Assemblers Anonymous

Puzzled: Confessions of a Jigsaw Addict

One piece is too many: a thousand is not enough.

A sorrowful man enters the room. There are a dozen bodies in a circle of wooden chairs. The occupants twitch nervously — some twitch more than others. A woman spins a Rubik’s cube. A man methodically tears up his parking pass and starts putting it back together on his knee.

The meeting begins. A grizzled veteran, bright but serious, leads the way. She asks if anyone would like to get things started. The sorrowful man stands.

“I’m an adventurous guy. Give me a fast car; a shark cage; a parachute and a plane ride to three thousand feet on a Friday. I want to bounce my bones in a mosh pit, scale El Capitan without a safety harness, and ride the back of the biggest, meanest bull this side of . . .

“Hell, I admit it. I can’t play the adrenaline junkie anymore. All I want to do on a Saturday night free of social obligations is put on some Coltrane, pour a non-alcoholic Guinness, and piece together The Old Grist Mill in Autumn.

“My name is Oscar, and I’m addicted to jigsaw puzzles.

“We call ourselves dissectologists, saw-heads, table hogs, cardboard scholars. But the names don’t matter. All that matters is that instead of attending my Aunt Tutti’s funeral, I was hovering over the semi-assembled face of Winston Churchill.

“It all started on a Friday night. It had been a long week, and neither my girlfriend Claire nor I were in the mood for a big to-do. ‘Why don’t we just grab a puzzle, pour a bowl of Reese’s pieces, and watch a movie?’

“Two nights later, when Nuns in Bumper Cars was finished, we high-fived, took a picture (because this shit is going to break Instagram), and tucked the puzzle into the closet. I thought it was over, but those nuns had dug their talons in. My jigsaw addiction — that terrible menace that afflicts everyone from the old to the really really old — had begun.

“Less than a week later, I was back for more. ‘Say girlfriend, why don’t you and I grab another puzzle? Let’s order 68 egg rolls and a gallon plum sauce, listen to Norah Jones, and assemble Minion Mona Lisa. We can snuggle in our sweaters; I can touch your upper thigh. What do you say?’

“Claire was agreeable, and for a few hours I swear we achieved inner peace. Then I got up pee in the middle of the night, and I noticed a stray jigsaw that would snap together the sardonic smile of Minion Mona Lisa. It was 3:52am, but it was just one little piece. ‘Maybe a bit of work on the Minion Lisa’s goggles. If I sit here for five minutes I can finish her hair.’

“That was how Claire found me: sleep deprived at the dinner table, with a demented smile on my face as the sun rose over another finished thousand pieces.

“When the fingers cramps came, I ignored them. When the sharp pains shot through my spine after hours of bending over the kitchen table, I ignored them. When friends asked if I was free for dinner next Saturday, I ignored them. I saw jigsaws on the backs of my eyelids as I tried to sleep, and I thought ‘This too shall pass’.

“We had our first domestic dispute after we lost a piece of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. It took us three hours to discover that it had slipped into a bag of Doritos Roasted Turkey chips, and while we were tearing our couch cushions apart, we called each other the most appalling, monstrous, un-take-back-able names. You careless whore! You absentminded harlot! You stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder!

“Even worse was the time Claire finished my evergreen trees while I was in the shitter. If this lady thinks its okay to watch me do two hours of legwork only to steal the endorphin rush of joining the very last coniferous branch while I’m grunting out groundhogs, then maybe it’s time to pour this relationship back in the box and start over.

“Did I stop puzzling then? Never. I had a better idea. His & Hers puzzles. We don’t even have to sit in the same room anymore.

You know you have a problem when you puzzle alone.

“Yesterday I hit rock bottom. Claire woke up early for work, and as soon as I heard her footsteps down the hall, I opened my laptop. Unfortunately, she had forgotten her luffa, and thirty seconds later she came barging back into the bedroom. I shut my laptop and threw it under the covers, but alas: too late.

‘What were you looking at?’ ‘Just checking my emails.’ ‘Why’d you close your laptop so quickly?’ ‘You startled me.’ ‘Why’d you throw it under the covers?’ ‘I love you?’ ‘Let me see it. If it’s porn I won’t be mad. Maybe we can watch it together later tonight?’

“There was nothing left for me to do but shower her. Instead of a pizza delivery boy servicing a sexually frustrated housewife, she saw a Reader’s Digest list of 2024’s most anticipated puzzles.

“I’ve never been so ashamed. All I want to do is go home and curl up with a quick 250 pieces. Just to steady my hands, you know? Trouble is, I’d be rooting through my closet in no time, and I’d be up all night with some young, hot jigsaw at my fingers.

“It’s been thirty-six hours since my last puzzle. Today I’m grateful for the cliches that got me to this meeting.

One piece is too many, and a thousand is not enough. Remember that Ravensburger is incurable, progressive, and fatal. Every puzzle is a bottomless pit. Don’t start things you can’t finish. It’s never too late to put your demons back in the box.

Enjoyed yourself? Then read this, Stupid:

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