The refrigerator was dying. A tiny opera unfolded, as I brushed off the melting packages in the freezer, while it huffed and puffed and the milk went sour. It was a passing phase, a breather.
"The old girl still has some life in her." I announced.
N was far more pragmatic. A thermometer rested on the shelf inside, which she checked a number of times a day, reporting to me that at night it was actually colder outside of the fridge than inside it. Opposites attract and in some cases, only one of you can be right. It was our life together in a microcosm. Me, the easy optimist, the faux-zen "things fix themselves" voice of avoidance. Her, staring reality in its face, waiting for me to catch up to the truth. The fridge had good days and bad ones, until it was time to call the priest and start to think about last rites.
I made up for all of my foot-dragging that morning, crafting a diplomatic but firm email to our landlord. An hour later he called, agreed to our very reasonable terms and by afternoon a new one was ordered.
To get rid of the old one, I had to pull one door off of its hinges to squeeze it out of the kitchen. A flathead screwdriver in one hand, a hammer in the other I felt like a carpenter again, forearms twisting, catching the weight of the door on my toes. I methodically pulled off the moulding, placed the screws in a bowl, leaving breadcrumbs to follow when I put it all back.
The delivery men were a classic combination, the older guy covered in sweat with no mask or gloves on, a constant look of bewilderment in his eyes. The younger one had the paperwork, and did all of the talking. He wore a mask, but it was tucked under his chin - like a trophy, or a tie he had tugged loose a few steps from the office. We kept our distance and corralled the kids in a bedroom while they were in the apartment. The old fridge was shoved to the hallway. They only deliver them here, and taking away the old one is either too big an ask, or something you have to pay extra for. Of course I went into one of my "in America, when you buy a new mattress they take away the old one" monologues. A few eyes rolled, as usual. Instead, N had found a service that would come and take it for free. They would use it for parts. "See?" I said, my finger in the air. "The old girl is going to donate her organs to save a relative!"
The new fridge loomed in the old space, empty and smelling like vinyl. We waited three hours, then plugged it in. The bulb flickered on inside, like a tiny lighthouse. Everything was going to be alright.
The old one sat in the hallway for a day or two, waiting to be picked up. We pasted a note for the neighbors to see, for them to understand it would be gone soon. When I was going down to throw out the garbage, I saw a note scribbled on it. I first imagined it was a petty tirade, some anonymous complaint. It turns out, some workers from downstairs wanted to take it. They left a phone number to call.
N got on the phone, and all l could decipher was the same words over and again, as if the person on the other side was hard of hearing, or drunk in a loud bar. An hour later, there was a crew in the hallway carting her away. Then, an ugly banging. I wondered if she was kicking and screaming, that she was not ready to leave us. But no, it was them trying to force her into the tiny elevator instead of carrying her down the eight flights of stairs. The whacking continued, like a rodeo. In the end, we understood they had broken the brand new elevator and just hoped no one would blame this on us. The last thing we heard was the bark of their voices as they wrestled her downstairs.
The doorbell rang a while later. As usual - we did not answer it.
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