Having Vacuum Cleaners
by Jason Nelson
There’s a bridge between our small island and the continental land mass to the
west.
The bridge spans nine-thousand six-hundred and fifty-eight feet, and is attached
to bed rock with twenty steel girders on either side. And because you are trying
to help my lines to be more logical and generally clear, you ask, in that
worldly workshoppy way, who is the we in this short-short story? I explain
defensively that the we is intended to be poignant and universal, symbolizing
all of us. And because you are so concerned for my reader’s enjoyment, you ask,
in a helpfully condescending voice, why are the physical dimensions of the
bridge so important to your collection of sentences? I explain, in rapid
incoherent syntax, you just don’t understand. The bridge is just setting. And
in this story, it’s not having vacuum cleaners that makes the we so powerful.
Wood-Grained Metal
She has a small garden. And she is really very old. Her children are dead. Her
grandchildren are dead. And all but one of her neighbors deal crack cocaine.
Thirty years ago, two weeks before her hundredth birthday and near death in the
hospital, a salesman with white shoes and no socks offered her a fair price on
siding for her house. The decorative aluminum has held up well, and her home
still looks new and protected from the elements. Behind her house is a small
garden. Occasionally a reporter will drop by and find her there, digging holes
or spreading fertilizer. They’ll ask for some quirky folksy sound-bite
explaining her freakish longevity. Leaning on a shovel, she’ll point to the
ground, and explain how all things are scoopable. Dirt, cat litter, marriages,
all objects and experiences, she’ll say, can be scooped up and moved around.
It’s not important where things or emotions begin, or even whether they end up
in trash cans or orgasmic fits. It’s the transferring, the scooping and moving
of critters and emotions and gold-plated silverware from one location to any
other that keeps us young. Taking pictures of her garden, the reporter will
respectfully thank her, try to imagine her naked, and then begin mentally
planning a story about the benefits of organically grown food. And when the
young reporter walks to his car, and drives off in his suped-up Z28, the old
woman will look over at the wood grained metal surrounding her house, and know
that this siding with its lifetime warranty is the best investment she’s ever
made.