My Mind's Ink

My sense of smell is not particularly acute, or at least not compared to my wife’s. I know this is true because when we are anywhere near the cat’s litter box she looks at me in exasperation and asks, “Can’t you smell that,” and then she changes it, like she always does.

I reminded myself of this today as I stood over the paper shredder gritting my teeth. We have a small one we feed financial statements into. It is strangely satisfying to feed the shredder and listen to the energetic sound of sheets of paper being turned into shrapnel. It is not a sound I get to hear often.

The shredder holds very little paper, and when it fills up, the blades of the machine begin to feed on the entrails of its previous victims. With nowhere for the waste to go, each sheet adds to the growing mass of paper encircling the machine’s teeth. The sound this makes is unmistakable.

The unclogged machine makes a vigorous crunchy noise as it easily works through bank statements. It changes tone as paper begins to clog it’s churning maw. When it has reached the stage I found it in today, it whines and grinds as each blade rotation becomes more laboured and desperate. It’s like I can hear smoke coming out of it. I lift the top off, and look down at the tangled mess I knew I would find, and think, “Can’t she fucking hear that!”

She hears it like I smell the cat litter. Beeping, vibrating, clanking, rattling, and jingling all drive slivers into my mind. Smells and disorder register with her, and if I am honest with myself, I admit that I am the cause of for far more smells and disorder than she is of annoying sounds. I have little cause for complaint, so I pry the paper loose, like I always do, and give the litter box a passing glance as I walk by.

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