Me, Myself, and a Waffle Iron

An agoraphobic wrestles with his inner demons with the help of his household appliances

I get up every morning at 8:30:34. I assume that it’s more like 8:30:00 exactly when I actually physically wake up, but by the time I shake off the hazy feeling of sleep and roll over, it’s 8:30:34. It never changes. I’m never a second slow. I’m never a second fast. There could be a massive natural disaster going on outside and my body won’t stir until 8:30:34. It’s so certain that at, one point in my life, I made all travel plans around the fact that I can’t wake up a second earlier or later than 8:30:34.

At one point in my life. I’m not at that point any more. Far from it actually. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. 8:30:34. I don’t even know why I bother to look any more when I first wake up. I still do it, though. I’m a creature of habit, I guess. I threw the blankets back and slid to the edge of the bed. My slippers sat obediently in their usual spot. I slid my feet in and smiled at the protective comfort of the wool lining the insides. The floors looked clean, but so do some strippers. The minute you let your guard down you end up in a hospital emergency room with a crippling case of the clap.

 I took the twelve steps it takes to cross the room and draw the curtains. From my penthouse, I could see the entire city. From the coastline, to the slums that surround the city; all lie within my view from the top floor bedroom view. This city used to be beautiful. It used to be clean. It used to be livable. Now it’s overrun with murderers, thieves, and prostitutes. If you’ve been keeping an eye on it like I have, you can see the spread of disease and degeneration as it grows out from the slums on the edge of town like a deadly weed in a concrete garden. It’s over half way now. Nothing can stop it, and nothing can make me go down there. Unwashed miscreants.

I walked to the bathroom, seventeen steps. It’s so clean I almost hate to walk in there for fear of it getting dirty. I raised the toilet seat. I once held all my bodily waste in for a week and a half because the toilet was so clean I didn’t want to ruin it. Obviously, that couldn’t last. I was in so much pain, I thought it was going to kill me. I’ve just learned to control my urine with a pristine precision. It splashes into the water at the exact center of the bowl. Not a single drop goes astray. With a flush, I pulled my pajama pants back to their rightful position and turned to the sink.

A single bristle of my toothbrush had separated itself from the rest. I threw the toothbrush in the trash and grabbed a fresh one out of the top drawer. Each bristle was perfectly in line with the rest, making clean, tight little groups to clean my teeth to the best of their ability. I squeezed a small dollop of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and wet it with warm water. Thirty-six strokes back and forth, eighteen for the top, eighteen for the bottom. Thirty-four strokes up and down. I spit the excess toothpaste into the sink, rinsed it out, and rinsed off my toothbrush. A small, clear cup sat next to the faucet, exactly one inch away. I filled it half way with warm water, swished it in my mouth and spit it out. I turned the faucet on to clean the sink out once and for all and leave the bathroom with eight steps.

In the kitchen, thirty-five steps from the bathroom, I slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and pushed down the handle. I grabbed the butter and grape jelly from the fridge, as well as the milk. I took the cleanest butter knife out of the drawer and set it at a 90-degree angle with the edge of the counter. I opened the cabinet to the right of the oven and grabbed a glass from the bottom of the shelf. I filled it a quarter inch from the top with milk, screwed the lid back on, and put the milk back into the fridge. The bread popped out of the toaster, toasted to a golden brown perfection. I put both slices on a paper plate and took them to the counter.

The butter always went on first. An equal amount went on each slice and was spread evenly four times over. I bought the jelly in the squeezable tubes because I felt like I could control my jelly distribution better than scooping it out of a jar. You never know exactly what you’re getting out of jar. They’re too unreliable. Once the jelly was spread on the toast, I put the jelly and butter back into the fridge, and took my plate and glass to the table.

I sat at the head of the table. Even though no one else lived there, I still felt I needed to sit at the head to support my role as the head of the household. I tried sitting in one of the other chairs once; I felt dirty and used. I never tried it again.

The amalgamation of butter, jelly, and toast filled my mouth as I took a more than generous bite. Without swallowing what’s already in there, I took a large sip of milk to wash it all down.

“You shouldn’t take such large bites,” a womanly voice said from the kitchen. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Well this is the 782^nd time you’ve told me,” I replied without taking my eyes off of my breakfast, “and I still haven’t stopped. Maybe you should try for an even thousand. You know I’m a sucker for a nice even number.”

“Yeah,” another voice spoke up, this time a man with a slightly southern accent, “well you know none of us can give you the Heimlich or CPR, so maybe you should listen to her.”

“Look, everyone,” I replied with understanding, “I get what you’re saying, but I’ve eaten toast with jelly for breakfast for the past 11,677 days and I’ve never even so much as coughed while doing it. I think I’ve got it under control.”

“Whatever you say,” the female voice said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Well, if he chokes and dies,” a new voice, robotically masculine, “he isn’t going to be able to tell you anything.”

“Good point,” the female voice said.

I finished off the last of the toast and took a long drink to empty the glass. I walked back into the kitchen, lifted the lid of the trashcan, and tossed away the paper plate. I turned on the hot water in the sink and scrubbed the glass clean.

“Have any good dreams last night?” the female voice asked.

“No, Fridge,” I replied looking at the fridge, “you know I don’t dream.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Fridge replied, the bottom freezer door working as a mouth and the random magnets acting as eyes.

“That’s true,” I replied and motioned to the toaster, “So I guess that means you’ll actually go out on a date with Toaster then.”

“That’s a good idea,” Toaster replied using his two slots as a mouth to project his slightly southern accent.

“I don’t think so, Toaster,” Fridge replied, adding, “I don’t date southern guys.”

“I’ve always been curious as to why you have that accent, Toaster,” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Where were you made?”

“Southern Illinois,” Toaster replied with embarrassment, “It’s not quite the south, but close enough so no one will act like it’s weird that you’re talking with a southern accent.”

“That’s odd,” the dishwasher put in, his voice thick with a German accent. 

“What about you, Dishwasher?” Toaster inquired.

“I was made in Berlin,” Dishwasher replied proudly.

“No wonder it always sounds angry when you speak,” the microwave replied in his masculine robot voice.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dishwasher fired back.

“Germans are an angry people,” Microwave said simply. “It’s common knowledge.”

“Screw you, Microwave,” Dishwasher said indignantly.

“Alright, you guys,” I cut in, “I’ve had enough of the bickering. I’d like to get through one breakfast without Dishwasher swearing at someone.”

“I wouldn’t yell if these a-holes would back off,” Dishwasher said. Toaster was right. It was hard for me to tell if Dishwasher was mad or not through the accent.

“What’s the plan for today, Albert?” Fridge asked, trying to change the subject.

“I thought I’d clean the living room,” I replied, looking out the window at a cloudless sky. “Maybe watch some soaps. Read a little. Maybe write a little. I’ll see what I have time for.”

“Yeah, that sounds like what’ll happen,” Microwave said, his robotic tone oozing with sarcasm.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked with an air of confusion.

“Microwave’s dry, robotic humor aside, he’s right,” Toaster said sympathetically. “You haven’t worked on anything in over three years. We can’t help but think that you just don’t have it in you any more.”

“That seems a little presumptuous,” I said matter-of-factly. “I just haven’t had any kind of good ideas lately. The world doesn’t speak to me like it used to.”

“That could have something to do with the fact that you haven’t left your apartment in close to a decade,” Oven said after a long silence. His voice is deep. The kind of voice that was steeped in knowledge and wisdom. I sometimes wonder how an oven got so wise.

“You know why I don’t go outside,” I sighed. The argument was old and tired.

“I know why you claim not to go outside,” Oven said, “I know what you think of those people out there. I know you think they’re riddled with disease. I know you think they all rape, pillage, and murder any chance they get. I know that’s what you think. But what do you know.”

“I know that…I know I…” I trailed off racking my brain for some truth, and found it. “I know that the Young and the Restless is on in 10 minutes and 37 seconds. And I know that Waffle Iron has dreams about making love to Filipino men.”

“Hey,” Waffle Iron screamed. His voice, male in undertone, is lined with a femininity only a waffle iron could produce. “You told me you could keep a secret!”

The whole kitchen erupted into jaunty laughter. If a waffle iron could blush, his face would be a shade of red that rivaled a sports car’s shiny front end.

“Shut up,” he shrieked, somewhat muted by the laughter.

After three minutes and twelve seconds of laughter, the room fell to a relative silence. Fridge cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention.

“Waffle Iron’s homosexual tendencies aside,” she said in her best maternal voice, “We’ve all talked and we think it’s time you went outside again. It might be just what you need to get back to writing.”

“The lovely lady is right,” Toaster added, clearly saying so because Fridge did. “There’s nothing wrong with the outside world. In fact, it can be a pretty amazing place.”

I took a long look out the window at the cloudless sky hanging over a bustling metropolis. I closed my eyes and imagined myself barefoot on the beach. My nephew running by my side, barefoot as well, laughing the sweet sound of a child’s laughter. He’s four again, the same age as the last time I saw him. His curly hair bouncing with each awkward, heavy step. His footprints could fit in mine twice over, maybe more. The waves crashed hard on the beach, the air thick with their salt. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, brushing my hair back and a smile crossed my face. A homeless man forces his grimy hand in my face and asks for spare change.

A chill of disgust runs up my spine.

“What do you know,” I said, coming out of the daydream, “you’re just a toaster.” 

“Touché,” he replied, and I forced back a smile at how weird a French word sounds when spoken with a southern accent.

Without another word, I left the kitchen and walked the eighteen steps into the living room. In the center of the room sat two couches, a love seat, and two separate chairs, each at a perfect 90-degree angle from each other. The two couches were across from each other, and the two chairs were exactly one foot apart. In the center of the furniture square sat an antique coffee table with assorted magazines spread out on either side of a vase of a fake flower arrangement. The east wall of the living room, the one shared with the bedroom, supported the 60-inch flat screen plasma television. On either side of the TV, were pictures of myself and family members I haven’t seen in years. Our smiles unknowing and carefree. The wall opposite the television, the west wall, is the resting place of an assortment of modern art I had a habit of collecting in my past. The north wall was invisible behind a massive bookcase I hired my own grandfather to build. He insisted he would do it for free as a gift, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I heard he donated the $3000 I gave him to a local charity that fights against children’s leukemia. Ungrateful b*****d.

The south wall of the living room was my least favorite. There was no wall actually. It was comprised of nothing but large panes of glass that stretch from floor to ceiling. For some people it’s a beautiful view of the city. Of course, for me, it’s just another, maybe even better, view of the dingy municipality that used to be a flourishing haven for the good and decent. The windows aren’t what I really had a problem with. Massive red velvet curtains block the city from sight. At this time of the day, they’re backlit by the sun, making them glow with a creepy imminence of a portal to an ethereal realm.

The desk was the real problem I had with the wall. I suppose there was nothing exceptional about the desk. It was made out of solid oak, which made it very heavy, so the movers said. I don’t think “a ton” was a very accurate estimate, though. Six feet long. Two and a half feet wide. Two feet and eight inches tall. Seven drawers of various sizes. Nothing special. I guess when I think about it, the desk isn’t the problem at all. It’s the computer that sits atop it.

I was never one to trust computers when it came to writing. There are just too many things that can erase what you’ve worked so hard to create. I always used a typewriter, and when I was done, whether it was a chapter or an entire book, I took the hard copy and put it in a weather resistant lockbox. My old typewriter used to sit next to this God forsaken laptop, specifically used for writing. Fridge talked me into modernizing and getting rid of it. That was quite possibly the biggest mistake of my career. I haven’t been able to sit down and write since. So, in a way, I guess it’s her fault I haven’t written anything in years. She’d never believe that. Typical female thinking.

“You can stare at it all you want, Al,” the couch facing the east wall said. His voice was deep and cartoon-ish. Almost what you’d expect a couch to sound like if it spoke. I called this couch Red because, well, he was red. Actually, he was more of a salmon color, but I thought it was easier to call him Red than Salmon, and he agreed. “Last time I checked, it’s the one thing in this place that doesn’t have a mind of it’s own. It’s not going to tell you what to do.”

“I know that, Red,” I replied, failing to look at him.

“Why don’t you sit down and try to get some work done,” he suggested. If he had a head I’m sure he would have nodded toward the computer.

“Work?” I asked. “What should I work on Red?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he replied, shrugging the arms of the couch, “I’m just a couch. Maybe you should go outside and clear your head. Go down to the park. You might find some inspiration.”

“Inspiration for what?” I asked. “I don’t write stories about post-apocalyptic wastelands filled with cretin and murderers.”

“Post-apocalyptic?” Red asked disbelieving. “I think that might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Maybe a little,” I replied, scooting the leather chair back from the desk.

“There you go,” Red said supportively. “Just have a seat. Take it step by step.”

I lowered myself into the chair. The leather was soft and the cushions seem to swallow me up like quicksand. It felt like I was floating over the earth on a leather-lined cloud. I leaned back in the chair and rested my head on the back. If I closed my eyes I could easily fall asleep. I don’t want to, though, so I leaned back upright.

“Now turn on the computer,” Red suggested.

I took a long look at the thin, black piece of plastic in front of me. Most people saw it as a tool to connect them to the rest of the world. I saw it as an untrustworthy gateway to the depths of my own personal hell. To each his own, I suppose. I pressed in the release and raised the screen. The screen was black and lifeless like the soul of my ex-wife. Eighty-four keys stared back at me, begging for the peck of warm, soft fingers. Each one taunting me in their own way.

I thumbed in the power button and the screen blinked with electronic life. A prompt appeared on the screen instructing me to press the function buttons if I wished to start the computer in “safe” mode. My mind jumped back to the last time I used the computer. My complete lack of ability to write something worthwhile forced me to jam in the power button, frustrated and defeated. Red made some sort of snide comment then, and I’m sure he will now if the same thing happens. Some things never change.

A picture of my ex-wife and me was plastered in the background of the computer screen. We were in matching white sweaters in front of a brick wall, ivy growing across it like cancer. It was the picture we used for our last Christmas card. Coupled with the memory of lost love, the sweetness of this picture turned my stomach. I quickly opened the settings menu and changed the background to a random picture of a bed of tulips.

I opened the word processing program. A white screen opened with a single vertical line to show me where I’d be typing. I laid my fingers on the home row, racking my brain for something to write. My fingers started to shake, more violently the longer I sat and thought. I jumped out of the chair and backed away from the desk, my whole body trembling from the experience.

“Am I crazy?” I asked Red but didn’t take my eyes off the computer on the desk, “or does this thing have some sort of power over my creativity and imagination?”

“It’s hard for me to answer that question,” Red stated simply. “On one hand, I’ve never once seen you as a crazy guy. On the other, I am a couch whom you’re having a conversation with. I’d say, at this point, it’s probably a 50/50 shot.”

“I see your point,” I said agreeably, “but some might argue that since I haven’t left the house in years, I’m more than entitled to talk to you guys just to stop myself from going insane.”

“That’s a valid argument,” Red replied, “but just because you’re entitled to it, doesn’t mean it prevents you from insanity.”

“Touché,” I consented. “I guess when you really look closely, I really am…”

I cut my last thought off. An exciting idea began to percolate in my brain. Its frothy creativity brimming over into my conscious mind from the depths of the subconscious. An idea so perfect I felt like my mind could collapse on itself if I held it in for too long. An idea so ludicrous that it can only be reality. So far fetched that the only place you could find it is in the real world.

I lunged across the room in three great strides. The leather cushions accepted my body graciously, and I slid the chair back up to the desk. My fingers fell back onto the home row, gently shaking with the excitement of a perfect new idea. The plastic of the keys felt coarse, but comfortable, under my fingers.

With each klak of the keys, my perfect ideas poured onto the screen. My fingers hadn’t moved this fast since I wrote my last novel. I had the same feeling then as I do now. The feeling of writing not only a book people will like, but a book people will talk about for ages and ages to come. Unfortunately, my last book wasn’t like that, but it’s got nothing on this.

I started with the childhood years. Time after time of being picked on and teased. Pushed down, degraded for the amusement of classmates. One time in particular, during a 5^th grade talent show. De-pantsing. Skid marks. Embarrassment. After that comes puberty. The most awkward point of a boy’s life. Hair growing in new places. Wet dreams of the newly developing girls. Cracking voices in the middle of asking out your first girl, only to have her laugh in your face. Getting unexpected erections in the middle of a class presentation and being unable to hide them.

High school was the turning point. Being paddled mercilessly as an incoming freshman. Every soul in that school pretending you don’t exist because you’re new and they don’t know you. Seeking sanctuary and amusement in friends, only to find out they’ve abandoned you for their never-ending quest for vaginal intercourse.

Passing your driver’s test after the third try, and being just as happy as if you’d nailed it the first time around. The first girlfriend that lasted more than a week. Being dumped by the same girl because you’re too awkward and shy to actually talk to her even when it’s just you and her sitting on the couch.

Hours passed with me sitting in front of the computer. When I woke up this morning, my life seemed meaningless. Now I was sitting there putting it all on paper and thinking of how amazingly interesting it was. The memoirs of a self-conscious, compulsive kid who turned into an obsessive, pretentious agoraphobic. It just happened to make for captivating reading.

The sun set about an hour before I finally stopped. The lights of the city were coming on one by one, illuminating the sea of sickly humanity with a cheap fluorescent light. My eyes burned like the urethra of a cheap prostitute. I had typed over half of my life’s story in just a few hours, and I couldn’t honestly remember when the last time I blinked was. I leaned back in the chair and stretched my arms out over my head. I thought about getting a glass of water from the kitchen, maybe something to eat, but decided to keep working while the ideas and memories were fresh in my head.

I sat back up and put my fingers back on the keys. I brought up a new page to start the next chapter about meeting my wife at a college party. She was the one sitting on the patio reading A Clockwork Orange at two o’clock in the morning. I started typing; my mind filled with the happy memory of her smile and the way her hair fell in her face when she laughed.

Suddenly, a shriek tore through the kitchen and out into the living room. I heard the tink tink tink of metal on the countertop followed by a splash. The lights in the entire apartment flickered with the remains of life and blinked out. I looked at the blank computer screen where, just moments before, sat my life’s work, unsaved and misremembered. I felt a lump in my throat. My body wanted to vomit, but I choked it back to avoid having to clean it.

I jumped out of the chair and dash into the kitchen. It was silent except for Fridge sobbing gently. I walked to the sink and pulled a flashlight out from under it. I turned it on and started scanning the kitchen to see what happened.

“What’s going on?” I asked nervously to anyone who will answer.

“The sink,” Toaster replied. His tone was somber, unnerving. “Waffle Iron.”

I turned on my heels and put the light on the spot where Waffle Iron used to sit. It was vacant, his power cord still plugged into the wall. A piece of paper sat in his spot. I picked it up and read the remarkably legible handwriting.

 

Goodbye cruel world

 

                                   -- Waffle Iron

 

I traced the power cord to a sink full of water and a smoking Waffle Iron. I pulled him out, fooling myself into thinking that if I hurried he’d be all right. Water splashed onto the counter top as I set him down gently. I could feel my heart racing in a panic.

“What should I do?” I asked frantically.

No one responded. No one said anything.

“Answer me, damn it!” I yelled, tears running down my face.

No one answered. I did the only thing I could think of. I scooped Waffle Iron up into my arms and dashed out of the kitchen and through the living room. The front door burst open and I stumbled out into the hallway. I sprinted toward the elevator and hit the down button. Surprisingly, it opened immediately. I stood alone in the elevator holding my good friend in my arms, stroking what I thought was his head to comfort his pain in some small way.

When the doors to the elevator opened, I rushed out into the lobby. It was empty save for the doorman.

  “Call an ambulance,” I yelled at him, “my friend is unconscious. He needs help.”

The doorman gave me a look of utter confusion.

“I’m sorry, sir?” he asked trying to be polite. “You want me to call an ambulance for your waffle iron?”

“Yes, damn it,” I demanded. I could feel the panic taking over.

“Sir,” the doorman said calmly, “I can’t call an ambulance for a kitchen appliance.”

I didn’t bother arguing. He clearly wasn’t going to help me. I turned toward the door and did what I never thought I’d do again. I ran who knows how many steps across the lobby and burst out the front door of the building onto the sidewalk.

The air was crisp and cool. It gently rolled across my face making the tears tingle on my cheeks. The nearest hospital was twelve blocks away. I didn’t waste time with a cab. I set off at a brisk walk, followed by a swift jog that turned into an all out sprint. My legs burned. My lungs constricted. My whole body resisted at the unexpected exercise. I was only half way there, but my body just couldn’t keep going. I had to stop. I leaned against a dumpster in a nearby alley to catch my breath. Unfortunately, the breath was filled with the acrid stench of rotting garbage. I couldn’t help but choke.

“Hey, Mister,” a gruff voice said from behind me, “got the time?”

“No, I don’t wear a watch,” I replied, and turned around. The man behind me was exactly what I was expecting from years of watching the city turn to garbage. He appeared not to have bathed in at least a month. A five o’clock shadow stretched from one ear to the other, each of which was pierced more than a couple of times. His clothes were torn and dirty. A street rat by the most basic standards.

“That’s okay,” he replied sympathetically, “I’ll just take all the money you have on you then.” He pulled out a switchblade and waved it in my face. The cool steel of the blade twinkled in the streetlight.

“Look, Man. I don’t want trouble,” I said, pulling Waffle Iron closer to my chest. “I’m just trying to get my friend to the hospital.”

“That’s a waffle iron,” he said bewildered.

“Yeah. So?” I replied matter-of-factly.

“They don’t take waffle irons at the hospital,” the mugger said, putting his knife away.

“Since when?” I asked him surprised.

“Since always, I think,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

“I see,” I replied. I held Waffle Iron out in front of me. His white exterior was black in spots from the heat of being electrocuted. I suddenly realized there just wasn’t anything I could do for him. I walked to the dumpster and lifted the lid. The rotten garbage made me gag.

“We can’t live forever,” the mugger said with insight.

“You’re right,” I tossed Waffle Iron into the dumpster. “There’s plenty of Filipino men where you are.” I said to my dear departed friend.

The mugger put his arm around my shoulder sympathetically and closed the lid to the dumpster. I told him I didn’t have any money and he let me go out of the goodness of his heart, what little there was left. I walked back to my penthouse and took the elevator up to the top floor. I swung the door open slowly and walked into the living room. It was dark and silent. I shut the door behind me, but didn’t bother to lock it. I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a soda. The cool carbonated drink felt good on my throat. I took a long look at all the appliances sitting around the kitchen. Once good friends. Now just soulless pieces of metal. Normally, one of them would say something to try and comfort me. Possibly even witty and urbane. They’re quiet now. And will be for a long time I’m guessing.

I smiled at the thought, finished off the last of the soda, and tossed the can in the trash.

“I guess I’ll have to go out and find a new waffle iron tomorrow,” I said to myself and walked to the bedroom.

Reviews

[Paraclete]

This is really good, and clever piece of work and how did you come up with this?