LIFE IN THE COLE BIN

By Burton W. Cole

I wandered the grocery store aisles trying to remember what else I needed. Fortunately, I had a list. It was right… No, not that pocket. I must have put it… Nope… Not that one either… No… Nope… Nothing here…

I was about to look inside my shoe. But one, I have yet to stash a list in my shoe on purpose, and two, the thought of groceries — even a list of groceries — that I’d been tromping on with sweaty feet made me lose my appetite.

I suppressed a gag and a gurgle, and went home.

My list was still held by a magnet to the fuse box cover by my front door. I had forgotten my list.

My life is a series of lists.

I used to remember things. My brain once was a living, functioning machine.

“Hey, Brain,” I’d say. “The next time I’m near the hardware store, remind me that I need outlet covers.”

Not only did my brain remind to stop at the hardware store and to find the faceplates, but it also recalled that I’d been looking for duct tape the week before, and wing nut a couple weeks before that, and for an upcoming project, I would need a couple of wall hangers and a photo frame.

Now I stand in the entrance of a store and mutter, “Hey, Brain, tell me again why I stopped here.”

My brain yawns, scratches itself, coughs, and says, “Whaddya asking me for?” Then it rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Now I write lists.

My pants and shirt pockets are stuffed with assorted scraps of paper covered in smeared scrawl — none of the shreds and shards being the list that I need at the time.

But I could wallpaper my apartment with all the lists I write out. Magnets hold several lists on the refrigerator. But the fridge is too bulky to take to the store with me, and I never remember to just grab the list.

Lists litter my bed stand — and the floor by the bed — serve as bookmarks and drink coasters, and end up in the laundry or microwave (don’t ask).

My best works of fiction are my to-do lists. I’m never going to actually do anything on the lists, especially not the items that involve mops, hammers or tax filings.

I heartily recommend lists as an excellent writing exercise for aspiring authors.

For example, you can list how many miles you’re going to run as soon as you get out of bed tomorrow morning (fiction writing); a list of grubby chores you’ll tackle (fairy tales); ideas for fantastic inventions (science fiction); passwords to all your accounts (how-to, or maybe reference); and a list of people to whom you owe texts, letters and phone calls (biographies).

It used to be a bad thing to be on someone’s list. But if you made my list, it’s because I care. Or did at one time. When I wrote the list. Which judging by the drink glass rings, was quite some time ago. Who are you again? I forgot to note why I know you on my list.

I keep lists of favorite phrases to slip into a column, like the time a friend told me her granddaughter accidentally said “dunktize” when she meant “baptize.” Beautiful. I MUST work that into a column someday. Wait, I just did. Checkmark, please.

I often check items off my to-do lists — not because I’ve completed the tasks, but because I’m just tired of seeing them on the lists. My lists always begin with “Item 1: Write list.” That way, when I scrawl “Item 2,” on the list, I immediately cross off Item 1. The sense of accomplishment is surreal.

Sometimes I don’t know why I even attempt lists.

But I need all those lists. The lists tell me what to do — or not to do. Appointments to keep. Appointments to cancel. Church services times. A listing of menus at the nearby restaurants. Because I can’t remember anything anymore without my lists. Now if I could just remember which list I put where. My brain is too busy snoring to drop any hints.

I have been enlisted. Or over-listed. What I need is to be delisted.

Let me make a note of that. I’ll just scribble right here on this to-do list to undo all the makings of lists.

It’ll be good to be unlisted.

To get on Cole’s list, write him at news@falmouthoutlook.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.