Roll Play

This is a story about a prior relationship and the road trip that pointed me in a new direction.  (Some names have been changed.)

“What are you doing on Saturday?” I asked Mama over the phone.

“Nothing,” she said.  “I might go to the salon and get my hair dyed, but I haven’t made an appointment yet.”

“I thought you were letting your hair go natural.”

“I was, but then one of those young UGA turkeys told me how pretty my white hair looked, and I said, to hell with that mess.  What do you want to do?”

“I need to drive over to Hull, Georgia to buy some toilet paper,” I told her.  “Do you want to come with me?”

“What on Earth happened?” she asked, baffled.

“Nothing. I just found out that Scott Tissue makes the pastel-colored kind. It’s so beautiful.”

“Well, you have always liked the finer things in life.”

“The only place even relatively close to me that sells it is an Ingles in Hull.”  I consulted my computer screen.  “That’s about twenty minutes from Athens.  I could pick you up on my way there.”

Marietta, where I lived, was a full ninety minutes from Athens.  If traffic on 85 North wasn’t at a standstill, and my foot felt heavy, I’d be there within eighty. 

“You really want to drive two hours to get toilet paper?” asked Mama.

My home life was getting complicated.  Lately, I was feeling crowded by my fiancé and the stuff he had dragged into my life.  Our apartment was messy and a mishmash of styles.  I needed all the beauty I could get.  And the space.

“Yes,” I replied, without hesitation.

“I’m in,” she said.

I beat my record on Saturday, making it to Mama’s apartment in 78 minutes flat.  I walked down the hall of her apartment building and knocked on the door.  I could hear Mama’s conversation with Cookie from outside.

“Lord, dog.  You need a bath.  I’ll inform the maid.”

I knocked again. 

“It’s Heather!  It’s Heather!  Cookie, it’s ole Heather Pooh come to see you.”  Mama announced excitedly. Cookie was an elderly hound mix and looked like a jumbo hot dog, shaped partly by genetics and partly by people food.  By this point, she had been in my life longer than my late father.  We adored her. 

Mama flung open the door to greet me.

“Hi Mama,” I said, hugging her tight for a moment.  I bent to pet Cookie, who sniffed my face for a few seconds and then exhaled wetly against my hair.

“Thanks, dog,” I said.  “Are you ready to go?”

“Just got to lock up.”  Mama picked up her purse off the counter and turned around to face Cookie.

“Now, if you’re good, we’ll bring you back a Wendy’s hamburger,” she said. 

Cookie stared longingly at Mama as she closed the door.

“Lord, that is the most spoiled animal in the whole world.  She knows we’ll bring her back a hamburger either way,” said Mama as we got into my car.

“She also appreciates the finer things in life,” I said in a Grey Poupon voice.  “I brought my Elvis Greatest Hits CD, if you want to listen to it.”

We sang “Hound Dog” and “Marie’s the Name” at full volume and bounced around in our seats, wearing our plastic sunglasses for full cool effect. 

“Whew! I’ve gotta rest for a minute.”  Mama fanned her face with her hand.  I turned down the stereo. 

“Do you remember how much I liked pastel toilet paper when I was little?”

“I do,” Mama said.  “You thought it was fancy.”  As a child, I had enjoyed wrapping long strips of it across my chest, imitating the Miss America sash, as well as setting it around my shoulders like a stole.  Sometimes, I would lay several passes across my head in the shape of a veil, and pretend to marry Robin, Batman’s sidekick.

Becoming a fancy, grown-up, Charmin-soft lady had been my childhood obsession.

“Why did we stop using it?”

“Honey, they took it off the market.  The pastel kind was irritating too many pooties and tooties.”

I was born with sensitive skin, asthma, and eczema.  “I see,” I said in a bored voice.  I hoped to drop the matter.  Further reminiscing would only invite trouble.  Mama was a thorough historian.

“Oh, look!” I exclaimed.  “There’s Ingles.  We’re here.”

We pulled into the parking lot, and I was out of the car before Mama could get her seatbelt unfastened.

“Slow down, Punkinhead!  That potty paper’s still gonna be there even if I take my time getting out.  Why are you so excited, anyway?”

I shifted impatiently from foot to foot while Mama climbed out of the passenger seat.  I entered Ingles a dozen steps in front of her.  I wasn’t sure why I was so excited.  The pastel colors would look pretty in my lavender bathroom, but that didn’t explain the knotted feeling in my stomach. 

I paused once inside so Mama could catch up.  Together, we walked over to the appropriate aisle.  I spotted the toilet paper right away.  Ingles had several packages of the assorted color 4-pack.  Each plastic-wrapped rectangle contained a blue roll, a green roll, a pink roll, and a yellow roll. 

“Mama, it’s so pretty!  The hues are delicate, like watercolors,” I breathed.

An Ingles employee, stocking paper towels further down the aisle, glanced over curiously but said nothing.

Not everyone understood the importance of aesthetics.  “How many packages do they have?” I asked, as I stood on my tiptoes and began pulling them off the shelves.  “I’m going to get them all.”

I handed the 4-packs to Mama one at a time.  Her eyes were covered by the fifth one. 

“I can’t hold any more of these, Heather!”  Mama’s voice was muffled by the tower of toilet paper in her arms.

Only one package remained on the shelf.  I grabbed it and took a few 4-packs back from Mama.  “This should last a while,” I said.  We started towards the register. 

“Hang on,” I told Mama, and called back down the aisle to the stocker.  “Excuse me, please.  Is it possible to call the store and order more of this toilet paper when I’m getting low?  I really like it.”

He said nothing for a moment, then replied in a Georgia drawl, “Yes ma’am, but we get new shipments every week.  I think you’ll be fine.”  He paused again.  Perhaps he was a man who weighed every word carefully, with consideration, or perhaps my passionate paper plea had simply rendered him speechless. 

“Most people just buy the regular kind.”

I bowed slightly in his direction.  “Thank you,” I said with dignity, and walked with Mama to the cash registers.

Mama insisted on paying.  “This was a lot more fun than sitting in the salon all afternoon.  Do you think Ethan will like your fancy new toilet paper?”

As soon as she said my fiancé’s name, the knot in my stomach squeezed tighter.

“I mean…sure.  You know Ethan.  He’s so easy-going.”

Mama looked at me the way mothers do.  She collected her self-checkout receipt in silence, and we returned to the car.

After we were back on the road, she asked, “Is everything ok?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.  Ethan and I had been engaged for nearly two years and been together for four.  He was a sweet guy, a good guy, an ethical guy.  But was he the best guy?  I had been thinking a lot about that lately.

“Is this what marriage is going to feel like?”

“I don’t know what you mean, baby girl.  How do you feel?”

My feelings were a patchwork of comfort, safety, practicality, terror.

“Like this is as good as it will ever get with Ethan.  Like planning my wedding is half the fun of marrying him.  Like I’m conflicted about having his children.  But that maybe I’m being too picky and if I ever want to stop being poor, I should marry him.”

Mama protected me instantly.  “Don’t you ever worry about being poor.  As long as I’ve got breath in my body, I won’t let my baby starve or live on the street.”  This was the same fierceness she’d shown my whole life.  She was most alive when faced with a need for survival.

“I know, Mama.”

“Honey, you shouldn’t marry anyone you’re not crazy about.  You’re too special for that.”

“Were you crazy about Daddy?”

“Yes, I was crazy about him, and a lot of times he drove me crazy, but I loved him.  I would marry him all over again even knowing he’d die on me.”

Into my mind flashed an image of 4-yr-old Heather, swooping loop-de-loops of pastel toilet paper on my head and then securing it with a headband, turning myself into an elegant bride. “Wedding” had been my favorite game to play.  Even in my child’s mind, I understood that the love I had for my groom should be as exciting as it was sustaining.  No wonder my stomach had confused being tied in knots with tying the knot.

I considered Mama’s words.  The excitement of the early days with Ethan should have transformed into the burning flame of forever, but it had not.  Sadly, I would not be consumed when I fastened my veil for Ethan.               

“Is that how you feel about Ethan?” asked Mama.

“I don’t think so,” I told her. 

“Then you need to break it off with him.  It’s not fair if you don’t.”

We ended our excursion with a trip to Wendy’s for some cheeseburgers.  Mama, Cookie, and I each had one.  I said goodbye to them and drove home to Marietta.  I thought about Mama’s words the whole way back. 

Could I do it?  Should I do it?

Back home, I distracted myself by arranging a space in the linen closet for the six packages of paper.  I tore open a pack, selected a pink, and hung it up in the bathroom.  I thumped the toilet lid closed and sat down, furling and unfurling the fragile squares in a hypnotic motion.

The victory of acquiring the paper now rang hollow.  The beauty of the past could not be recreated.  I sat with the realization, knowing my days with Ethan were as numbered and disposable as the pastel squares. 

Toilet paper is a metaphor for my life, I said to myself. Toilet paper.

The absurdity and the aptness made me giggle, then cry.  After a few minutes, my tears subsided.  I had a decision to make, but I did not need to make it tonight. 

I tore off a wad of the delicate blush paper and blew my nose loudly.  I placed the tissue softly in the wastebasket, like a fancy, grown-up lady would, and exited the bathroom.