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Passive-Aggressive Pete instructs me on proper cleaning technique, bails on the actual cleaning to attend to a minor matter of personal hygiene

(A note: this may be a repost from a few weeks ago? Like, Reddit said it had posted, but then when I checked later, it hadn’t actually done so, according to my computer, so I canceled [?] the post, waited for reasons that will obvious in the upcoming paragraph, then decided I had to post it ASAP, because the future ex-Mrs. Pete will doubtlessly need as much evidence as she can get when the judge ruled on her alimony payments.)
I have been away from Colorado since shortly after Memorial Day weekend. I was in Ohio to pick up an award for my screenplay at a horror festival, after which I decided to continue onto the East Coast to revisit people and places I’d loved during my scholastic years at Teeny Liberal Arts College (where I met Pete...and for that, they may NEVER get a donation from this alum!) and Big NameTM University. Alas, the timing of the festival meant that I was to miss out on closing day at the one ski area still open in Colorado, perhaps in the whole country.
But my official end to the season two days before I left reminded me of another Bon Voyage party for my favorite winter sport from seven years ago, before I'd wished Passive-Aggressive Pete a less festive good riddance. The 2010-11 season had been incredible - if I recall correctly, one of our local areas got over 500" of snow that season. That same area finished off this year at 339", to provide context.
My cousins and I had taken shameless advantage of our grandmother's mountain condo during that season so we could avoid the traffic and general awfulness of I-70 during the storms that had frequented the high country, and since we were all in our twenties and were partaking in a sport whose clothing keeps the wearer warm mainly by being airtight enough to allow said wearer to marinate in their own juices, the place had gotten pretty gross by the time the lifts stopped turning. My oldest cousin, E., declared that we should have a cleaning party the weekend after closing, and the rest of us deemed that to be a fair thing to do as thanks for having gotten to use and abuse the place for free all winter.
On cleaning day, we divided the condo into sections to be cleaned by one person. I claimed the kitchen, my female cousin J. volunteered to take on the bathrooms, E. took one bedroom, his younger brother L. had the other, and Pete got the living/dining area. It was agreed that anyone who finished their section early would go help with whatever remained, and since we had a lot of grime to power through, we grabbed our paper towels, sponges, and mops so we could get to it.
Well, most of us did, at any rate. Way back in my post history are my woes re: Pete and cleaning. The tl;dr in case you are as eager to track them down as I am (mobile: can't live with it, can't live without it!) is that Pete claimed to be too anal retentive about cleaning to allow a slob like me to shoulder such an impossible mission, but that usually meant that the task got neglected entirely, as he'd get too busy with his heavy schedule of computer games and masturbating to do it himself.
Well, apparently Pete was just as concerned about my ability to clean the condo's kitchen as he was about my ability to clean the one in our apartment, because rather than get to the living room right away, he decided to hang around the kitchen to give me pointers.
Now, it is worth mentioning - nay, confessing - here that I am one of Dave Barry's Cleaning Impaired People; before I had a dishwasher, plates would pile up in the sink until I ran out, and even then, I might at least contemplate buying some paper plates at the store before resignedly rolling up my sleeves and grabbing the dish soap. Even these days, it would not be out of the ordinary to find evidence from my last meal in the sink right up until I'm about to eat the next meal. It's just not a priority for me, and since bugs aren't a big problem in Denver and more meticulous roommates aren't a problem in my home, I see no reason to make it one.
Still, I can - and do - clean up when it is necessary to do so. I know how to do so, as well. Trust me when I say that the ten to fifteen minutes Pete lingered in the kitchen like a hungover fart, blocking access to the sink while he lectured me on what a sponge was and how to use one, were both unneeded and unappreciated.
Eventually, the fact that I continued to maneuver around him so that I could wipe down the counters, stove, and fridge despite his attempts to correct my technique made him retreat to the living room in a sulk. I heard him take the feather duster and swipe halfheartedly at the blinds before I lost track of what he was doing, lulled into a surprisingly pleasant reverie by the uncommon silence from Pete and being lost in The Cleaning Zone.
My cousin J. was the first to finish her assignment, a fact she explained with a shrug of, "The bathrooms were definitely gross, but they're not that big," so she helped me wipe down the rest of the fridge, doubtlessly also in a manner that would have displeased Pete, had he been around to pay attention.
But he wasn't around, a fact that I, still in The Zone, wasn't really aware of even as my other cousins finished their assigned areas, came out to the living/dining area, and started cursing at how much remained to be done. I believe it was E. who busted out the vacuum while L. put the elbow grease into deep-cleaning the furniture, but it could've been the other way around.
Since J. and I finished around the same time our cousins did, I wouldn't know for years that Pete had shirked his duties. It wasn't until after he was but an embarrassing memory that E., perhaps at the same time that he leveled with me about my ex's porn preferences, why he and L. were the ones who had to clean all but the two feet of living room windowblinds that Pete had so daintily dusted:
"I went to look for Pete to find out why the hell the living room was the only part of the condo that had barely been touched. The front door was open, and since everyone else was inside, I took a look outside.
"There was Pete, in the middle of the parking lot, clipping his toenails. I thought about saying something anyway, thought about it really hard, and decided to leave him to trimming his talons. L. and I did a better job anyway."
submitted by im_not_a_maam_jagoff to JustNoSO


R-Virus: A Reddit Novel - Part 28

Author's Note: This is part 28 of the ongoing Reddit Novel, R-Virus. Parts 1-27 are at /rvirus[1]. If you haven't read the others, DO NOT START HERE. Start at Part 1.
R-Virus © Ryan Smith
Preface: It may be helpful to refer back to Part 13, before reading this, to refresh yourself.
Sarah leans on the truck’s door, her forehead pressed to the cool glass. Rees sits beside her, not speaking a word, responding almost robotically to every question or comment she or James make to him. After the first day, they lapsed into silence, and now, James slept in the back seat, and she sat up front, nodding in and out of consciousness.
She wakes again as they come to a stop. The sun is low in the sky, the landscape hilly and forested with green. “Where are we?”
Rees parks the truck next to Doles, beneath an overpass. “Asheville,” he said, then pops open the door and climbs out to set about pulling up trees and bushes to camouflage the vehicles. Brusque and extraordinarily adherent to protocol, as ever.
She gets out. “Asheville, North Carolina,” she said. “We’re almost there. Why don’t we just go the rest of the way?”
“It’ll be dark before we get there,” says Laina, kneeling in the space between the trucks, setting up a fire pit and throwing down a sleeping bag. “Too risky. We don’t know what we’re walking into. If it is dangerous like the clue says, we’d better go in during the day time. Where’s James?”
She looks back in the truck. He was still sound asleep. “Resting,” she says.
“Let him,” says Laina. “He needs it. The arm’s not gonna be fully functional for a little while.”
“Actually, it’s getting better relatively quickly considering the injury. It’s probably the karma buff.”
“Of course,” says Laina. “Well, I’m sure he can still use some r&r. How about you guys pick up some firewood.”
Ryan stares at the back of Laina’s head, but she doesn’t look at him, then he looks at me.
“Sure,” says Sarah, shrugging.
They walk out into the woods, gathering armfuls of dead limbs, plucking even the large ones from the ground with no trouble, working in near silence.
Ryan had seen the locket, no question. Still, it would be better to leave it inside her shirt if possible. There was no good reason to bring up old feelings. They were finally back where they started, three years ago, when they stood outside of his house after the party, tamping footmarks into the snow. But this time, they would do it right.
She thought about that terrible sinking feeling in her gut the entire drive home on that night. How she laid on her bed, eyes open, the dim light from the street lamps in the cul de sac casting little yellow lines on her windowblinds. The alarm clock shining “5:18 am” in bright green, and her still unable to sleep. She had been laying there, head tossing on her favorite pillow - the one tucked inside one of James’s old t shirts in lieu of a pillowcase - trying to find a comfortable position and failing.
“It just got to a point where I had to lie or tell you the truth, and I wasn’t going to lie to you.”
She had stopped drinking more than two hours before Ryan walked her out to her car. More than long enough to lose the buzz from the beer and the can of Four Loco he had bought for them (and for which she realized with another pang of guilt, that she had paid him back for with a silly note that was sure to cause him additional unnecessary pain). Lying in bed, twisting again and unable to sleep more than 10 minutes at a stretch, she started to think she could go for a drink. Wine made her sleepy, but her mother didn’t have any more in the house. There was her father’s whiskey - something expensive with a strange name which sounded as if it were pronounced only in the back of the throat - but it tasted disgusting.
Alcohol was a depressant anyway, and she didn’t want any more of that. She kept thinking about the last things he had said to her.
“I don’t want to lose you either. I just have to figure some things out now.”
She spent so long thinking about what that meant. Did that mean he had to figure out how to act now, having finally confessed to having more than platonic feelings, or did it mean that he had to figure out if they could be friends at all?
It kept her awake. She had never thought of herself as that kind of girl, even though at times she would’ve liked to be a little more that way. In Middle and High School, she’d seen girls get worked up to the point of tears over boys, and while she wanted to feel sympathy, she usually only felt mingled pity and contempt for the Twilighters - the 50 Shades of Grey morons.
And this wasn’t even her boyfriend. She and James rarely quarrelled back then, and only once did they argue to the extent that she stormed out of his parents’ house. That night, she wasn’t able to sleep either. But that made more sense. At the time they had been dating for 3 years. Highschool sweethearts. That’s how she was supposed to feel after they fought. That’s how she was supposed to feel after they fought.
She and James got into different schools after graduation, and he moved into University of Maryland’s on-campus housing, and she stayed with her parents to save money. They were a little more than an hour apart, but they made it work. It’s pretty easy, she thought, not to get on each other’s nerves when you only see someone four or five days out of the month. Not like now, when they spent nearly every waking minute with each other.
She had let out a long, deep breath and looked around her room, the walls papered with posters and magazine cutouts of Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, the Rolling Stones, the small desk for her laptop neatly organized and clean, photos of her, Mom, and Dad on vacation in Mexico, she and James at the Homecoming dance. A selection of stuffed animals from childhood scattered on the bedsheets.
She smiled, thinking of herself at 21 years old, still sleeping with a stuffed unicorn missing one eye and with fur so worn it turned grey instead of white. In many ways it was hard to imagine that she was the same person now.
She’d given up the hope of falling asleep and crept out and down the stairs to make some tea and possibly try to read something. Nothing for school, because she found it too hard to focus, but something engrossing. A novel. Prisoner of Azkaban always cheered her up.
She knew almost as soon as Ryan confessed it that she would have to tell James. It wasn’t a conversation she looked forward to. Ryan had featured in enough of her stories about her life at college that it was obvious they were close. It was possible that James was already suspicious even back then, and she thought (quite correctly, it turned out) that he would want to know more. How it happened, what Ryan tried to do, if she was safe.
There was something comical about her boyfriend asking her if she was safe with the friend she asked to walk her to her car at night. She felt safe then. She felt safe now, too, picking firewood in the dusk, out in the wilderness.
He really did look different from their college days. A short stubble darkened his jaw, and he seemed older now. More mature, like her. Leaner from constantly scavenging for food. Not the awkward, baggy-pants-wearing pseudo artist type he was in college. The kid that confessed to loving her several years ago.
She went back to picking up wood. Even when she knew she needed to tell James, she had never been afraid that he would think she was up to anything, but she was afraid of what it would mean moving forward. If she would have to give up the friendship. James would never have asked her to, of course, but how would it look?
She had spent so much time worrying about that, it was actually funny.
At the time, she thought it was probably for the best anyway. She had already pushed things too far. She ought to have stopped after the first inkling of attraction he showed. Should’ve made up some excuse not to have lunch with him as often, cut out the witty banter on gchat in the mornings, made up some reason she couldn’t go to his party last night. She could’ve kept things from coming to a head like it had.
Unbidden, a conversation with her friend Jessica floated back to her. It was at the end of a workshop for Grub Street, and they had just finished critiquing what had clearly been a joke story about a man named Gunbow, an action hero whose primary weapon was a bow that shot bullets and used it to mount an assault on the heads of Fox News.
As everyone cleared out of the room after class, still smiling or chuckling, she leaned over to Ryan and whispered. “Gunbow, was that you?”
“Come on, Deezy, there is such a thing as author anonymity.” He winked, pulled his backpack over his shoulders, and left.
Jessica smiled after him, leaned over, and said “If I didn’t have a boyfriend, that’s totally the type of guy that I would date.”
Sarah didn’t say a word at the time, but she had thought the same thing. More than once if she was honest. But she had a boyfriend that she was in love with, and who was in love with her, so that was that. At least Ryan had been able to understand that.
It was early in the morning when she decided to make the call. She had poured a cup of English Breakfast and took her phone over to the sliding glass door to the backyard, where the dawn was just beginning to filter through, and sat with crossed legs on the rug, blowing on the tea and looking at the dewy grass, preparing to call James and get it over with.
She knew that he wouldn’t be awake yet. He liked sleeping in a little on the weekends, when there was such a thing as a “weekend.” She didn’t want to wake him, but the longer she waited, the worse it seemed to get, so she called him anyway.
“Hey,” he said. He sounded groggy, almost drugged.
“Hey J. Were you sleeping?”
There is a long pause while James yawns. “It’s dawn, Sarah, of course I was. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“That’s all right. I like when you wake me up.”
She smiled. In her mind, he was lying on his back, hair messy, tangled in blankets as he usually was almost immediately after getting into a bed, just like he is now in the back of the truck. The man had a talent for it. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“All right, fair enough, but it doesn’t bother me as much as when other people do it.” He let out another loud yawn that made her do the same. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just, I want to talk to you about something.”
There was silence for a long stretch. Sarah almost looked to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I wanted to talk to you too.”
What followed was quite possibly the most painful memory she had of their relationship, one she still blocked out. One that was so contradicted by the 25 year old sleeping in the back of the truck, nursing a broken arm, who nearly lost his life in an effort to protect her.
Until recently, he was her one and only human connection to the old world, before she was just “Easy.” The only person that knew her parents, where she grew up, who her friends were, what kind of English teacher she wanted to be. What she was like before all this shit with the virus wiped out everything she was or aspired to.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be out here, you know, unsupervised?”
“Why not?”
“Well, what about James?”
“James trusts me,” she says, fixing him with a firm look. “He knows I wouldn’t do anything to betray his trust.”
“I didn’t say that you would?”
“You suggested it.”
“No I didn’t. I suggested that he might think so, that’s all.”
“He won’t.”
“Hey,” she says. “We never really got a chance to talk before.”
“No, I guess not.” He nods and shifts his burden to the other arm.
“It’s been a little weird.”
“We’ve got some things to clear up, I think.”
“We’re going to be working together. Sarah, I’m not gonna try anything. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“It’s important to me that you know that. And James too.”
“I know it. And so does James.”
“Good. I know the way we left things was kind of…”
“Horribly and depressingly awful?”
One of his eyebrows goes up. “Well, I was going to say ‘bad,’ but that works too.”
She smiles. “‘Bad’ probably covers it.”
“It does,” he says, letting a long moment pass. “It’s good to see you again. I didn’t think I’d see anyone from, you know, my old life ever again.”
“Neither did I.” She grins.
“It would be cool if we could stop being really weird around each other.”
“Okay, agreed.” She bobs her head a couple times. “And as the two reddit experts, I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to be able to talk to each other.”
“Pfff, like you’re going to need my help, bookworm. You’ve probably already got the first three figured out.”
“Not quite,” she says. “Do you have any clues?”
“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.”
“Did you just go Sherlock Holmes on me?”
He grins. “Maybe.”
“Don’t you even start…”
They passed the rest of their evening like this, collecting wood, going back and forth, testing each other, catching up. When they got back to the camp, they ate cans of chicken soup with bread rolls, sat around the fire for hours, talking and listening to Laina’s stories about the most bizarre encounters with the neckbeards in Frontpage, looking up at the stars in the night sky just like Sarah used to as a child in her backyard, and for the first time in months, she forgot that she wasn’t home.
submitted by SimpleRy to rvirus