Ten a.m. and 68 outside at. My windows are closed. Heat pumps down from above. So far, it is 77 degrees inside, and soon it will reach 79. I type at my computer. If the hair on the back of my head were longer, I would wring it out. Bead of sweat form on my arms. More of them moisten my T-shirt. It is Sunday morning of Memorial Day Weekend, and the fourth day of enduring a curse.
The curse began Thursday morning, when, near-naked, eyes barely open and arms dowsing for coffee, I stepped in a fresh hairball outside my bedroom door. Generally, I blame everything on Ziv, my occasional roommate (and frankly, I think he could suffer hairballs—if you know what I mean). But although he’s in town for a video shoot, I knew it was likely the cats—one of them.
After cleaning my foot and the carpet, I began work. I got a call. The Memorial Day cookout was now off because someone in Virginia was in emotional breakdown. Friends will be friends, and these friends changed plans, packed the car, and were already headed cross-country for a rescue.
OK, I’d have more time to write—and to procrastinate. I could rent a Rug Doctor! The carpeting needed it bad, and no hired service can bring things back to oyster like The Doctor and me. And with temperatures up, air conditioning would dry things in a snap.
Friday, after an abbreviated workday, I headed out to my car to go pick up a machine. Behind the bushes by the front door, the Bosnian’s she-cat was nesting with 4 brand new kittens—again. She manages at least 2 litters a year, and my attempts to convince the neighbors to have her spayed result only in their loss of comprehension of English. The neighborhood has already filled with feral cats.
As I opened my car door, I heard Nedad on the far side of their house bludgeoning catalytic converters. The platinum inside them has topped a gazillion dollars an ounce, and ever since I inadvertently greated him pleasantly, he thinks I’ve gone soft. Clearly, his scrap metal operation is migrating back to his house--again. Mental note: Call Code Officer Johnson.
I returned with the machine, and pulled furniture to one end of the rooms. The plush saxony will dry overnight in the conditioned air, and then I’ll move it all and clean the rest of the carpet. But as The Doctor begins steaming, a violent storm front passes through. Humidity skyrockets as temperatures crash. The air conditioning shivers into retirement. Carpeting won’t dry.
Here I sit. Day two—three if you count Friday night--the house a recently pitched ship, contents crashed to one side. In a moment of bipolar inspiration, I institute the program of heating and a/c. The compressor disturbs the peace. Long-sleeves passersby turn their heads. I step out to fetch the morning paper, and Bosnians stare at me as if I’m the one who is crazy.
It is already a very long weekend.
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