Every story has a beginning…

Ack. God, I hate that shit. Of course every story has a beginning. No shit, Sherlock. And every journey begins with a single step. Blah blah blah. Unless, of course, it’s The Never Beginning Story. I’ll bet that story doesn’t have a frickin’ beginning. Because it’s never beginning. Hells yeah! That makes sense to me. I may have to do a 42-part web series on the never beginning story. I’d like that.

Here, let me take a crack at this sort of nonsense. “Every story can be told at least two ways.” Cryptic enough for ya? Whatever. This is my story. And it all begins on a Tuesday morning not too long ago…

—

I was still groggy. It was completely dark out and something had awakened me. I realized someone was there, a few feet away, standing in the darkness, watching me.

I knew it was my wife. Through the plexiglass that separated us (conveniently sprinkled with air holes) I sensed that see she was angry. Her nostrils flared. She was about to speak.

“Don’t,” I said, interrupting her before she started. “Something has gone wrong, hasn’t it?”

“Good morning, Tom,” she said. “Yes, something has gone wrong.”

“Closer,” I said. “Closer, please.”

She took a step forward and the light from my room illuminated her a bit more fully.

“Tom, you …,” she started, but I sniffed at the air between us, thick with tension, and she hesitated.

“You don’t smell of garbage,” I said. “Sometimes you do, but not today. No, not today. It’s my job isn’t it? A man’s job, but sometimes you still have to do it yourself. You stand there in your fancy shoes and try to pretend your husband always does his share of the chores. But today he didn’t, did he?”

I sniffed at the air again, longer this time. “No, he didn’t. And neither did you. But the smell of garbage is still there. Not from you, no. From the kitchen. From the bin that your husband didn’t take out. Isn’t that right, Clarice?”

“Yes, it’s Tuesday morning, isn’t it? Monday is when he takes out the trash. Because we all know what happens if he doesn’t.”

“Do you know what you look like standing there with your fancy shoes and your faith in your husband? You look like a rube, Clarice.”

Her eyes showed momentary surprise. She was shaking now.

“Last night you heard it, didn’t you? The awful sound of your garbage not being picked up.”

I pressed on.

“You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? Wake up in the dark and hear the silence of the garbage not being picked up?”

“Yes.”

“And you think, if you could somehow motivate poor Tom, that garbage would be gone by now, don’t you? You think if the garbage was gone, you wouldn’t wake up in the dark ever again to that awful silence of the garbage not being picked up.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Thank you, Clarice.”

—

Eh? The other way of telling the story? It goes like this: “Tuesday morning my wife told me I forgot to take out the trash.” Now you tell me. Which version did you like better?