Hell

Hell.

by Kristen A. Johnson

Christmas Memory 2009

During my senior year of high school, after reading Dante's Inferno in my A.P. English class, we were asked to write a brief essay about our own definition of hell. I wrote the following description of what it was like to move from our Fawn Lane house to the condo in High Pointe.

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Hell. Dante attempted to describe it in his dramatic "Inferno." Webster's tried to explain it as "...the place where fallen angels, devils, etc. live and to which sinners and unbelievers go after death for torment and punishment." Neither man even came close, although I do believe Webster was inspired when he wrote, "...As profanity, hell is variously and extensively used as an interjection expressing irritation, anger, etc. as in 'oh, hell!'" I should know. I've been there.

In layman's terms, one would call it "moving," but anyone who has actually done it knows better. It all began when the one-fourth of my family (my sister) decided to take a convenient "Study Abroad trip" to Israel (vacation) precisely at the time we were preparing to move from our home of seventeen years. At the time, I did not apprehend her little scheme, although in retrospect I can only kick myself when I recall our last conversation.

"Oh, it's so nice of you guys to pack up everything without me! ...And will you be sure to pack up my room with care, and don't throw anything away so I can find stuff when I get back?"

To which I innocently replied, "Oh sure. Have a good time, don't worry about it. I'm totally happy to pack up your room, it's no big deal. We'll be fine."

I wasn't fine. It was, without a doubt, the worst hell I have ever experienced. At first, it wasn't that bad. I began with her room and threw everything into a large box. Then, I decided this wasn't the loving, sisterly thing to do. So I did a better job--one might call it an "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder" job. I took out every tiny paper out of her desk and closet, arranging pictures, movie stubs, concert stubs, programs, and pieces of scrap paper into their own little same-size piles and paper-clipped or rubber-banded everything together in nice, neat, little stacks. EVERYTHING was in neat little stacks. In the beginning, anyway.

I labeled each box with a three-page description of what it contained:

"Megan's Room.

Closet.

Dresser Drawer. Drawer #3.

Belts, Socks, One Bra, White Underwear, Silk Pajamas, Flannel Pajamas..."

And it went on from there in English, Arabic, and Braille so that even the low-I.Q. hired muscles could understand. But the days went on.

One day, when my hundred-year old parents could not possibly take it any longer, I took it upon myself to lift the boxes from eh basement of the old house. Huge, heavy boxes that weighed an approximate three tons each. They were all labeled something like, "Water Supply for the Millennium, " "Wheat for the Entire Alley Family for a Year...With Some to Spare for the Rest of Davis County, " "Lead Bricks," "Garden Rocks," and the like. I memorized every stain on those basement stairs and for entertainment, I began to count the number of dead centipedes, fly guts, and wasp wings while I was on my way up for the three-hundredth time. It was fun. I was there from 6:00 am until 11:00 at night. I didn't eat. Or sit down. Or get a drink. I just kept going. I sprained my wrist for the second time and began to notice an insistent pain in my right calf which felt like caner, although Mother generously suggested that it may only be a deep varicose vein--the fulfillment of every seventeen-year old's dream, and the sign of a real woman. But that's when we ran out of boxes.

As the recycled boxes made their third round, I began to notice the labels that detailed our move in chronological order. The first label read, "FRAGILE. Blue and White Plates, Lovingly Caressed and Sweetly Spoken to Just Before Begin Carefully Wrapped in Paper, and Packed in Alphabetical Order by Plate Designer. Please Place in New Kitchen and Carefully--! Tiptoe on the Way Out."

It was crossed out and replaced by a second label that read, "Clothes. Kristen's Bedroom." This too, was crossed out, and replaced by several violent slashings of a pen that translated to something like, "#@$*! Stuff! GET ME OUT OF THIS HELL!" The rest being illegible due to smeared tear stains. We finally came to the point where we had to enlist the help of a '52 puke-green Ford, lovingly christened "The Booger." This, however, did cause some confusion when our neighbor rushed over and excitedly asked if he could have a part in the remake of "The Grapes of Wrath" which he evidently believed was being filmed at our home. Neighborhood relations continued to hit an all-time low when we mistook his comment about "White Trash" as an offer to help with some of the stuff in our garage.

The moving part did end, however, and we came to realize the new task that lay ahead of us. This is what is referred to in the Bible as "the lake of fiery brimstone and endless torment," or in layman's terms, decorating. Mother wanted to start with my new room, of course, after finding that 2,500 square feet of furniture does not fit in a 1,700 square-foot condo.

"Okay, so we've got the queen-sized bed, your ten-foot desk, hmmmm...you're going to need that twenty-foot tall bookcase, that huge chest of drawers...oh, and you might want that couch in your room, too, right? And how about a hutch cupboard or two? You can't get enough of them, really."

All I could think was that maybe she wouldn't be getting upset about my friends sitting on my 100-year old quilt anymore, because the thirty-foot couch should about seat them all. And for a special addition to that, I became the proud new owner of every stuffed animal in the United States that perched mockingly upon every possible surface. Talk about lions, tigers, and bears...oh my. Ah well, there goes my big, spacious room.

But we don't even realize we're different. I didn't even blink when Mother asked me to put the flour away where it belonged--on the top shelf of the upstairs bathroom cupboard. Nor was I surprised to find her bra in the fridge next to the condiments. And when she asked for my opinion on what to put on the walls of our living room, I told her, "Padding. Definitely padding."