Trapped (part 1)
The pool cost me a ton of dough. Tons of self-rising, over yeasted dough. And, now, according to Miriam Webster, I am broke (**see Me).
Me and the wife needed to do all we could to tighten the ol' belt. In fact, tonight for dinner, like poor people from the cartoons, we will all be sharing a kidney bean slivered extremely paper thin.
What really sucked was we were finally catching up from last year's lay-off. Getting comfortable again. So, naturally, as is my lot in life, after the purchase of this 20,000 gallon bucket of water in my backyard, something had to go wrong. Just had to.
But a month went by and the Hammer of Bad Fortunes never swang to square me in the nuts. NEVER! NOT FOR A MONTH! It was, actually, starting to piss me off.
Am I this pessimistic? Do I really have to expect a yin and yang? A good versus evil? A black contrast to white?
It's sad, but... I guess I do. I really fucking do.
Something was waiting in the wings. Something big. Something huge. So, why is my life’s lot waiting a goddamn month to spring this expectedly enormous dark cloud over the pool?!? Why?
Then... it all started to roll into place. AH, SWEET PESSIMISM!!!
It was a Monday. I worked a full day and gridlocked it home through traffic. As I pulled into the driveway, the moss-bottomed of my red garage door jogged my head. Tomorrow is Tuesday: Trash day.
“Whatever. I'll take it out now.”
But when I opened the car door, I was sucker-swiped across the snout by an oven roasted fragrance of refuse. The big, hairy arm of humidity stretched itself under the garage door and hauled out a fust of heated week-old garbage and left it littering the stratosphere just above the driveway... and my nose.
“What in good fuck?”
The temperature outside was 104 Fahrenheit and had, obviously, pre-heated the entire inside of the garage to “Bake”.
Then it's Sha from inside of the air-conditioned house, “Sweetie…”
Sweetie? I already know I’m about to have to do something I don’t want to do.
“Can you take the garbage out. It stinks.”
Of course, I know it stinks. I’m standing square in its thermosphere thinking if I enter the garage without gear and a Level-4 biohazard helmet, I might die.
“I’ll do it later.”
“Not later. Now? The kitchen stinks.”
“Then, close the fucking windows.”
“I’m trying to get air in here.”
“Dude, the air-conditioner is on.”
“I want to get fresh air.”
“But, you’re not getting fresh air, you’re getting garbage.”
“That’s why I want you to take the garbage outside to the curb.”
Beaten… again, “Yeah. I’ll do it…”
The fucking air-conditioner’s on. Why are my windows open? I thought we were trying to save money. Maybe the electric bill will be my anticipated black cloud –
Then, a feather tickle of acridity brought me back to the decomposition of bagged banana peels and chicken bones that lay steaming behind that red fucking door.
I closed my eyes, held my breathe as I wrapped my fist around the handle of that door, then tore it upward with everything I had.
“YEE-YOW! My fucking shoulder!!!”
The door was stuck. Jammed.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. It hurts all the way into my armpit. It hurts all the way into my armpit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I turned to house and saw my wife, in the window, in the mesosphere of the air-conditioning, shaking her head.
I kicked the garage door... and hard. BUP-BRUDDA-BRUP!!! The door rolled up and opened. A tightened fist of week-old refuse, ungloved and hooked me right dead on the beak. The redolent bouquet was baked in like orange in an adobe. I felt my nasal cavities caving in the acrid air.
“Okay, garbage, let’s get this over with.”
EERCH!
I froze. That was a wierd noise.
EEK-ERK!
I looked up the garage door. The rollers on the door track were… rolling.
BEEE-EERK!!!
The rollers sped immediatly into full motion. The door was closing. Closing on its own. On it's goddamn own.
SLAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!
The door crashed down onto the cement threshold. I grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. Caught between emotions I screamed, “Dark cloud, you have arrived!”
I kicked the door. Wiggled it. Yanked it. Nothing.
The garage started getting hot. The garbage was reeking.
“I’m locked in with this shit…," I pressed my face against the window on the door, "HEY! BABE! I’M TRAPPED IN THE GARAGE! BABE, I NEED HELP!!!”
She can't hear me. That fucking, energy-sucking air-conditioner was on full blast. On top of it all, at my own retarded suggestion, she's finally closed the windows.
I was alone.
I shook the door as I looked for another way out. There was no where to turn. I boarded and sided over the back door last Summer figuring we would never use it. And I would "never" use it. Especially right fucking NOW!
I grabbed a nearby piece of treated 2X4 and wedged the door up. I slid a bucket of icing salts under it and rolled myself under to safety.
Covered in dead bugs, leaf dust and cement chippings I stared at the opening between the bottom of the door and the driveway. The opening which was christened: Bigger Vent for Fucking Putrid Garbage Smell.
“Those cans got to come out of there.”
Back on my stomach, I Indiana Jones’d my way back into the garage, tipped the cans on their sides and rolled each of them out. Each can leaving its own personal wake of rotted stank and wet stuff behind it. Gagging, I stood up and swept the remains under the door and out to the driveway.
I was drenched in sweat and embedded foulness. The garbage cans and its trail of felled rubbish was out. I crawled out and dragged those bastards to the curb.
Done.
My lovely wife was still shaking her head in the window, “What’s taking so long?”
“The garage door just fell off the goddamn track.”
“Why? What did you do?”
It’s always: What did I do? What did I do? I just fucking rolled through heated garbage water over hot asphalt so you could keep the windows open with the air-conditioner running! THAT'S WHAT I DID!!!
“I didn’t do anything. I just opened the stupid thing and it closed on its own and now its broken. The track fell off.”
“Did you, at least, get the garbage out of there?”
I pointed to the small opening between the bottom of the door and the driveway, “I had to crawl under there. And now I have to fix the goddamn door…”
Unimpressed, she shrugged and rolled her eyes. I was going to fix the garage door and we both knew nothing good was going to come from it.
To Be Continued….
Me and the wife needed to do all we could to tighten the ol' belt. In fact, tonight for dinner, like poor people from the cartoons, we will all be sharing a kidney bean slivered extremely paper thin.
What really sucked was we were finally catching up from last year's lay-off. Getting comfortable again. So, naturally, as is my lot in life, after the purchase of this 20,000 gallon bucket of water in my backyard, something had to go wrong. Just had to.
But a month went by and the Hammer of Bad Fortunes never swang to square me in the nuts. NEVER! NOT FOR A MONTH! It was, actually, starting to piss me off.
Am I this pessimistic? Do I really have to expect a yin and yang? A good versus evil? A black contrast to white?
It's sad, but... I guess I do. I really fucking do.
Something was waiting in the wings. Something big. Something huge. So, why is my life’s lot waiting a goddamn month to spring this expectedly enormous dark cloud over the pool?!? Why?
Then... it all started to roll into place. AH, SWEET PESSIMISM!!!
It was a Monday. I worked a full day and gridlocked it home through traffic. As I pulled into the driveway, the moss-bottomed of my red garage door jogged my head. Tomorrow is Tuesday: Trash day.
“Whatever. I'll take it out now.”
But when I opened the car door, I was sucker-swiped across the snout by an oven roasted fragrance of refuse. The big, hairy arm of humidity stretched itself under the garage door and hauled out a fust of heated week-old garbage and left it littering the stratosphere just above the driveway... and my nose.
“What in good fuck?”
The temperature outside was 104 Fahrenheit and had, obviously, pre-heated the entire inside of the garage to “Bake”.
Then it's Sha from inside of the air-conditioned house, “Sweetie…”
Sweetie? I already know I’m about to have to do something I don’t want to do.
“Can you take the garbage out. It stinks.”
Of course, I know it stinks. I’m standing square in its thermosphere thinking if I enter the garage without gear and a Level-4 biohazard helmet, I might die.
“I’ll do it later.”
“Not later. Now? The kitchen stinks.”
“Then, close the fucking windows.”
“I’m trying to get air in here.”
“Dude, the air-conditioner is on.”
“I want to get fresh air.”
“But, you’re not getting fresh air, you’re getting garbage.”
“That’s why I want you to take the garbage outside to the curb.”
Beaten… again, “Yeah. I’ll do it…”
The fucking air-conditioner’s on. Why are my windows open? I thought we were trying to save money. Maybe the electric bill will be my anticipated black cloud –
Then, a feather tickle of acridity brought me back to the decomposition of bagged banana peels and chicken bones that lay steaming behind that red fucking door.
I closed my eyes, held my breathe as I wrapped my fist around the handle of that door, then tore it upward with everything I had.
“YEE-YOW! My fucking shoulder!!!”
The door was stuck. Jammed.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. It hurts all the way into my armpit. It hurts all the way into my armpit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I turned to house and saw my wife, in the window, in the mesosphere of the air-conditioning, shaking her head.
I kicked the garage door... and hard. BUP-BRUDDA-BRUP!!! The door rolled up and opened. A tightened fist of week-old refuse, ungloved and hooked me right dead on the beak. The redolent bouquet was baked in like orange in an adobe. I felt my nasal cavities caving in the acrid air.
“Okay, garbage, let’s get this over with.”
EERCH!
I froze. That was a wierd noise.
EEK-ERK!
I looked up the garage door. The rollers on the door track were… rolling.
BEEE-EERK!!!
The rollers sped immediatly into full motion. The door was closing. Closing on its own. On it's goddamn own.
SLAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!
The door crashed down onto the cement threshold. I grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. Caught between emotions I screamed, “Dark cloud, you have arrived!”
I kicked the door. Wiggled it. Yanked it. Nothing.
The garage started getting hot. The garbage was reeking.
“I’m locked in with this shit…," I pressed my face against the window on the door, "HEY! BABE! I’M TRAPPED IN THE GARAGE! BABE, I NEED HELP!!!”
She can't hear me. That fucking, energy-sucking air-conditioner was on full blast. On top of it all, at my own retarded suggestion, she's finally closed the windows.
I was alone.
I shook the door as I looked for another way out. There was no where to turn. I boarded and sided over the back door last Summer figuring we would never use it. And I would "never" use it. Especially right fucking NOW!
I grabbed a nearby piece of treated 2X4 and wedged the door up. I slid a bucket of icing salts under it and rolled myself under to safety.
Covered in dead bugs, leaf dust and cement chippings I stared at the opening between the bottom of the door and the driveway. The opening which was christened: Bigger Vent for Fucking Putrid Garbage Smell.
“Those cans got to come out of there.”
Back on my stomach, I Indiana Jones’d my way back into the garage, tipped the cans on their sides and rolled each of them out. Each can leaving its own personal wake of rotted stank and wet stuff behind it. Gagging, I stood up and swept the remains under the door and out to the driveway.
I was drenched in sweat and embedded foulness. The garbage cans and its trail of felled rubbish was out. I crawled out and dragged those bastards to the curb.
Done.
My lovely wife was still shaking her head in the window, “What’s taking so long?”
“The garage door just fell off the goddamn track.”
“Why? What did you do?”
It’s always: What did I do? What did I do? I just fucking rolled through heated garbage water over hot asphalt so you could keep the windows open with the air-conditioner running! THAT'S WHAT I DID!!!
“I didn’t do anything. I just opened the stupid thing and it closed on its own and now its broken. The track fell off.”
“Did you, at least, get the garbage out of there?”
I pointed to the small opening between the bottom of the door and the driveway, “I had to crawl under there. And now I have to fix the goddamn door…”
Unimpressed, she shrugged and rolled her eyes. I was going to fix the garage door and we both knew nothing good was going to come from it.
To Be Continued….
posted by Oh My Lot! at 3:26 PM
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