The Sword of Damocles

I never thought I’d be able to live with anyone. Too idiosyncratic, too particular about personal space, a fickle Gemini, I’m not one I would consider an easy person with whom to live. There are perks that go along with living with me, though: a great movie collection, fantastic cooking, and a rapier wit that will keep you comfortably tickled and in good spirits for as long as you wish. With this in mind, two years ago I decided to move in with F. and undertake a new adventure in living.

In the almost two years since that decision, F. and I have learned much more about each other and my life is vastly richer because of him. Whereas before, when I was in my 20s and couldn’t imagine ever living with anyone, now I can’t conceive a life without him in it. And Gio, the Shih-Tzu, too.

We’ve found a balance living together, one that includes dividing up household duties. It’s a utilitarian necessity to do so when living with someone, not just because one person shouldn’t have to everything, but it’s a partnership in which each party has to feel a sense of sharing responsibilities.

My two big contributions are grocery shopping and cooking. This includes preparing lunches for F. for the week and cooking dinner at night. I love doing this. It gives me joy and time to myself to be in the moment, to be present, and give back to the one I love. I also make sure Gio has the occasional treat. He rewards me with love and affection, but on his terms. Gio’s the most idiosyncratic of our motley crew, and if he doesn’t want to play or go outside to do his business, if he decides against what I want him to do, there’s no making him do it. He’s a venerable dog and I honor and admire that in the little jerk.

F.’s duties, which he nobly does with tenacity, are cleaning the house and doing the laundry – two acts I despise performing. He’s a manic vacummer, whizzing around the house in a blur, and in the end, the dust bunnies are gone, the bed gets made, my white t-shirts come back with only a slight shade of pink, and my pairs of socks occasionally return without their matching twins.

F. cleaned while I was out about town yesterday. When I came home the vacuum was still out, a peccadillo that I let go because of the work F. had done. Rather than bemoan the fact, I wrapped up the cord, ready to put it back in the basement cellar stairwell, but something else called me away, so the vacuum was left on its own in the hallway. I forgot about it until later that evening when the following occurred.

A phone call for F. He answered and it was his friend, Mary. They talked. I heard the basement door open, and then a terrible crash. Then silence. I ran to the door and opened it and there F. was, like the sword of Damocles, hanging above the stairs on the outcropping of planks over the steep steps that serves as a storage space, vacuum under his arm, hanging on for dear life by his elbows. Below, on the hard cellar floor lay his open cell phone with Mary continuing to talk, her voice echoing in the basement while F. swung like a pendulum. “Bla, bla, bla….” Didn’t she hear the fall? Didn’t she know he wasn’t there on the phone, but rather clinging to the crawlspace floor over the stairs? Apparently not.

It was one of those moments when you stand and stare, bewildered, not knowing what to do. It’s a moment when all reason gets thrown out with the washwater and baby and you’re simply left with a puzzling predicament. Had he really tried to talk and put the vacuum away at the same time? And how in the world did he end up like that? There are some things in life that deserve no answer.

“I can’t reach the stairs,” F. moaned.

In a situation like this, most people would rise to the occasion and save the victim who was slowly slipping from the precipice. But the first thing I thought was: Save the vacuum. Perhaps I should have thought of F., but vacuums cost money. F. can fall, but if the vacuum goes, then we’ll have to buy another one! Save it!

I grabbed it from under his armpit and placed it in the hallway. Then I had to figure out how to get him down. It was a precarious situation because he was too high above the stairs for me to place myself to stealthily maneuver him down. In the end, I was able to get under him and ease him down to the stairs, but after much thought.

Mary continued to talk away, unaware of the almost tragic series of events that could have taken place had F. fallen all the way. Broken ankle? Cracked head? It didn’t matter. The vacuum was saved. He picked up the phone and continued the conversation without missing a beat.

Living with someone isn’t always easy. There are arguments, tense moments, times of miscommunication and misunderstanding, but the other flashes of laughter, joy, and sharing a rich life together outweigh those times when things don’t seem to be going so well.

We’re a work in progress, and like that moment in the stairwell, you can either hang on or let go with the faith that someone will help you down to the steps of the stairs. I find it’s much easier just to go with the flow and see what happens next. And always make sure Gio has a treat.