The meaning of life liked Popsi Cola, so something involving refreshment was in order. “The taste that refreshes,” everyone wrote in his or her blog. “The taste that refreshes,” everyone wrote again, “Popsi.”
“Leisure, success, and happiness,” everyone wrote. The meaning of life liked leisure, success, and happiness. “Fit and tan people smiling,” everyone wrote, thinking of the photographs on the meaning of life’s blog, “holding Popsi Cola, the taste the refreshes.”
“While on motorboats,” everyone added, for it was obvious from the photographs that the meaning of life liked those too.
And so that the Internet could properly file the information, everyone added, “Plaid jackets,” and linked the phrase to a photo of the meaning of life, poolside, with a plaid jacket draping off the lounge chair on which the meaning of life lay.
The meaning of life also liked business and sales, so everyone thought about what business and sales words might appeal to the meaning of life. There was a patio deck beside and beneath the meaning of life in the pool photo. It consisted of pinkish pea-graveled cement. Perhaps, something about patio sales was in order.
Everyone should have ignored the thumping. Everyone was writing a blog entry.
Everyone had specifically opted to write not during lunch but at home, at night, after the kids were in bed and the dog done barking outside, so that he or she could focus. Everyone needed to find the right links and tags to add to his or her key words and phrases. Everyone needed to optimize the blog so that the meaning of life would find it and be motivated to comment, because the meaning of life so much enjoyed, for example, Popsi Cola, the taste that refreshes, and would want to know more. “What do you think of Popsi Cola, the taste that refreshes?” everyone would have asked, had he or she continued to write. “Is there any soda that compares?”
Instead, everyone turned.
The vacuum cleaner was behind everyone.
The vacuum cleaner should have been in the laundry room, not in the dining room where everyone’s desk was. Then everyone remembered: everyone had left the vacuum in the hall, where everyone had had to vacuum up dog puke. The dog had not gone to bark outside. It had puked and gone to everyone’s room to pretend death.
Everyone stood and went to the vacuum.
“In here, lunkhead,” the vacuum called.
Everyone looked around the room--at the small dining room table of mammoth thickness and six equally pompous charts, the bowl of oranges atop the table, the cheap chandelier from which what looked like clear plastic knives dangled. There were no closets in which to hide, and the room, expunged of the usual hobgoblin of papers and dirty dishes, offered no decent crevices.
“In here, lunkhead,” the vacuum called again. And then it shook, almost jumped.
Everyone looked down. A hand was protruding from the vacuum’s mouth.
Everyone tipped the vacuum over, shook the hand, pulled on it.
“Ow,” the vacuum said. “I’m not going to get out like this.”
Everyone danced a bit, uncertain what to do.
“Don’t just stand there,” the vacuum said.
Everyone ran to the garage, sorted through his or her tools--wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers, lug nuts--grabbed the whole box, returned to the dining room, and began dismantling the vacuum.
The vacuum sighed impatiently.
“You know how many weeks I’ve been in here?” the vacuum asked.
Everyone strained to pull the bag loose. It was jammed. Opening it was like opening a window on a glass skyscraper. Everyone had to use the full force of his or her arms, and still opening it took an inordinate amount of time, as if everyone were playing a game of hide-and-go-seek with an abstraction.
Harvey pushed the bag up with his hands, unveiling himself. Harvey was everyone’s boss at the janitorial job everyone had had cleaning random office buildings.
Everyone stared. Harvey was covered in dust--and he smelled. Dog puke caked the shins of his pants.
Harvey sucked in the warm air of the room.
“Finally,” Harvey said. “You finally listen.”
“How’d you get in there?” everyone asked.
“How do you think?” Harvey grumbled.
Harvey sat down at the computer, let out a breath. “I got to write some e-mails,” he said, “let people know where I am.”
“Of course,” everyone said. Everyone still wasn’t sure how Harvey had managed to get in the vacuum, but he or she didn’t want to risk angering Harvey by asking again. “You want something to drink?” everyone asked. “You must be thirsty.”
Harvey read what was on the screen. “What is this crap?” he asked.
No comments:
Post a Comment