Whatever

At around 5:37 on a Sunday, Marcy turned on the oven, blew out the pilot light, and laid herself to rest. The next day, after receiving several complaints about the gas smell, Alberto, the building's super, used his key to get in. There he found Marcy, dead, with her head in the oven. As he reached over her to turn off the oven, he was struck by her flimsy white nightgown. Not that he found her sexy this way. Doubtless, she was lovely to look at, but he was a church going man. It was the way the silk puddled around her knees in perfect, soft circles. It was as if the the nightgown was dripping out of the oven with Marcy in it. He thought of a drapery in old paintings. He thought of over boiled milk bubbling out of the pot. He thought of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, shaving cream, Cool Whip, and caulk. He thought of Marcy and realized it was time to open a window and call the police. That was when he saw it. The note.

Now, Alberto wasn't what you'd call the nosey type and Marcy - with her hearty giggle and her wild fashion and her willingness to help neighbors carry groceries up six flights of stairs - was not the suicide type. But, we all lose our way, sometimes. Alberto picked up the note and was startled by its brevity. Whatever, it read. That was it -seven letters scratched out in surprisingly hard, ugly handwriting. He sat on one of two kitchen chairs and let the note fall to the floor.

Whatever is full of so many possibilities. Whatever you want, whatever your heart desires. There are no boundaries, no limits. It's all green lights and endless blue skies. But - and this confused Alberto - whatever also meant nothing. A flippant piece of verbal detritus thrown at others in limp defiance. To say "whatever," lets the other person know "What you were saying is meaningless to me." It's useless. Insignificant. Null and void.

Alberto tapped 911 into his cell phone then rubbed his hazel eyes thinking, "How could one word mean everything and nothing?"