The Social Contract

It was never my intention to destroy an entire household. But maybe that’s the origin story of every villain. The one thing I can say in my defense is that refilling the ice cube tray was not on my list of priorities. And therefore, not a habit. It never occurred to me that my reckless lack of care would ever harm the fabric of society. But that just shows you what wanton selfishness will lead you to.

The story begins on a summer day. An infamous day in which the automatic ice dispenser in the freezer suddenly broke. Dimitri responded the only way he knew how: by calling an emergency roommate meeting. I attended out of general respect for Section 14 Point G of the agreed upon apartment rules, rather than genuine concern for my fellowman. Looking back now, I believe that this was the moment which perpetuated my downward spiral.

It was decided amongst the four of us that, rather than pay for the repair of the ice dispenser, financial circumstances dictated the purchase of an ice cube tray. I recall now very clearly the moment the vote was cast: Dimitri, Theodore, and Chad rose their hands in favor of the motion. In my indifference, my coldhearted, haughty indifference, I had neglected to cast my vote. And as everybody knew, Section 1 Point D dictated that each member of the household must cast a vote in emergency situations.

But it was too late. I didn’t have the mental quickness, the self-preserving dexterity, to remedy the situation. All three of them turned to me with the same look on each of their faces: utter betrayal mixed with the icy cold demand for logical explanation. I was outnumbered, as I had been on many occasions. I was frantic, the kind of frantic that steals a human heart when they understand that ultimate defeat is breathing down their neck due to their own folly. My throat was dry. I felt a bead of sweat form on my hairline, but even it was too afraid to fall. I thought the tension would shatter the very walls we lived within. And then, before I could control it, before any instinct could somehow grab me from the edge of the abyss, I found myself speaking the complete, total, and absolute truth.

“I don’t much care one way or the other.”

The fact of the matter is that when you join a household, you sign your name to the many and various intricacies which keep the house running smoothly. It is a communal contract, sacred to the mutual wellbeing and care of your sphere. An Enlightenment principle which wove its way into the tapestries of many governments and societies. It was the way in which we remain civilized, separated from our animal brethren. Even I, an utter fool, understood that.

Thus, it would be nigh on impossible for me to overexaggerate the importance of ice in our particular home. It wasn’t just an element to keep our drinks cool. Until I joined this particular household, I had no notion of how crucial ice is to the successful living of life. One can continuously water plants, efficiently reheat rice, perform all manner of small first aid chores, remove gum from clothing, carpet, and hair, remove fat from soups, save a curdled sauce, smooth wrinkled clothing, significantly boost hygiene and beauty practices, complete many various complicated cleaning jobs, and add moisture and flavor to a number of different cuisines. All with ice. In fact, all of these options and more were displayed on The List. The List which hung prominently on our refrigerator beside Asian takeout menus and far too many free magnets from around town.

And so, knowing all of this, I still chose to utter that condemning sentence. Each of them, Dimitri, Theodore, and Chad, imperceptibly shifted their gazes between me and The List. As if we were in a fight to the death and a side must be chosen for survival. In this eternal moment, the ceiling fan even spun slower, the air barely moving across my prickled skin. I became violently aware that if I did not do something immediately, everything would be lost. And in this apocalyptic second, I spoke the second damning sentence of the day.

“But I will gladly accept the responsibility of keeping the tray continuously stocked with fresh ice.”

It was officially not my duty as required by my formal position in the apartment. According to Section 6 Point W of the agreement, my duties involved batteries, garbage bags, and leveled wall hangings. But the balance of things had tilted, altered in such a way that the threads of our communal tapestry were frozen in place, unsure if the pattern was to continue or change forever. The only appropriate response to this sort of cataclysm was what happened next: all three of them nodded slowly. And thus, our fate was sealed.

I have scratched the surface of what this meant to our pod of existence. Perhaps you can understand, even slightly, what all of this meant. But what happened next? Or, even, the end? Oh, the truth of it all is far beyond any powers of human expression. I look back on it now, numb, mute, my hand shaking in the darkness as I grip my pen. They say there are ways to write about war. Strategies that highlight the obliteration of mankind. I have not found any yet.

All I see is dried, burned rice. Scattered all over the floor. A first aid kit become useless, bandages and sanitary wipes strewn amongst various tools and bloodied rags. I see wads of bubblegum stuck in the wall hangings. I see a table, set for a romantic dinner. One which Chad and his girlfriend would never forget, because it ended in tears and broken hopes. The plates were askew, the food ruined, the tablecloth wrinkled.

I looked around me at the complete devastation, the empty ice cube tray in my trembling hand. A bit of the water standing in the small spaces dribbled over the side. And to this day, I hear their words of that moment echoing in my mind, “You’re too late. You’re just too late.”