scapegoated

Last night I broke one of Josh's cups. It was hidden beneath a pot on the drying rack, and when I picked up the pot, the glass tumbled out and shattered against the floor. Immediately, Josh rushed over and said with more emotion than I typically hear in his voice, "Oh, Tim. . . . That was my *mumble, mumble* glass."

This irritated me. It was like he was accusing me of breaking his glass, when it was clearly an accident. In fact, it was less than an accident. An accident occurs when something is broken out of incompetence or clumsiness. If I had dropped the glass while drinking from it, that would have been an accident. Or if I had tripped and fallen with it, that also would have been an accident. But when I took the pot from the drying rack and dislodged the glass from its secret resting place, that wasn't an accident. That was bad luck, mingled a carelessly stacked pile of dishes. And if it hadn't been me who lifted the pot and broke the glass, it would have been somebody else. That glass was going to break. And I did not deserve to be talked to this way.

Josh began gathering the broken pieces, and I noticed the letters ATLA spelled out on the side. "Oh, it must have been from Atlanta." This came out more coolly than I intended. I did feel a little sympathy at that point. But when I get offended, my voice becomes like ice. Exasperated, Josh continued to mutter about his broken glass. I wasn't paying much attention at that point. He was over reacting.

What made this even worse was that I had been doing housework. I was putting up dry dishes. And before that I was peeling bananas I'd just salvaged from the dumpster, so we could freeze them and use them for smoothies later on. Meanwhile, Josh did nothing. He sat around on the hammock. And now that my industry wrought a little misfortune for him, he was getting all self-rightiously upset. He was implying I was a bad person. And I'm not.

Still, this situation had to be diffused. I wasn't about to apologize for something that wasn't my fault. But I couldn't think of any other solution. I just kept staring at the shattered ATLA. Hamer made a stab at resolution, though. "You're getting a demerit," she proclaimed. At first I thought she was talking to Josh, as a slap on his wrist for overreacting. But then I pretty quickly realized she was talking to me.

I put up a little fight, out of pride, then let the whole thing slide. She wrote everyone's name on the board, then put a tick next to mine. That tick was the first demerit in the warehouse. I didn't deserve it, I was certain of that, but I didn't fight it anymore either. It would gave Josh some resolution.

. . . . . . . .

I was still seething about this as I went to bed. It wasn't until I began to nod off that I saw things a little more clearly from Josh's perspective. I still don't understand it, not really. But he has a very different relationship with objects. He holds onto them for years. All I can figure is that they are his landmarks to the past. They are the waypoints to his own history. That glass probably had a sentimental value I can't even begin to fathom. While he was muttering, I remember him using a particular word. Only. It was his only. It was his only tie to something important and far away. It was the cue that reminded him of who he was at a certain time. It was a part of him he cherished. And when that glass tumbled off the counter and shattered against the cement floor, it was like a little lobotomy. A part of his history, his mind, his life was irrecoverably lost.

I'm sorry that he lost that.

But still, and I know this sounds petty, it wasn't my fault. And I hate being the fucking scapegoat.