Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Richard Grieco Is My New Landlord

Hi and apologies, all.

Normally, I like to keep this blog as busy as possible. Looking at the previous entry, I realize that I have not written in nearly two weeks. For this, I’m sorry, but I feel my current circumstances are a pretty good excuse.

You see, I returned home from work on the evening of December first and found my condo deserted. I walked in, attended to my usual post-work bowel movement and then headed towards my bedroom. Immediately upon entering, however, I heard a strange noise from the kitchen, on the other side of the apartment — a thump from inside the refrigerator, like the sound of a carton of milk taking a spill. I had nearly turned to investigate when I was struck in the back of my knees by the seat of my office chair.

I fell backwards into its seat, then promptly felt myself being spun around 180 degrees and deposited on the floor in front of the television. I rolled over, barely in time to get my bearings when I saw the TV click on — that fucking metal detector commercial — and then watched as the TV inched its way over the edge of its stand and fell onto me.

Now, my TV is not small. Corner to corner, it runs about thirty inches. And the screen being on against my face made this weird staticky feeling that was also unpleasant. But that was far less of a problem then the weight of the thing. That hurt. Bad. I tried to push the set off my chest, but I couldn’t. Weak forearms. I tried wriggling out from beneath, only to have my bookcase crash onto me.

I batted falling books away from my face, and with a good swing, knocked the main support boards out from case. The case pivoted on its good side, but I swung my free arm again, crumbling its cheap Ikeafiber frame.

With the momentum of that struggle, I managed to pull myself from beneath the TV, which had started shaking about on the floor. I scarcely had time to climb over it when I saw my dresser wobbling towards me, leaning from one side to the other like a fat woman trying to dance. I yelled. That didn’t help. Though my furniture can apparently voluntarily move, it can’t hear.

I stood face-to-face with my dresser — like, if the dresser had a face — and tried to push it back, only to have the shirt drawer pop out at my fist. It hurt. I tried again, but the pants drawer on the bottom popped a good one at my shin — then the sweater drawer went straight for my midsection. That knocked the wind out of me, and while I was bent over, the sock drawer started popping out at my face, rapid fire-style. The knobs caught me in the mouth a few times, nailing my teeth. Also, socks were flying everywhere. It was a mess.

Not a moment later, I felt my leg jerked out from under me. Snared by the power chord to the lamp, which promptly hurled itself at my face. It missed, only shattering against the back of the TV, which had by then begun jerking violently in what I believe was an effort to right itself in order to drop onto me once again. By pulling on the doorframe with my one good hand, I yanked myself up and out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind me.

Outside, I was immediately greeted by the vacuum cleaner — the one with the swirling cyclone action, formerly known as the good one. I dove to the side as this kamikaze Hoover flung itself into Twyla’s door, just where I had been standing moments before. The plastic front wheels shattered and the dirt cup spilling out its dusty contents, the thing almost looked pitiful.

I raced down the hall, just in time to see the living room sofa slide to block the front door — the only way out. The slender antique side table where Twyla keeps her dry flower arrangements toddled over to me, almost timidly, and sending the vase crashing to the floor in the process. I roundhouse kicked the little guy and he splintered.

The remaining living room set began to collect in front of the door. That weird antique reading lamp — the one I always thought looked sinister — swayed its head in a way I could only interpret as a direct threat to my personal well-being. I knew I didn’t want to tangle with the rest of the furniture, so I thought about escaping through the dining room window. As I turned, however, I saw the refrigerator lurching out of the kitchen. It walked like a linebacker, and I had just begun to take a few steps back when the whole thing turned to face me — again, if it had a face — a barreled towards me at a ferocious speed.

I don’t remember much about what happened next, but our Tundra 406-model Frigridaire met me somewhere in the middle of the living room with the combined anger of dozens of lost leftovers and forgotten frozen entrees. I flew backwards, through the curtains and the window, and continued, airborne, until gravity insisted I make contact with the cement in the courtyard. There, some neighbors found me — bloody and covered in the remains of the living room windows. I apparently warned them not to go inside. Go figure.

I’m writing this blog entry with the assistance of a disabled people typing machine. It’s great, though I admit I’m a little wary of it and the orthopedic hospital bed I’m presently lying in. The doctor told me that in addition to the crack in the back of my skull I sustained from the fall, I have five broken ribs, bruised cartilage in my nose, a bruises pelvis, lacerations to my face, neck and hands. I still have all my teeth, just not in their former full-length glory. When I run my tongue over them, it’s this sharp but even ridge until the back, at which point it sharply jumps up back to its usual level.

So that’s why the Cereal Box has been out of commission lately. I hope you all won’t hold it against me. But please: let me warn you against your furniture and appliances. The things you use every day when you sit and type and use the bathroom. In fact, you may be sitting on them and typing on them and going to the bathroom into them as you read this.

They are mad.

They resent being used as objects — hence their suddenly becoming subjects — and they will turn on you.

When I get better, I’m going to get a group together to move out of our homes and stay in treehouses somewhere remote. Because when you really think about it, it would be better in a lot of ways.

[ why have you come to our lonely, small town, which has no post office and very few exports? ]

3 comments:

  1. Dude, you are a freak. Brilliant, but a freak.

    ReplyDelete
  2. billy1:55 PM

    get well soon

    ReplyDelete
  3. Brenna Boyce5:22 PM

    you worry me, friend.

    ReplyDelete