Vexed I am, for there is no other word so appropriate to my heightened state of concern. Concern, of course, for my mostly red rug. For you see, a great deal of it comes up with each vacuuming and having possessed it for more than a decade, I’m flummoxed that there is anything left of it.
Here is exhibit A:
Naturally, it is quite gruesome to behold, but behold it we must, for without it how shall we solve this conundrum? Each time a goodly quantity is removed, and yet (?), as the photo at the top shows, the mostly red rug remains intact!
But how? What deviltry exists that the rug, which should be threadbare, is still plush?
As such, I rubbed my chinny-chin-chin in quiet contemplation. Surely, an answer will come I tell myself time and time again, and yet I am not closer to satisfaction. I find that no amount of low calorie beer is adequate in assisting in this matter.
Creully, my wife stared at me with her usual disdain when I bring this to her attention. “Seriously?” she chides.
“Seriously,” I say as a matter of defense.
“Maybe you should go back to work, retirement seems to be addling your once mighty intellect,” she added.
Miffed, I said what had to be said: “Mighty intellect or not, I know what I know, and that rug has been coughing up fuzz for more than a decade and is somehow reconstituting itself.”
She shook her head and walked away.
I was not detoured. Sorry, deterred.
Using all the mental skills I picked up reading pulpy detective novels, I examine the mostly red rug with a keen eye. Magnifying glass in hand, on my knees, I close in on the weave of the rug, carefully running my fingers through the nap to discern the fibers and their direction. Having satisfied this part of my inspection, I find I cannot get up because my bad knees won’t let me. I call out.
My exasperated wife helps me to my feet. “You need help, you really do,” she says before walking away.
“Yes,” I shout for no good reason.
I call the people I trust most. None are interested. Deflated, I sit in my chair staring at the mostly red rug. It stares back. Stalemate.
Perhaps in the state of our times, this is of little importance. Perhaps. Whether it matters little, or a great deal, may indeed be nothing more than the addling of a once mighty intellect. But perhaps, it is an indication of our deteriorating world, a metaphor of its unraveling, whether it is unraveling or not. Technically, this doesn’t help as I’m certain the rug is up to something even if no one else can see it. But I’m on to the rug and its evil machinations.
I shall remain vigilant.
©2020 David WIlliam Pearce