story, the garbage spilling out like a brain- wonderful work.
Good effin' story.
I saw the comments and came back on this one. Wow, it's as powerful this time around. Well done.
Thanks to all for reading.
jon,
wonderful--
Just started on Fictionaut - used to live in Athens myself.
Really enjoyed this story. You can turn a phrase.
"They sit atop of the garbage pail like a brain spilling out of its skull"
"emptied skin of rats and possums--veins, muscles, bones, memorized body parts, notes passed between her and I"
"Now they look sinister, like flesh congealed over bone. I see white and think broken vows, retribution"
Jon this is amazing...just read it again...
Hi, thanks for commenting on my story. I wanted to pay a visit to see what you are working on.
This really appeals to me - writing about grief without mentioning the obvious. I recently worked on something similar. Grief is so much more than crying. I'm amazed at how much you convey about the circumstances and the narrator's feelings of shame and regret in such a short space. Great idea to have him dump his trash at the neighbor's house.
This is well done, extremely well after reading your author comments, except that apparently you're not capable of accommodating the "bad" writing that the exercise called for.
Wow, this is powerful. I love the last paragraph especially. I tried to pick a favorite sentence to highlight, but they are all so good!
Love how this piece makes you want to read it over and over, so much between the lines.