Movers and Rakers
Yes, moving… shifting house… migrating… changing horses … jumping ship… altering my housing supplier. Some of you may be thinking of jumping up and down in joyous exuberance, while others might be crying deep within. While I protest more vehemently towards the first group, BOTH reactions are quite unwarranted in this case. I’m not moving very far. In fact, my new place is hardly ten minutes walk from my old place. I dare say that if I were exceptionally strong with my throwing arm, I may be able to fling a bag of moist manure at my old place. And after a rather unpleasant talk with my old landowner, I plan to test that theory out. Have to find some moist manure first, of course…
People move for starkly different reasons. Some people move because their work place has shifted; some because of a tiresome transfer; some simply because they need a change of scenery; some because they are wanted by the FBI; some because they are planning covert undercover maneuvers against global terrorist fundamentalist organizations. I can’t claim to belong to any of the mentioned categories. I am moving because… I just can’t rake it anymore.
No. No typos. I MEANT rake.
For those lucky group who have not been drilled with the boring details of my mundane existence, allow me to reduce that luck by a small factor. For the past few months, I have been living with my brother, Lewin, and a few of his friends in what I’d like to call a typical bachelor lifestyle. But to be honest, I should concede that if this were indeed the depiction of bachelorhood, the whole drama about mankind being a superior being is just a sham; a myth; a self glorifying lie.
To say our place was a mess is an ‘understatement’. But since I can’t figure the right statement, I’ll go with that. Our place was a MESS. We started out by deferring the activities of taking out the garbage, sweeping the floor, and generally arranging the place by a mere ONE minute. (“Oh. Yeah. That’s just ONE garbage bag. I’ll take it out in a minute. Don’t worry about it. Just… just give me a minute.”) Minutes accumulated into hours. Hours accumulated into days, days accumulated into weeks, and weeks accumulated into months, until we became the world’s first indoor landfill.
We routinely packed off our leftovers, dirt and grit in neat little sealed plastic bags, and carefully placed them on the side of the room, FULLY intending to one day start throwing them out into some corporation dumpster. Now our rooms are laced with neat stacks of bloated plastic bags. Once, a salesman dropped by and got stunned by the pile and toppled over backwards. He would have cracked his skull for sure were it not for our trusty fortress of garbage bags that broke his fall.
But none of this fazed me. None of this fazed Lewin. We yield to no one in the art of thinking on our feet. We were men on a mission. We just needed a plan… And one day, tired and half asleep on our beds, we came up with a reasonable one.
“Bro. I think that garbage bag just moved.”
“Ya. I saw that too.”
“We need a plan. That garbage bag is still moving, by the way.”
“I got one. I say we wait.”
“Wait? Wait for what?”
“We wait and keep on raking the piles to the corner, like we always do. We wait until it reaches the stage where we share a risk of being pronounced a contamination site. And then… we give up. We move to a new place. Start all over. Clean setting… Sounds ok?”
“Perfect. Ideal!! I’m with you, man. Let’s do that.”
“Cool. For now, I think we better run. That bag is giving me the creeps.”
And we ran. We were sprinting away from the moving bag. We were sprinting in high spirit. We were sprinters with a plan.
(BTW, for those of you who are wondering, the movement in the bag was caused by some bugs. Nothing serious… or poisonous… I hope.)
It seemed like a neat plan… as any member of my secret covert organization, the Legion Of Laze (LOL) would attest. Leave the garbage alone. Nobody’s going to steal it. Once it really becomes intolerable, by which I mean the gases generated by the decomposing material inside the plastic bags become lethally explosive, then we split with a smile. Nice, neat, efficient, simple, short, sweet plan.
Didn’t quite turn out the way we hoped.
Our landlord had other ideas. Weird ones. He asked… no… He INSISTED that we clean up the place before we left, can you believe it?? And his insistence took the form of vaguely disguised threats. As you can understand, this rather puts a jinx on our efficient and simple plan. And he refused to hear reason. We tried explaining why his demands were mauling efficiency and simplicity, but he was too shortsighted to see things our way…
Right now, the original plans are out for a toss. We have moved our stuff into our new place. And to a small extend, we have cleared up the mess in our rooms. I still wouldn’t expect the city to bestow awards for exemplary housekeeping, but I rather proudly believe that newer visitors can walk into that room without tetanus shots.
Now, I am not proud of being a litterbug… unless I’m on my third bottle of beer, but that’s beside the point. What I meant to say is… Now I have a new place. Pretty close to the old place, but still… new. This means a new start. That means I have one more chance. I can get it right this time! I can clean up my act. I can start sweeping floors once in a while. I can put my trash in a waste basket. I can use dust wipes to clean up the computer, laptop, and other assorted items. I can do ALL that!!! And I can start by taking care of that ugly looking plastic bag I put in the corner; the one with tonight’s leftovers. I can start with that. And I will!!
Just… just give me a minute, though…