American Fez

Rationalisation Springs Eternal

Spring cleaning started early this year: the cuckoo, the daffodil, and the All-Purpose Spray Disinfectant all appearing in mid-March. They usually make staggered entrances from the beginning of April through, in the case of detergent and scouring pads, as late as the end of July. Nevertheless, there I was, on my hands and knees, fighting the cobwebs and dust in the hallway closet on March 17th, St Patrick's Day. 

I suppose St. Patrick's Day is a propitious day to begin any type of cleaning, as he famously evicted all the snakes from Ireland, but his serpent-handling exploits seem a minor achievement compared to my heroic struggle of organizing and fumigating the hallway closet. Even HP Lovecraft would find difficulty describing the things that have crawled away to die in its corners; those unknown and unnameable forms that lurk in a closet's shadows defying categorization.

Originally, the hallway closet was where I kept my rain boots and winter coats, but it quickly devolved into a clothing graveyard where I bury things I never wear but can't bear to throw away. Mostly uncomfortable shoes that I failed to break-in and stylish but impracticable lightweight jackets, but also a variety of useless accessories: belts that became too big when I lost weight, itchy scarves, hats that make me look stupid, and an ancient leather satchel still full of the random junk that accumulates in bags. I hoped there might be some forgotten money stashed in the pockets and, indeed, I got lucky. Alas, it was only a nickel and two pennies.

Seven stinking cents, hardly the glittering bounty of a treasure hunter's dreams. There wasn't even an old packet of unopened tissues or a virgin notepad or anything that could be repurposed. Just the small change, a wad of crumpled receipts for purchases I wish I'd never made, an abandoned granola bar emerging stickily from the remains of its wrapper, several business cards for now defunct businesses I'd written their competitor's phone numbers on, a handheld calculator, and a medium-size metal key. Of course, finding a key could spark the start of an exciting adventure, except I immediately realized what this key unlocked. 

Wedged into the very back of the hallway closet was a safety deposit box. Bought with good intentions of keeping my important documents in, the box soon became merely a smaller version of the closet in which it resided. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there was yet another box inside that one containing more worthless ephemera; and so on ad infinitum down to a box no bigger than a thumbnail housing microscopic mementoes invisible to the naked eye. So much dross and dreck, so little spring cleaning time despite getting an early start.

This is why I believe my task is harder than St Patrick's. He chased a few snakes into the sea from the comfort of his monastic cell. Big deal. I need to collect my unwanted junk in garbage bags, stack it all in the back of my car, then personally drive it to sea. Who has the time for all that palaver these days?

I got up off my knees, giving the inside of the closet one last brief critical survey, pocketed my seven cents, then shut the door. Later, I'd take care of it later. There's a beautiful day outside, after all, don't waste such great weather. Surely spring cleaning can wait until the sky turns grey and overcast?

And besides, I might need all those old bits of papers for a papier-mache project, for example, should I feel so inspired, so it would be foolish to consign them to the trash without carefully thinking it through. Never discard today what you could need tomorrow. I'm sure I read that in some book of commonsense quotations. Excuse me while I go lay down on the couch for a moment and try to recall the author's name.

The Bridle Path Mystery

There is a dirt track called The Bridle Path near my childhood home. Once an equestrian route from countryside into town, it has become the domain of dog-walkers, recreational cycling clubs, dressing-gown and slipper clad wanderers from an adjacent lunatic asylum, and rural vandals whose hobby is apparently smashing crockery in the open air, specifically Blue Willow patten china. 

Judging by the regular appearance and sheer number of these tiny blue and white fragments appearing on the ground, I'd guess the vandals have easy access to an unlimited stockpile of entire Blue Willow dinner services. Could the vandals be disgruntled employees of a restaurant supply store? Or maybe they are violent partisans of the Royal Copenhagen pattern, driven to such desperate measures by the figurative nature of their Chinoise rival? Can the mystery ever be solved?

Let me take a little reconnaissance ride down the Bridle Path on my bike to see what I can see. Laying in that grassy verge beside the track I observe the shattered remains of a soup tureen, a gravy boat and four teacups; underneath this hedgerow are what's left of six plates and a milk jug; and just now I've ridden over the sharp edge of a broken bit of saucer and my bike has a puncture. So much for my amateur sleuthing, the hooligan masterminds have outwitted me once again.

Frankly, devoid of clues or leads, I doubt even Sherlock Holmes will find anything "elementary" about the Blue Willow case. Hercule Poirot's "little grey cells" are completely stumped. And disconsolate Inspector Maigret surrendered long ago, retiring to a quiet cafe to drown his failures in a glass of pastis. I'm only guessing, but a crime involving decorative crockery with an Oriental theme must surely call for the combined talents of Miss Marple and Charlie Chan. Now that would be a detective story worth reading.

Through A Glass, Virally

The street below my window resembles a Spring cover of the New Yorker illustrated by Jean-Jacques Sempe: the sun shines; the flowers bloom in pink and white, little fat figures go about their business, and an overstuffed oblong dog can't decide whether to run right or left. The cartoonist is in his pastel heaven and all is right with the world.

But, alas, it isn't, of course. A virulent virus stalks the land and we are forced to work from home or 'shelter in place' or practice some other form of self isolation. It's not quite the Black Death but it's certainly becoming the Grey Illness. Instead of gangs of self-flagellators roaming the countryside we have gangs of medical experts appearing on TV, often with contradictory advice. So all we can really know for sure is that we must wash our hands regularly, avoid close contact with people, and not to panic because trillions of stimulus dollars are being released into the economy. They also say don't hoard essential supplies but, being mindful of logistical failures of the past, I'm not entirely convinced on that score.

So I wonder what the street below my window will look like come early summer? A colorful, cute cartoon where life goes on as usual in all its sunlit glory? Or a piece of brown plain paper slowly disintegrating into the sidewalk? Frankly, I'll take anything by Charles Addams at this point.

Done And Dusted

Frank has cleared out his desk. After thirty years he leaves behind nothing but a carpet-thick layer of dust, ancient crumbs, numerous coffee stains, and a heavy snowfall of dandruff flakes: the detritus from which Frank and his increasingly obsolete career have long since become indistinguishable. Send in the clowns. And the Hazmat team.

The robots will come for us all in the end, he announced on his lugubrious farewell tour of the office, ignoring the obvious fact that eliminating his job barely required the services of a pocket calculator, never mind 'the robots' to whom an antediluvian factotum such as Frank would be beneath notice. 

His departure was euphemistically described as Early Retirement, much like euthanasia is politely known as putting someone to sleep. In truth, he was given a choice of leaving of his own accord or being fired within the month. Still, we all pretended to believe he'd be spending the rest of his days on a golf course rather than staggering desperately across the scrapheap.

What are you going to do with all your spare time? I asked him, knowing full well it would be divided between diligently but fruitlessly scouring the Help Wanted ads and bouts of heavy drinking. He told me he'd take a month or two off, maybe do a trip west, see a few people he hadn't seen for a while, then he'd come back, better than ever, and see where things stood. Whatever, he'd be fine, he claimed.

Things always have a way of working out, they say. I hope for Frank's sake that's true, even if the machinations of things are somewhat vague in his case. Meanwhile, the company custodians came to remove the desk and vacuum the area, so now even Frank's dust is gone.

His empty cubicle has become a beige Stonehenge of which future generations will ask 'What was this built for and why?' And, to be honest, I'm not sure I know the answer to that question myself anymore.