Lease On LIfe

“Damn”, I mutter with disgust, finding myself once again behind a tacky, orange desk.  So what birthday card did it this year, I wonder?  Darn, there’s that déjà vu feeling I experience whenever I first show up here.  But I never remember being here until I’m actually here.  The paradox makes my head spin.

Glancing around at what I can of the vast, empty room, I see the usual stuff.  The pumpkin-colored desk and the black chair I’m fidgeting in, the same color scheme since my first visit.  Is the décor supposed to be based on a holiday theme?  My birthday occurs in October.  My youngest sister is a Valentine’s Day baby.  Would her motif be red and white? 

I’ll never be able to ask her.  We aren’t meant to remember these yearly excursions.

The desk seems to be an older, painted-over wooden model.  Embedded into the top, right corner is an inkwell with an old-fashioned quill pen.  Looking closer at the desk, I notice black streaks bleeding through the orange paint.  Peering down at the arm of my chair, I start picking at a loose piece of vinyl and see orange under that.  So they recycle their furniture.  What shoddy workmanship.  How much do their employees get paid?  Where do they hire their workers?
 
Done with my yearly critical appraisal of the furniture, I get ready for my next task.  Okay, let’s see if I can do it this year.  Straining as hard as I can, my back threatening to give out, I push against the arms of the chair, trying to stand.  Sweat trickling down my face, my arms trembling with exertion, I finally give up and sink back down with a heavy sigh of resignation.  I think I moved two inches.  It’s like the chair’s a magnet and my body the steel.  Or probably the chair’s a magnet for water, seeing that our bodies are mostly water. 

Each year I give my best heroic effort.  Each year I fail.  Maybe when I come back here on my sixtieth birthday I will finally quit trying.  Probably be too weak by then anyway.

My second task finished, I survey the room.  The room hasn’t changed.  I’m sitting in the middle of a giant cotton ball.  I can clearly see several feet around me, than everything past that point becomes blurry, indistinct.  The unseen source of light emits a soft, white glare, enough to give you a headache, if you try looking too closely or long. 

Squinting against the glare, I try looking for walls or a ceiling.  All I see are fluffy white, interlaced clouds.  I have no idea of the room’s dimensions, but I feel as though I’m sitting in an endless room.  I have friends and relatives that share my same birth date.  Are they here, too, somewhere?  I can’t be the only person in this intimidating room.

Concentrating, I listen for any noises or sounds.  All I hear is a faint hum.  But I’m not sure whether the humming is from my ears or the room.  Through dry lips, I blow out a low, short whistle.  The sound floats in the air for a few feet, then stops, as if being absorbed.  I loudly call out, “Echo.  Echo.  Echo.”  I used to feel stupid doing that, but not any longer.  Now I just feel peeved.  Once again, the sound travels a few feet, then just stops. 

Taking a deep sniff, hoping to smell someone’s cologne or perfume, all I inhale is a whiff of musty, dead leaves overlaid with the tangy, smoke smell of a bonfire.  Hmm, more holiday motif?

Feeling eyes boring into the back of my head, I try turning around, but am restrained by the magnetic chair.  I swing my head right to left, trying to see behind me.  Damn, I wish I were an owl.  At least they can rotate their heads 270 degrees.  I hate not being in control.  Not being able to see in front of me, much less behind me.  Panic Attack, here I come.  Okay, take some deep calming breaths.  Get that heart rate down.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Much better. 

I‘m not a newbie at this, I chide myself.  I’ve been here enough times to know that some monster isn’t slowly creeping up behind me to eat my brains.  But what if this year’s the exception?  Oh, damn.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

Quit it, I admonish myself.  You know why you’re here.  Now, get to business.

I reluctantly look down at the birthday card that started this who process.  It’s resting innocently on top of the ugly desk.  Of course, it’s not really a birthday card.  It just looks that way until you open the envelope.  Now it’s a trifold, legal-size piece of paper.  I’m not the sort that regularly checks my mail.  In fact, the Post Office is fortunate if I check my mail every three weeks.  But, on my birthday, I’m compelled to check my mail.  I have no choice.  Lucky me, I sadly think. 

If I had been driving, when I opened the card, would I have caused an accident?  Would I just disappear?  I’ve never heard of people disappearing, and then reappearing.  So maybe this is a time warp type of trip.  I could be sitting here for hours, but it might only be a second in my reality.  I remember that my first trip to this room felt like hours, if not days.  Of course, I was learning the ropes back then.  Now I’m supposed to be a veteran.

Chewing my bottom lip, with a soft crinkling, I slowly unfold the piece of paper.  Across the top, in 22 pt, black, bold type the paper reads: Lease on Life for Tamara Renee Forbes. 

With sweaty palms, I smooth out the legal paper.  I’ve seen a lease similar to this one since I turned eighteen.  The signing of the lease has become a yearly ordeal for me after that.  Who signed my lease before I turned eighteen?  My parents?  Maybe just my mother.  That makes sense, as she gave me life. 

Was she relieved when she no longer had to vouch for me?  I wish I could ask her, I think with a sigh.

Trailing my finger down the page, I notice that Section A, my demographics, has been updated.  My address hasn’t changed, but my marital status did.  Eleven months ago I finally married my high school sweetheart.  Between college and starting our careers, we kept postponing our wedding.  Tilting my hand from side to side, with a dreamy smile, I admire my wedding ring.  The marquis diamond flashes in the white glare. 

With a start, I jerk my eyes back to the top of the lease.  Mouth turned down in a slight frown, I study my name.  Did someone make a mistake?  Or will I always retain my maiden name on the lease? 

Looking around, feeling befuddled, I don’t know what to do.  There is no one to ask questions of.  No help desk I can call.  Here again, I wish I could ask my mom what she did.  Picking up the quill, trying not to blotch the lease, I hesitantly place my initials TF in the box next to that section, acknowledging the changes in my demographics.

I nervously move on to Section B, titled FORBIDDEN ACTIONS.  This section has slightly changed over the years.  It reads like an exceptions provision of an insurance policy.  I shall not do drag racing, hand gliding, skydiving, leaping over tall buildings, yada, yada.  I don’t have an adventurous bone in my body.  Dipping the pen into the inkwell, I gladly print TF in the small box. 

What do race car drivers do?  Or those extreme sports enthusiasts?    Do they have an addendum attached to their leases?  I grit my teeth in frustration at my ignorance.  I go through this every year.  I want to know!  I need to know!

Weary, I skip down to the last section.  Section C: FORBIDDEN MEDICAL CONDITIONS.  Here again, it reads like an insurance policy.  You shall not acquire Cancer, Heart Disease, Diabetes, etc., etc.  As the lessee, it’s your responsibility to have your yearly checkups and seek medical attention for any life-threatening symptoms.  How do you know whether it’s a life-threatening symptom?  When you’re dead? 

From what I understand of the legal jargon in this section, we are allowed one occurrence of a major disease without suffering dire consequences.  Nowhere in the fine print can I find an explanation of the ‘dire consequences’.  We are all bound for death, so what else can they do to us?  And really, who is the ‘They’?  Who writes these stupid leases?  Who brings us here year after year?

Clenching my fists, gnashing my teeth, working myself into a frenzy, I scream, “Who are you?  Why am I here?  I’m not going to sign your stupid lease.”

Suddenly I’m angry with myself, acting like a child, throwing a tantrum.  I do this every year.  Feeling defeated, I know I’ll never get any answers. 

This whole scenario reeks like some lame, bureaucratic, overfunded department.  Like a useless law put on the books eons ago and never removed.  Could God be behind this?  This seems more like the work of the Devil.  Perhaps a slight taste of Hell?  Hanging my head in shame, I timidly remove the quill and place my initials on the small box next to Section C.

I am finally at the last part of this energy-draining process, the signing of the lease.  Actually, the hardest part and why I get myself so worked up.  The date is already prefilled.  But I still need to apply my John Hancock.  Why am I signing it?  Who benefits from this lease?  Certainly not me.  We aren’t allowed to remember any of these transactions. 

Squirming in agitation, feeling as though I’m signing my soul over to the devil, I hastily snatch up the quill, not caring whether I leave a trail of ink splotches behind, and sign my name with a big flourish. 

Blinking in confusion, I look around.  Where is my husband?  Where is my birthday party?  How come I’m not home? 

Breathing rapidly, I feel a panic attack coming on.  At the last stroke of my name, I should have been teleported back to my ordinary life.  Did I finally piss them off and they decided to keep me? 

God, no!  Wait.  Wait.  Take a deep breath.  I’m sure they've heard worse profanity than what I spewed out.  Think calmly.  Obviously something changed.  I just have to figure out what.  Did I dot the I’s and cross the T’s? 

Reading slowly over the lease again, I can’t find anything that I missed.  All the small boxes are initialed, my messy signature on the bottom line.  I study my name at the top of the lease again.  Is that what stopped me from leaving?  Because the lease is under my maiden name?  But how do I change it?

Frantic with fear, stuck fast to the chair, I start stamping my feet and slamming my fists on top of the desk.  I need to get someone’s attention.  I’m not going to spend eternity here because of their stupid mistake on my last name. 

After a minute, an hour, a day, who can tell, with no response, I stop flailing my arms and stamping my feet.  Tears streaming down my face, hiccuping between sobs, I reach down to tear up the cursed lease.  Just as I start to tear the hated legal paper in half, I notice some bold print on the back. 

Slowly turning the paper over, I stare stupidly at the bold typeset.  Addendum 1: DEPENDENT CHILDREN.

What?!  I’ve never seen this one before.  But then, I’ve never turned the lease over before.  In my haste to get the ordeal over with, I missed the addendum. 
A baby?  A baby! 

Reverently, fearfully, I tenderly touch my abdomen.  Could it be?  Am I pregnant?  Chewing on my bottom lip, I mumble, “Am I ready for a baby?  Are we ready for a baby?”  That’s a lot of responsibility.  My mind starts spinning, overwhelmed with a rollercoaster of emotions. 

Chuckling, I think, Of course my emotions would be.  I’m pregnant!  Now I understand how my mother felt. 

With trembling fingers, I pick up the quill and start to mark my initials in the small box next to the addendum.    Just as I put the finishing slash on the F, my eyes catch the faint outline of the number 2 next to DEPENDENT CHILDREN. 

“What?” I ask wide-eye with shock.

Laughter bouncing around the room, I gently nudge my husband in the ribs.  “Bob, you’re such a cad.  You always find the funniest birthday cards.”  Smiling with love at my husband, I glance around our living room at the other attendees of my twenty-fifth birthday party. 

Reaching out, I grab another brightly, colored envelope off the stack in front of me.  “Okay, let’s see what’s next.”