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Catastrophes happen every day, everywhere. But at my house on
Mishap Place, they seem to find a home more often than not. One
particular episode that stands out in my mind more than the
others is known as the "Vacuum Cleaner Incident" throughout my
neighborhood.
I live in a quiet community, a neighborhood like most that has
weekend barbecues, the sound of children laughing and playing up
and down the streets, gossip that will be told from neighbor to
neighbor until by the end the rumor is something completely
different, and of course in my house at 171 Mishap Place, the
occasional disaster. For those involved, this has become
something like a nightmare. And although this happened sometime
ago, every once in a while I can still hear and see neighbors
point toward my house saying, "There! That's where it
happened!"
It was Saturday morning, deep in the summer, late July. My
wife, Nancy had to work to complete the project that she was
involved with, and would not return until that afternoon. I
told her goodbye with a kiss at the door, also that I would
clean the house and grocery shop while was away so that we could
spend Sunday chore free and just relax.
It was early when she left, but I knew as the day progressed,
the local Kroger would soon be busy. So without much delay I
got that part of my assurance to Nancy out of the way. I then
took a short lingering look at our house, which practically
stays clean itself. One of the major rules of our home is that
everything has a place and should be in that place. And of
course the second rule: No excuses, no exceptions. Anyone who
has read my tale “Son Save Yourself, I’ll Go Down With the
Meatloaf” knows what these two rules mean.
I paused for a quick thinking that maybe I could get away
without cleaning it. But then I thought better of it. I knew
that when Nancy got home, she wouldn’t look at the house as
quickly as I did. Her eye for detail is better than mine, and
it shows when she cleans instead of me. But I least had to make
an effort.
I wish I hadn’t.
Our home is a split-level house with 3 floors that are all
carpeted. I started with the three bedrooms on the top floor
after cleaning the master bath. This in itself went with no
problems. A quick dusting of the furniture, and the upstairs
was done.
Downstairs in the living room, I began to vacuum. The CD player
was blaring the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me UP”, and everything
was fine. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! And then…
I don’t know what happened. The vacuum bag busted with a loud
POW! Dust particles went everywhere all over the walls,
furniture, floor, and me.
I began coughing, and started to shake the dust off of me.
Next, I lifted the vacuum cleaner, and dropped it on the floor.
Why I did this, I still don’t know.
The cord came out of the outlet, sparking as it hit the floor.
A single line of fire ignited on the carpet. Oops!
This in itself would not have been that bad. But the box of
fireworks on the floor, well you guessed it. The contents of
the box started to dispense its arsenal and irrupted with a
Boom! I have never heard anything so loud, so deafening in all
my life. Not even the CD player could over power the sound
coming from what sat on the living room rug. Bottle rockets shot
upward, sideways, and anyway ruining everything in it’s path.
As I looked onward at the war raging in the living room, I was
glad that Nancy was at work. She’d have a fit if she saw this.
Then a large bottle rocket made a whooshing sound, flew over the
couch and crashed through the front window landing in a pine
tree in our front yard. Sparks caught the dry pine needles and
soon begin to blaze.
Neighbors soon flooded the street and looked on at the tragedy
happening. Another rocket flew out the window and took out a
transformer leaving the neighborhood without power. Next the
final rocket crashed through the remaining glass and hit a
telephone pole.
I know what your thinking: Why didn’t he do something to stop
all of this?
Well to my readers I say, “What could I do?” It all happen so
fast, the only thing I could was watch.
So now the neighborhood being without power or a working phone
line, the entire neighborhood created an ensemble on the street
directly in front of my house. Before I walked out to greet my
neighbors with an explanation of what happen, I surveyed the
room. It looked as if an out-of-season tropical storm had
wondered far off course only to sneak down the chimney and kick
the crap out of everything.
I heard sirens from a fire truck barreling down the street when
I saw my wife’s car turned in the driveway. Oops!
At the front door she looked at the living room, then at the
pine tree burning. Then at the neighbors gathering in the
street who had become to chatter amongst themselves. And
finally at the telephone pole that’s top was slightly burning
with live wires dangling from it. When she looked at me, she
didn’t give me a chance to explain, or try to explain. She just
said in that disappointing spousal voice, “It’s just you, John
Paul. It’s just you. Call me when you get things back the way
the way they were, I’ll be at Mother’s.”
The End
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