Simi Monheit: A Room of My Own

Simi Monheit, a native of Brooklyn, New York, moved to the Bay Area eleven years ago to play in the High Tech arena of Silicon Valley. A victim of the economic fallout of 2008-2009, she found herself finally able to indulge her curiosity about the world of writing. Naturally enough, she discovered Laura's workshops through the internet and has participated in both the Wednesday and Friday classes, where she frequently writes stories about growing up in Brooklyn in her very distinctive Brooklyn voice. Simi loves the people she has met through Laura's classes and appreciates the hard work that goes into the writing process, so different from the mind numbing and soul crushing processes she was subjected to in her former life. This piece was written in response to the prompt, "How to Create a Room of your Own."

Thing is, I've had a room of my own. Because I was a full time telecommuter, but at a Real Job, and because we have only one child, I have always had claim to a bedroom, everywhere we've lived. My space was so well established that when I've been trying to locate a missing item I've been known to say, with complete sincerity, "Oh, I must have left it at work," before sauntering down the hall to my room.

But I lost that job. I still have the room, but it has been encroached upon. When we disassembled the family computer, a workstation, no nifty laptop, because of our remodel from hell, it got moved onto a corner of my desk. Did I mention that my room is small and the workstation is huge? It sits there, old, fat and pompous, on my desk. The floor is strewn with boxes of books, papers, and files of important documents. And well, where the hell was the KitchenAid MixMaster thing that I had lusted after and contrived to get as a Mother's Day gift a few years back, supposed to go? It's sitting on one of my bookshelves, red, glaring and dusty, with columns of books piled haphazardly around her.

Yesterday, when I sat at my computer, door closed against the painter's incessant questions and toxic fumes, I stretched my fingers, applied them to the keyboard, and knew I was ready to write. I woke my computer from her sleep, to find that it was Apo, not me, who was logged in. I switched users impatiently, waiting for the humming to end and the familiar screen to appear.

When it did, I rushed to open a new document and noticed that the screen was unusually dim. I looked at the control thingy at the bottom of the screen, oh yeah, the task bar, and saw that I was running on 14% of battery power. I ran my fingers along the back side of the thin black panel, and sure enough, there was no cable attached. I dove under the desk, working my way through the tangled web of wires, cables, connectors and adapters. When did they stop being called plugs? No match. No, I thought. No, No way.

I called Apo at work. I never call Apo at work for petty issues. This was not petty.

"Apo," I spoke tersely after he answered, a miracle in itself. "Did you use my computer charger?"

Silence. A pause. Then, unexpectedly, a quiet, "I'm sorry. I packed it in my bag."

I may not be working; earning money, but this was a violation. I knew it and he knew it. We met for lunch. We had sushi, a rare midday/midweek treat. Just seeing Apo in the light of day is a rare treat. My charger was waiting for me, alongside the soy sauce.

"Sorry," he said.

"S'Okay," I mumbled.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Not so good," I answered.

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