“Hail Satan,” I muttered, cutting open the box to our new Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. I’m not a religious person by nature — certainly no devil worshipper — but our carpets were in dire need of a cleaning and I was willing to take help wherever I could find it.
There’s a thing that happens, and every time it does I feel somewhat cheated (or perhaps let down) by life in a way that is both profound and nihilistic — a cardboard paper cut. Such a thing should not be possible, but it is. A thick sheet of cardboard from the vacuum box sliced against my pinky, drawing a small amount of blood, some of which dribbled onto the Dirt Devil.
WHOOSH!
In a puff of smoke and super-heated glitter, The Devil appeared.
“THE RITUAL IS COMPLETE. BY THE LAWS OF THE SEVEN CIRCLES … “
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “Hold on there. I wasn’t summoning you. It was just an accident.”
” … I HAVE ARRIVED IN TERRIBLE SPLENDOR TO PURGE … “
“No purging. No purging!” I hastily wiped specks of blood off the handle of the vacuum, which was still wrapped in plastic. “See? Just a cardboard paper cut.“
“A WHAT.”
“A cardboard paper cut. It’s a thing that happens, and every time it does I feel … you know what, don’t worry about it. I didn’t summon you. I said ‘Hail Satan’ as a joke and then cut myself. Total accident.”
He was already red, but The Devil’s harrowing visage seemed to turn a darker shade. “AN ACCIDENT?”
“Yep. You can, er, go now.”
Petulance crept into his rumbling voice as The Devil crossed his arms. “FINE. I GUESS YOU DON’T WANT ANY HELP VACUUMING.”
Anywho. A relaxing Sunday. Sarah and I got a new vacuum because our old one sucked (or, rather, didn’t) and I cut my pinky opening it. After that, I did a deep clean of our living room. I found so many solitary socks tucked between the cushions, wedged into crevasses, and nestled under the coffee table that you might think my wife and I were a pair of squirrels tucking them away for winter.
I spent a bunch of time in the evening reading Midnight’s Children, which isn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be based on my initial impressions. The prose is elevated and flies in the face of everything I’ve come to believe as a writer. (The elegance of prose comes from thrift, and you should avoid using two words when one will suffice. It’s like that scene in A River Runs Through It when Tom Skerritt teaches his son writing by constantly editing out most of his essays and saying, “Again, half as long.”)
I’m over 20% into it and the main character has yet to be born.
It’s a dark morning and my neighbors have rituals of their own — going out to start their big, dumb trucks to let them “warm up.” Sounds like a neighborhood full of angry tractors grumbling in the dark.