I'd die down there before I could find it. Die cold and alone in the darkness where nobody could hear me whimper in defeat. And I really had to go to the bathroom. This happened every time. My body purposely waited until I was far from civilization on a critical mission to find... uh... shoot. What the heck was I looking for?
"Mo-o-o-m-m-m!!!" I yelled up the stairs.
"Yeah?"
"What am I supposed to be finding again?"
"Blueberry Jam!"
"Oh yeah," I whispered to myself.
I pulled a few ballet moves to keep myself from having to abort my mission prematurely for a bathroom break, and disappeared back into the room of shelves used for food storage.
"Let's see. Tomato sauce, tomato sauce, tomato juice, tomato sauce... Can't find it."
"Mo-o-o-m-m-m!!!" I yelled up the stairs.
"Yeah?"
"We don't have any."
"It's on the far left side on the top shelf."
After a long, meaningful sigh, I danced back into the storage room, reached above my head to grab the jam, and sprinted back upstairs.
"This is chutney," said mom. "The jam is right next to it."
"I think chutney would taste better on bread than jam, mom."
"I'm sure you do. Now go get me some jam, please."
After surrendering to a short bathroom detour, I bolted back downstairs. Each stair step squealed underfoot. I jumped off two steps from the end. My bare feet lightly stuck to the oddly smooth cement floor and my fingers and toes stiffened in the chill.
I knew that one firm tug of the metal string dangling from the fluorescent light fixture across the room would bring the basement to life, but I slowed to find my way in the dark. This fluorescent light triggers all electricity down there and the resucitated electronics hum their appreciation upon awakening. I hate to quiet their carols by tugging the metal string again before leaving. Because of my illogical sympathy dad says I waste electricity. He doesn't understand I'm sparing its feelings.
Basement time works the same as dog years. In the perplex intensity of the search for food items, one loses sense of time and company. I sometimes excused myself to find some "thing" for my mother when company came for this very reason. I could stare at food awhile, forget what I came for, and not have to feel anxious about conversing. Only muffled roars of laughter, droning utterances, and clunking footsteps mark the unintelligable conversation of the basement.
I slipped into the storage room, found the jam by the light of the staircase, and sprinted back upstairs half convincing myself that ghosts would appear if I didn't scram.
"Alright, Anna! Two attempts. That's a record!" said mom.
"I don't know why I can't ever find it."
"It's okay. Here. Throw this downstairs."
I crumpled the moist rag in my fist and walked toward the open basement door. Pulling my elbow to my cheek, I flung the sour ball down the stairs listening for the satisfying smack, slurp, and plop as it unstuck itself from the concrete wall. The door whined as I pushed it closed, sweeping up the light.
